Orville stood on a braided rug, probably braided by Annette long ago. He appreciated Claude, so thoughtful, respectful: his beard was longer and whiter. Annette was in the village but what had delayed the Rondes? Where was Jeannette? On duty at the hospital, no doubt. He wondered whether the hospital was overrun with wounded.
It was a long way in space and time, from Africa to London, to Ermenonville's kitchen: that bombed railway station, that taxi ride through bombed streets, past the British Museum spewing books and walls, blocking the street, one siren triggering another until the city howled like dying children. It had taken some doing to locate Jeannette Hitchcock, at the Dalton Street Red Cross station.
Opening the stove door, Orville poked the fire and shoved in a couple of sticks: the light played on his naked body. Dumping dirty water down the sink he poured himself a hot pailful. Soap and hot water relaxed him as he washed his legs and thighs.
Claude had his arms full of clothes; stopping in the doorway he envied Orville his hard, white body.
"Can't find anyone to repair the heater," he said.
"This is fine ... I guess this is where I scrubbed when I was a kid."
"Use all the hot water."
"Will Aunt Therèse be home soon?"
"I think so."
"I'd forgotten it could rain so hard around here."