‘He gave me a credit card. It’s from some bank in Toronto.’ A little voice spoke up in my head, and it sounded distinctly like my father’s. Fool, fool, fool. The oldest man, heavyset and with a beard that came to the middle of his chest, looked at me. ‘Is that true?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Samuel Simpson.’ A man behind me said, ‘So. You from Toronto?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I looked down longingly at my empty plate. ‘Having breakfast.’ A couple of the guys laughed, and then a hand fell on my shoulder. I kept on looking at the heavyset bearded man. ‘Not bad, mister,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you that. But any more smart answers and Tom here’s gonna whack you one. All right?’ ‘All right.’ ‘What are you doing here?’ I sighed, looked at their faces, wondering if this was anything like what my grandfather had felt when the raid on Dieppe had gone so drastically wrong.
