Little of that passed through now; the inner port had long been replaced by a large exterior commercial dock. It was now home to the fishing fleet and leisure craft: the yachts and motor vessels of affluent Frenchmen, the less significant craft of the weekend sailors as well as the bobbing small boats of indeterminate ownership that featured in every anchorage. The quayside reflected that change from commerce to leisure, being lined now with cafes and restaurants instead of the warehouses and ships’ chandlers of the past.

What had not changed was the noise created by the women who descended on to the quay of a morning to buy the fresh catch of silver-bodied fish, as well as to poke at the piles of still-live crustaceans — crabs, langoustines and lobsters — that were sold from sturdy tables. Such a sight reminded Cal of what he had witnessed as a growing child in Marseilles; his formative years had been spent in France, which allowed him to act and feel as relaxed as a native.

If he stiffened at all — and he tried very hard not to — it was brought on by the surprise, bordering on actual shock, of seeing a one-time fellow army officer, and more recently something of a comrade in a clandestine venture, approaching along the cobbled quay. What the hell was Peter Lanchester doing in La Rochelle?

As was Peter’s habit, he presented the picture of the perfect Englishman abroad, very erect in his cream linen suit and panama hat, with an MCC hatband and a matching red and yellow tie. The highly polished malacca cane he was carrying was an affectation, there for no other purpose than to beat out a tattoo on the pavement to complement that of his heels, or perhaps to swipe a less-than-respectful Johnny Foreigner.

Fearing he might approach and call out his name, Cal slowly raised his copy of Le Temps and pretended to read the front-page story about the continuing crisis in Czechoslovakia, though without being too obvious and hiding his whole face. He need not have worried; Peter might look and act the part of the typical ‘milord’ on his travels but he was anything but a foppish fool and that raised newspaper seemed enough to tell him to mind what he said.