The girl’s French godmother was at a loss as to what to do with her awkward twelve year old charge. Nerida was tiny, with spindly legs and a fringe that was cut at a forty five degree angle across her forehead. But the girl’s eyes sparkled as she asked endless questions from the back seat of the car as they sped down the M6 through the night.

“Look at the orange sky!” she exclaimed and leant forwards in the gap between the front seats between her godparents. They glanced at each other. It was going to be a long night.

“Those are the lights of Dover.” Stefan, her godfather, turned his attention back to the road.

The questioning was relentless. Their own daughter, Cecile, had fallen asleep in her pyjamas, snuggled in blankets in the corner of the back seat. She was the same age as Nerida, who had been invited to join them on this short trip to Paris, in the hope that she would provide companionship and girlish fun for Cecile. But Cecile, home from an exclusive boarding school, had not been impressed.

Nerida clutched her small, battered suitcase as they boarded the night ferry. She remained on the open top deck with her jumper pulled tightly around her, unable to tear her eyes away from the receding horizon. The bracing sea air whipped her hair and the lights of the port twinkled their reflections on and off as the black sea heaved around them.

The heavy form of her godmother, still out of breath from her climb from the lower decks, loomed out of the darkness above her. “Eet was the war,” she had once explained to Nerida. “Not enough food. Wrecked my metabolism. Same for your godfather. Food was even scarcer in Poland.” They were both heavy, but ate well. It was the first time that Nerida had tasted chicory in French salads, and she loved the garlic on the roast lamb that Aunty Francine, as her godmother instructed her to call her, had cooked.

“When we eat in Paris... such food – magnifique! I ‘ope you don’t spoil too much when you go ‘ome to your familee…”

Nerida adored her accent and broken English.

Her godmother looked down at the tiny figure, dressed in inadequate, ill-fitting clothes - too short, too long - and sighed. Paris was so...chic, and this girl looked more like an orphan.

The next morning, Nerida and Cecile were taken to Notre Dame cathedral. There were short introductions in the vestibule. “My niece, Adeline,” Aunty Francine announced. Nerida stared at Adeline in wonder. The French girl was dressed in a long white dress, like a bride, and a filmy white veil floated over her long dark tresses. Tiny pink rosebuds were sewn on a headband that held the veil on her hair. “She ees twelve, like you, Nerida, and today is ‘er Confirmation Day.”

Cecile and Adeline turned to each other and began to talk excitedly in French, before moving away towards Adeline’s friends.

Aunty Francine sighed, taking in the sight of her skinny little charge who was wearing her one and only dress; a white dress, off-white with age and sporting large green polka dots, with a giant emerald bow at the back that sagged. A label stuck out at the back. “Age 9”, it read. Aunty Francine tucked the label back in.

“Adeline ‘as been so excited, waiting to meet you.”

 No, she is disappointed, Nerida thought. I don’t mind, she told herself. C’est la vie. She shrugged her shoulders. Maybe I can learn French back at school if I study hard. 

After the magnificent service, the family enjoyed a celebration meal in a restaurant. Nerida gasped at the pyramid piles of profiteroles that the waiters served up with a flourish. Adeline and Cecile chatted together in French and ignored Nerida. But Nerida was too entranced by the novelty of the scene unfolding around her to let it bother her. She was used to being ignored. 

It was the last day of the short visit, and Aunty Francine drove her out of the city into the countryside. After half an hour, she drew up outside a small cottage.

“ Eet is for one afternoon alone, weev my Maman, Grand-mere Dupont. Ve vill collect you this evening on the way to Calais. You would not enjoy the shopping on the Champs-Elysees with Cecile and Adeline, they tell me so…it ees so?”

 Nerida nodded dutifully, staring at the cottage and the tall cottage garden flowers spilling over the low wall. Bees hovered and buzzed around the hollyhocks and roses, hypnotised by the midday sun and the heady scents.

“Maman!” her godmother called as the door was opened by a small plump woman with short tidy grey hair. The two spoke rapidly, and the old woman listened quietly and nodded, looking at Nerida with kind eyes.

“Madame Dupont.” Her godmother pointed at the old lady, gave Nerida a hasty wave and drove off. 

“Grand-mere,” Madame Dupont pointed to herself. “Viens tu.” She beckoned the girl to follow her into the house. Nerida blinked, as her eyes adjusted from the midday sun to the cool, shuttered living-room. Madame Dupont led the way to the kitchen table, covered with a blue checked tablecloth and motioned to the girl to take a seat. She went to the stove and lifting a pan, poured out a drink into a blue porcelain mug that was more like a soup bowl with a handle. Cupping it with both hands, Nerida sipped the sweet creamy chocolate and coffee mixture, as the froth clung to her upper lip. She looked up at the elderly lady. 

“Bon….grand-mere.” 

Madame Dupont nodded gravely. She picked up a warm croissant and sitting at the opposite seat showed the girl how to tear the pastry and dip each piece into the milky drink.

When Nerida had finished, she followed Madame Dupont back outside. They both blinked in the sudden glare. Madame Dupont bent over and pointed to the strawberries, cushioned like fallen red rubies in the shadows of the dark foliage. 

Nerida gasped. The strawberries were as big and fat as her fist, not like the tinned, squishy ones floating in syrup that she was used to.

“Tu mange aussi,” she was told, and Madame Dupont carefully picked one and passed it to the girl. Nerida bit into its firmness and blinked as the soft fruit burst open its perfume and her mouth filled with saliva and juice.

They half-filled a wicker basket with fruit as the sun heated their backs and bumble bees droned amongst the flowers.

They headed indoors to escape the fierce heat and ate a lunch of baguettes and soft cheese. Nerida dozed on the daybed next to the shutters, under a soft knitted blanket that smelt of lavender, while Madame Dupont rocked in her rocking chair and the click-clack of her knitting needles blurred as Nerida drifted into sleep.

When she awoke, stiff and cold, she found herself in the back seat of her godparent’s car. It was night, and as they drove up the ramp to the ferry, the lights of the port of Calais swung round the interior of the car like the beams of a lighthouse.

She sniffed her strawberry stained fingers. “Grand-mere…” she whispered. But nobody heard her. 

Ten years later, Nerida stood outside the cottage, her silk flowery dress soft against her bare legs. She took off her wide-brimmed hat and shook out her heavy dark hair that spilled around her shoulders. The cottage and garden looked exactly the same, except for an “Avendre” sign on a post, hammered into the earth. It had  a “Vendu” banner pasted across it. The occupants had sadly passed away, she had been informed and now the cottage had been sold. 

The door opened and a young man pushed his dark hair off his face. He squinted at her in the afternoon sun, heavy dark lashes lining his brown Gallic eyes. He ambled down the path towards her, speaking French and Nerida’s heart skipped a beat.

“Grand-mere’s strawberries,” she blurted out, unable to break away from his intent gaze. What’s the matter with me, she thought. I can speak French, so why has my brain stopped working. She switched to French. “You knew Madame Dupont?”

He nodded. “She saved my grandfather’s life. He was on the run from the Nazis, and the French Resistance guided him here.” He smiled then. “He told me about her garden and the strawberries.” 

“You wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t taken you in.”

He smiled at her. “I am Jean-Paul. You had better come in and I will tell you the whole story.”

One year later, Nerida wrote in her journal: “Reader, I married him. Thank you Grand-mere. Not just for the strawberries. I have escaped my unhappy childhood.”

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