“Can we stop at the next bench?” “Sure. It can’t be far.” “Stop it! You’re making me laugh and I feel sad.” They sat down and she reached out to touch him, properly, for the first time. Her fingers slid gently over his cranial and facial features, in the way of a museumcurator handling a precious ancient skull. Dafydd was taken by this to the point of fighting back tears, though he presumed it to be a good-bye gesture. “I want to come with you.” “Yes.” Dafydd didn’t drop a beat. Between her full-stop and his capital ‘Y’, there was nothing. In that moment, neither of them had time for an in-breath, but when it arrived, it sealed them together for the coming weeks. They stood up and continued slowly on their walk back to the villa, his hands in his pockets, her arm through his. “I must tell Didier. I want to do that while you’re here. There’s a call-box up on Place de Gaulle.” Aurélie took some change out of her purse and squeezed into the box to tell Didier she was heading south for a couple of weeks with a complete stranger. Then she hung out of the door, her hand cupping the mouthpiece.
“He wants to speak with you. I think he just wants to hear your voice. It’s OK. His English is very good.” She was right. ‘Just to hear your voice…’ It’s a slender thread to someone’s heart, but on this occasion, it’s all that there was. Early next morning, while Dafydd loaded bags and cello into the car, Aurélie went inside the house to say her good-byes. Madeleine came to the doorway to wave her off. As Aurélie went to leave, she stopped and turned around. Though she spoke
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