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They walk side by side on the white beach. England is wearing a woollen blue-and-green sweater, and France is wearing a beige trench coat and is carrying her shoes in her hand. The ocean spreads out to their right underneath the sunset sky. The cliffs rise to their left, and on top of them stands a grey castle surrounded by forests. France smiles; the beaches of Bretagne always rouse a sort of sweet melancholy in her.
It’s been a year since the end of the Second World War. It was a difficult year: there were nightmares. there was the constant, almost unbearable pain of her loss, the guilt of her weakness and cowardice. She’s been rebuilding, but the scars of the war would last forever.
All over the world, they spoke of a new beginning. France brought England here today because more than anything, she wanted a new beginning with him.
“Let’s sit here for a while,” she says.
“Alright.” England sits down in the sand and gestures at his lap. France settles there, and he pulls her to his chest. She can feel the steady beat of his heart. They watch together as the red sun touches the horizon and the sky gradually changes from red and gold to dark blue.
“I want it to always be like this,” France says.
“Me too.” England brushes his fingers through her hair. He looks tired and in pain. “But that never works, Mari.”
“I want to try again,” she insists.
“What will it change?” he asks. “I will always love you, anyway.” He says it in a way that isn’t romantic or even particularly emotional; just stating a fact.
“And I will always love you,” France replies. “But I want to do it right. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of being apart for years and then seeing how much you’ve changed without me. I want us to face things together.” She looks down at their intertwined fingers. “I want to grow old together.”
He doesn’t say anything, and isn’t looking at her: his eyes are fixed on the dark sea.
“A few years ago you were willing to unite our countries,” France says.
“To save us both.”
“Well, I’m not asking for that now. Just for the two of us to be together.”
England sighs. “You know I want this, Marianne. But I’m so…”
“Scared?”
He hesitates, then nods.
“Me too,” she whispers.
They’re both quiet for some time, listening to the sigh of the waves as they reach the shore.
England shakes his head to himself. “We’ll never be free of each other, will we?”
That gets a short, sad laugh out of her. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Alright,” he says, sounding as if he’s reached a decision. “Let’s do it right, then.” He looks into her eyes. “No more secrets, Marianne.”
France nods. “And no more bottling feelings up. We talk.”
“We talk,” he agrees.
They sit there for a while longer, but it seems like they’ve both run out of things to say. So they get up and wipe the sand off themselves and walk back to the road.
When France drives them back to the hotel in the castle, she wonders whether this time will be like all the others, or will it be different. They’ve both changed so much, and perhaps they’re finally ready.
There’s no point thinking about that now, though. She prefers thinking about how England watches her and smiles when he thinks she’s not looking, about the remaining days of vacation ahead of them — and hopefully, the beautiful years to come.