In the spring, when it rained, the kids would come down from the moor and cluster under the awning outside Gaston and Marie’s shop. Gaston would limp towards the door, muttering in French and, before he got as far as half-way, Marie would call him back. “You’re old,” she’d say, “There are so many of them.” And he would stand in the middle of the floor, grumbling all the while, before retreating behind the counter, where his wife sat, reading a novel or darning his socks. Outside, the kids chattered in their bird-like speech, spitting and scuffing their shoes.

Whose kids they were, where they lived and what unearthly, screeching language they used among themselves when they were together, no-one knew. Gaston thought they might be gypsies from the other side of the moor. Marie thought they were local, from broken homes. Sometimes, one of them would cup his hands to his face and peer with his too-close-together eyes over the old furniture in the window and into the shop. Gaston and Marie would look at the floor.

Gaston had fought and killed children their age, in Italy, on the Winter Line. He had been younger himself, though; perhaps stronger, but less wavering, morally and spiritually. Further from judgment. He could no more reconcile himself now to that little soldier than to the creatures that huddled in the street outside the door.

The summer came early and stayed long. The first weeks were dry and fresh. The streets were full. Trade was good. Marie moved her rattan chair outside, into the sun, and greeted the customers on their way in. Gaston, who didn’t like the heat, held fort behind the counter. In the evenings, when the shop was quiet, he stepped into the doorway and together they watched the sun descend towards the parched moor. Later, the heat grew heavy. The streets fell quiet. Customers stayed at home. Inside the shop, an electric fan offered Gaston feeble relief. Once or twice in July, Marie heard what might have been thunder, and dragged her chair back into the shop.

On a Monday afternoon in August, the towering black sky at last fell in. First thimble-drops, then thick jets of rain wiped the dust from the street. Gaston laughed, as cool air flooded the shop. Then he heard the howls tumbling down from the moor. The kids. Marie laid her book on the floor by her feet. Gaston limped towards the door, then stopped.

They hadn’t heard him come in. The kid stood, stooped, just inside the threshold. His hair hung over his eyes and his lips and chin were flecked with sores. Gaston found himself behind the counter again, watching the crooked adolescent idly fingering the merchandise. Now there were two more of them. And now four.

“C-can I help you?” he said. Together, they turned their pale eyes on him, and he realised then that he couldn’t help them, any more than they could help him.