and the renowned onions of the area. Trees with their bare branches stood tall alongside roadside hedges that were half the height of the Devon ones she was used to. Later, on the windswept Parc d’Armorique, as she reached the top of a hill, Belinda had a misty glimpse of a view that on a clear day would stretch for miles and miles away into the distance.
When BB whined at her from his seat alongside her, she pulled into a lay-by at the top of one of those hills, unclipped his seat belt harness and slipped his lead on before getting out of the car. Once the little dog had sniffed the new smells and peed, Belinda put him back in the car. She sat for a few moments looking out at the wild open moorland in front of her. Strangely familiar and yet new and unseen.
Not one hundred per cent comfortable with driving her beloved Mazda MX5 on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, she’d set the satnav to find the quietest route. Now, obeying its directions and leaving the wide-open space of the moor, Belinda found herself driving down quiet side roads taking her deeper into the heart of Finistère close to the border of Morbihan.
Driving through in some cases deserted villages and small hamlets, she experienced several unexpected feelings of déjà vu. Feelings she pushed firmly away, but her sense of unease grew as her destination drew closer. Long shut-down memories began to surface despite her attempts to keep them buried. She really didn’t want to be here in Brittany. To remember. She couldn’t – wouldn’t – allow herself to think about the past.
A quick glance at the satnav display on the dashboard indicated that she was nearly at the end of her journey. The next village with its ‘Welcome’ sign on the verge confirmed the fact that the time to change her mind and carry on driving until she was far away was running out. She barely registered the school or the church as she approached the main street. The aroma of freshly baked bread from the boulangerie drifted past her nostrils as she reached the centre of the village and her stomach rumbled, reminding her about her decision not to eat breakfast on the ferry. Another hundred metres and the village was behind her and she was approaching a T-junction.
Belinda gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white as she fought the desire to turn round and go back to England. To tell Nigel and Molly that she couldn’t do it and resign, like she should have done in the very beginning. She was experienced enough now to get another job.
Seconds before the satnav announced ‘In twenty yards turn left’, Belinda saw the ‘Camping dans La Fôret’ sign on the verge, pointing down a narrow tree-lined track. She stretched out her left hand and turned the satnav off. This was it. The point of no return. If she turned onto the lane, she would be committed to stay and do the job Nigel expected her to do.
Sitting there, her foot on the brake, Belinda mentally gave herself a good talking-to. She was a grown-up for goodness’ sake, no longer an impressionable teenager. That person had put the past behind her years ago and got on with life, never dreaming that one day she would be forced to once again come face to face with it. But maybe she was overreacting? After all, it had happened thirty-five years ago. Times were different. People were different. She was different.
Determinedly, Belinda lifted her foot off the brake and pressed the accelerator, turning the steering wheel slowly as the car moved forward onto the lane.
The gate at the campsite entrance was hanging off at a drunken angle to one side, a weather-beaten ‘Fermé’ sign pinned to the top bar. The first thing to put on her to-do list. Belinda forced herself to drive slowly, zigzagging the car up the potholed driveway that seemed to go on forever. The second thing to go on her to-do list. Finally, she pulled up in front of two tired-looking wooden buildings. One had the word ‘Shop’ above its doorway and sun-faded posters advertising bread, drinks and ice creams. The other had a shallow flight of steps leading to the door and the words ‘Reception – Accueil’ in faded paint across the top of the door.
Her heart thumping, Belinda parked the car alongside an ancient mud-splattered 2CV, picked up her laptop bag from the passenger