them,’ he said, waving the small red book at her.
She hugged him swiftly. ‘Did you have trouble getting away?’
He shrugged. ‘Brian’s out cold and Carol was shopping. They think I haven’t got anywhere to run to.’
The adult world didn’t believe Mark any more than it had believed Jo.
‘Where are we going?’
‘First the ferry. Then, France,’ said Jo, out of her new, beautiful certainty.
Mark sucked his teeth. ‘To Mr Sauveterre?’
‘Yes.’
Mark looked at her oddly. ‘Oh.’
It looked as if Carol had told him the tale about her adolescent crush. Jo winced inwardly, but aloud she said in a steady voice, ‘Jacques is married now. He said we’d always be welcome.’
She bought their tickets at the big bus station and they embarked on an adventure of long-distance buses and ferries, crowded with families going on holiday. Mark talked cricket with a father and son, while Jo tried out her careful French. She was astonished to find the crew speaking back to her as if they understood.
After Boulogne there were more buses, slower and cosier—and a lot chattier. Then a lift from a kindly lorry driver. By that time Jo was rattling away easily in French. Even Mark was inserting a grunted comment or two.
This is going to work, Jo thought.
She had not realised how deeply pessimistic she had been. Not for herself, so much. After four years she knew she could survive pretty much anything if she kept her head. And she’d had a lot of practice in keeping her head by now. But she was scared for Mark. After all, he was a source of income for the Greys. Carol did not lightly let money pass out of her hands.
All through their journey Jo was alert for any sign of pursuit. But once they reached the Lot et Garonne she accepted it at last. No one was chasing them. They were home free.
In the little village they got directions to the Sauveterres’ organic smallholding.
They walked along a small winding path that climbed a hillside, golden in the evening. The French countryside opened green arms to them. The sun turned the quiet road to gold dust between the hedges.
And when they got to the Sauveterres’ property Jacques hugged them as if they had just got back from Antarctica.
‘I have always had such a conscience about leaving you two behind in that rainy place,’ he said, ruffling Mark’s hair.
Though he smiled, Jo thought from the look in his eyes that he meant it.
Over the years, Jacques had forgotten all about her teenage crush. He and his pretty, kind wife Anne Marie welcomed their unannounced visitors without reservation. Mark could stay with them as long as he wanted, they said. They pressed Jo to stay, too.
Jo said no. Not for more than a couple of nights.
Jacques might have forgotten her crush on him. But Jo hadn’t. Blond Anne Marie was even prettier than the photograph he had sent. Prettier, and sweeter, and a petite five foot three. Also, just at that moment, six months pregnant.
Jacques was no longer a teacher. The Sauveterres were trying to make a living from their organic market garden. Their tumbledown farmhouse was wonderfully homely, but Jo knew about being hard up. Her sensitised antennae picked up lots of signs that money was tight. For all their kindness, the Sauveterres could not afford another mouth to feed. And anyway—
Whenever she thought about it, Jo hugged her arms across her breast defensively.
Well, Jacques and his Anne Marie were breathtakingly, idyllically happy. Every time they met—in the fields, in the kitchen, even on their way to and from the barn—they touched and kissed. And smiled into each other’s eyes. Every gesture said Look at us, see how in love we are.
Jo did not wish them less in love. Of course she didn’t. But pretty Anne Marie, with her soft flying hair and tanned, perfect legs, made Jo realise just how tall and plain she was herself. How unfeminine.
There was nothing to be done about it. Some people were just born unlovable. She accepted that. But, watching Anne Marie and Jacques—well, she minded.
‘This,’ said Jo, taking herself for an early-morning walk with the goats, ‘is a bit of a shock.’
She had so focused on getting Mark away from the Greys that she had not thought about herself. Now she took stock, and it was like a douche of cold water.
She did not have to spend long in front of Anne Marie’s mirror to see what the world saw: a six-foot scruff in combat trousers. Her nails were bitten. Her hair was a brown thatch like the rag doll scarecrow she’d had as a very small child. Her tee-shirt had holes. Her shoulders were as broad as Jacques’s. No one was ever going to put their arm lovingly round shoulders like that.
‘And just as well,’ said Jo, aloud and firm. Aloud and firm usually helped. ‘Love makes you weak. You can’t afford that, Jo Almond.’
She wandered down the hillside, attended by curious goats. ‘I am happy,’ she told herself firmly.
It sounded good. And it was—nearly—true.
‘I have never been this happy before.’
And that was certainly true.
Suddenly Jo grinned, stretching her arms above her head. ‘It’s a start,’ she said gleefully. ‘It surely is a start.’
It was more than a start. Within a week she had a job, and a place to stay, too.
It came about by pure chance. She was in the local market town, trawling round the businesses to see if anyone needed a waitress, a storeroom hand, a messenger. The square had cobbles and stone arcades and a balcony that looked as if the Black Prince should be standing on it in full armour, making an arousing speech. To her amusement, she saw that a small crowd had gathered round some object of fascination.
Not the Black Prince, though. Approaching, she found they were grouped about an elderly open-topped Rolls Royce. It was shunting backwards and forwards between a medieval wall and the end of a colonnaded arcade, driven by a young Englishman getting more flustered and profane by the minute. People had even taken seats in the café opposite to enjoy the show.
Jo propped herself up against the wall and watched, too.
The driver was not much older than herself. He had a Caribbean tan which just might be natural, and expensively streaked hair which certainly wasn’t. Her lips twitched. She folded her arms and waited.
‘Look,’ he said to the assembled market-goers. ‘This isn’t helping. Do any of you know how to—? Oh, damn.’ This last as the car hiccupped forwards and grazed one of the columns.
Jo took pity on him. She strolled across and leaned on the driver’s door.
‘Drive her much, do you?’
He glared. ‘She’s my brother’s. I was
