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my concerns. Not yours. We shall manage. Do you hear me? We’ve nothing to fret about. So, no tears. You’ve to be a big, strong girl now. Understand?’
    Her knuckles were white and her arms shook with the force of her grip. Claudine was pale-faced but she didn’t try to squirm away and she put Edith in mind of a rabbit, lying limp in a fox’s jaws.
    ‘No more questions then. Yes?’
    Sarah’s eyes were huge and bright and, for a moment, Edith could remember her as a child herself. So sweet and full of mischief. She had been like a tonic for Edith, after Frank’s death—being widowed at twenty-six had stamped the life out of her, but she had slowly found herself again through the small child’s laughter. Sarah had grown into a lovely young woman—generous, with a sharp wit, and Edith had been happy to help her with Claudine and then, later, with Francis, even though her forty-nine years sometimes made running around after children exhausting. But Sarah had become a different creature after Francis’s birth—there was a hard darkness in her, which made her eyes and voice steel, made her quick to lash out: she reminded Edith of a caged animal, frantically snapping at any hand which came near.
    Now, watching Sarah stiffen at her daughter’s challenge, Edith found she was holding her breath. Then Claudine nodded and Sarah gave a quick, tight smile and let her go.
    ‘That’s the spirit. Good girl.’
    But when she tried to light a cigarette, Sarah’s fingers were trembling so much that she snapped three matches in half.
    Edith turned away to watch the last remaining passengers boarding the boat.
    Old Monsieur Le Brun, sitting on the quay, smoking and stroking his yellowed moustache, shouted out, ‘Like rats, you are. Rats, buggering off at the first sign of trouble.’
    One of the men on the gangplank stopped and called, ‘Well, I’d rather be a living rat than a dead dog. You won’t even see that boot coming until it kicks you in the ribs.’
    Le Brun spat a thick yellow streamer of mucus on to the quay. ‘May God forgive your desertion of your land in her time of need.’
    The other men on the gangplank laughed harshly. One of them bellowed back, ‘Yes, and God forgive you , you damned fool, bedding down with the enemy.’
    The man next to him said, ‘They’ll all be speaking German the next time we see them. They’ll have little moustaches. Even the women.’ They laughed louder.
    ‘And the babies. They’ll be born with blond hair and their first words will be Heil Hitler! ’
    That raised the loudest laugh of all.
    Dr Carter was at the quay too, but he wasn’t leaving. He had a satchel on his shoulder, a bowl of water and a sponge. He was examining all the hospital patients who were well enough to be shipped off the island.
    He took his time, talking to each of his patients and their families. He handed out tablets and gave injections here and there. But he was also redoing dressings and bandages—he even gave a quick sponge bath to one of the men who must have been completely bed-bound. Real donkey work, you might say. The last doctor, the one who thought Edith was the devil or close enough, would have had a flock of nurses seeing to all that for him.
    Carter finished the last dressing and then came to stand next to her, eyebrows raised as if he were asking a question. No point in pretending she hadn’t been gawking.
    ‘Quite a bedside manner you have there, Doctor. They trust you, these folk, you know. And that’s saying something.’
    He gave a wry smile. ‘I would say I’m flattered. But I suspect trust is a pleasant byproduct of being in charge of the medication for pain relief. I’ve found myself most popular with those patients in need of morphine.’
    ‘Don’t you believe it. We’re an awkward bunch, we Jèrriais, or we can be, if we take against someone. But the people here don’t mind you. Some might even like you. And that’s something worth a pat on the back, when you’ve