Francine
The son of Francine is home on leave.
Francine comes every day to help in the kitchen. She was scrubbing the kitchen's grey stone flags when her son came.
He came swinging up the path between the wheat and poppies and cornflowers. He came up the terrace steps, in his leggings and his béret, a fine young diable bleu.
Francine came, running, wiping her red hands in her apron, suddenly beautiful and very proud.