It had been some time since Chéri and Francis had had breakfast together. Chéri had never gone back to the church, but they had occasionally met Francis in the street and exchanged a few words.
With two months of English under their belt, they felt a little bit more comfortable when it came to strike a dialogue, so when they saw him at the beach, during one of their few really free afternoons, Chéri waved a hand towards Francis.
They were sitting in an old suit they used to make themselves more invisible when wandering around Whitby, their big, bare feet deep in the sand and their messy hair in the wind. In front of them, there was a small packet of hazelnuts that they were nibbling while observing the waves.
