Free The French for Always by Fiona Valpy

over past Bergerac, where there are caverns full of fabulous prehistoric cave paintings. Look,’ he pointed to where a small stable-door was set into the rock face behind them. ‘They’ve even got their own small cave here. There are no prehistoric paintings in it though, just their lawnmower!’
    Sara told him about finding the Nazi jacket in the wall at the cottage (although she carefully edited out the bit about throwing the wrench at Gavin’s head) and he nodded slowly, thinking. ‘I did hear something about the château being occupied by Germans in the war. There are many such stories around here, although they are seldom told. It is really a time that people would rather forget. So many terrible things happened. It was complicated, being an occupied country, and it tore communities apart. You English have the luxury of not having been subjected to that. It’s probably difficult for you to understand.’ Thomas shrugged and smiled, signifying a change of subject, closing down that particular conversation in the way people usually did around these parts.
    He clambered to his feet, brushing off a few crumbs, and held out a hand to her. ‘Come! It’s time to have a go at walking on water.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Sara looked towards the top of the weir, a line along which the deep-flowing brown river water suddenly transformed itself into a rushing sheet of shallow white rapids which swept down the slope into the more peaceful pool in front of them. ‘You surely don’t think I’m going to walk across that?’
    He grinned, hauling her to her feet. ‘Come on, it’s perfectly safe.’
    He led her across a little bridge of turf-capped stones and on to a small island between the sluice channel and the river. They kicked off their shoes, leaving them at the foot of a broad-trunked oak tree, and Thomas stepped down onto the top of the weir. Long strands of golden-green weed trailed just under the surface of the water like mermaids’ hair. Sara hesitated, then took the hand Thomas was holding out to her and stepped, gingerly, into the water. She’d expected the stones to be slippery, but the weed formed a rough mat which her feet gripped easily. The rushing water was shallow, scarcely up to her ankles, and refreshingly cool. She relished the feeling of the hot sun on her arms and the cold, clear water flowing over her feet.
    They walked out, slowly, into the middle of the stream, titanium-blue dragonflies hovering about them. One landed on her bare shoulder, light as a wish, resting there for a moment before launching itself once more into the rainbow-filled air over the weir.
    In the centre of the river, they stopped, the stones firm under their feet, a deep brown pool on one side of them and the frothing slope on the other, where the mermaids’ hair disappeared beneath a foaming bridal veil. As the water gushed around them and under them, Sara turned to face Thomas with an expression of pure delight. ‘Oh! It’s wonderful! Thank you for showing me this.’
    He looked into her eyes. ‘Here’s to adventures, wherever we may find them.’ And then, for a fleeting second, his lips brushed hers, as light as the touch of a dragonfly’s wing.
    Before she had time to respond (or even to think what the correct response should be) he turned and, with a whoop, leapt into the deep brown pool above the weir, disappearing beneath the water.
    ‘Thomas!’ she cried, frantically scanning the river. ‘Thomas!’
    He resurfaced upstream, five long seconds later, his hair sleek as an otter’s, grinning broadly.
    ‘Dive in, Sara!’ he called. ‘Push away from the wall towards me and pull hard; that way you’ll be safely clear of the faster flow.’ She hesitated and he beckoned, treading water. ‘ Allez, viens ! It’s wonderful!’
    Oh well, what the hell, she thought, and leapt, diving smoothly into the unknown depths and pulling against the drag of the river’s powerful embrace. She too resurfaced, gasping at the