As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable. She dressed quickly, pulling on white jeans and a red tee shirt. The important secret remained locked in my breast, but I resolved to be avenged. ’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. Within forty-eight hours the girl would be on her way east and the boy see-sawing the South China Sea, for ever moving at absolute angles. Old Lancashire families both. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back.
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