Jerome Kay piloted his boat towards the harbour. It had to be France but which bit he’d wait to find out.
Patrice Lefond watched as the skiff approached, allowing a stereotypical shrug to reach his knotted shoulders. Not again, he thought. When ‘Le Louvre’ was within hailing distance he cupped his hands in an improvised hailer and called, ‘Monsieur Kay, you need to keep going.’
Jerome frowned. The French chappie knew him it seemed though he was darned if he could recall seeing him before. He steered towards the dock. ‘Do I know you?’
Patrice nodded. ‘You need to sail on, Jerome. You cannot stop here.’
Jerome pursed his lips. Damned rude, he thought. Typical bloody continental. Still no point antagonising the local officials. ‘Where are we, by the way?’
Patrice nodded again, a slight smile on his lips. ‘Where do you think you are, Monsieur?’
Jerome let go a short laugh. ‘I know. Sounds incompetent doesn’t it? Lost in the jolly old fog. Somewhere French, of course.’
‘Belgium, in fact. Ten kilometres north of Dunkirk.’
‘Course. Thought I recognised it.’
Patiently Patrice held the rope that Jerome tossed to him. When the boat was alongside, he met Jerome’s rheumy gaze. ‘You need to set sail, Monsieur. For the Port de Dunkirk. Your daughter will be waiting for you.’ He paused and added, ‘For the rescue.’
Jerome nodded. The rescue. Course, that’s why they needed him. He ignored the daughter reference. Some Belgium thingy, he supposed. Never did understand those johnnies. He pulled the tiller as Patrice pushed him off and watched him go. Patrice wondered how many times he’d sent Jerome on his way? One day Jerome wouldn’t reappear. Patrice watched the sails shrink into the horizon; what, he wondered would be the greater tragedy?