Closed gates and barking dogs that refused to recognise their master; this was not as it should have been. He was annoyed that he had not started earlier, travelled faster, announced his coming. The eye of a torch wavered towards them. It stopped short of the lights and he heard the voice of Micheline, Henri’s wife.

‘Who is it?’ She, too, was shouting, her tone resentful and afraid.

‘Micheline, open up. It’s Theo.’

She advanced slowly, sceptically, the beam of her torch absorbed into the car’s lights. She wore a blue button-through pinafore and below it the hem of her black skirt drooped to her wooden-soled clogs.

‘Mr Theo?’ She was searching in her pinafore pocket and took out the key. They pushed open one gate each and the car slid into the courtyard, stopped; its lights died away.

Micheline and her torch vanished, the dogs trotted back into the farmyard, and he and Dorchin were alone again. He looked up at the house, its grey shutters closed; it was deserted. Had his wife left? He led the way towards the arch into the farmyard and the house where Henri and Micheline lived.

They met Micheline, coming from the tower that filled the corner between the main house and the farmyard.

‘Mr Theo, Mr Theo,’ she said, opening her arms to him. They kissed three times.

‘How are you, Micheline? How’s Henri, the family? It’s been a long time.’

‘A long time, a long time.’ She was agitated; tears stood in her eyes. For a moment she seemed bewildered, as if she did not know what to do. ‘And now you’re back.’

‘Just for one night, Micheline. I was at Toulouse and I had to come when I was so close.’

‘Let me find you something to eat. You must be starved.’

The peasant answer to every situation: food. She was leading him across the yard towards her own door. An oil lamp stood on the kitchen table, its soft light revealing the ribs and whorls that were etched into its whitened surface. The eyes of both men were drawn to the light and fixed on a chipped white platter, heaped with figs. For years neither of them had seen such an abundance of fruit. Theo looked at the sweet, slackening skins, green, black, purple, and thought of the presents he had brought with him, the American chocolate bars. Who would want American chocolate when they had figs from their own trees? He was jolted out of the timetable of war into the rhythm of the country year. Vine-peaches, pears, apples, quinces would all be ready now. Walnuts, cobnuts, chestnuts soon. He saw Dorchin swallow, his eyes fixed on the fruit.

Taking pity on him, Theo said, ‘Do you mind if we take a fig?’

Micheline did not spare them a glance; she was busy at the stove. ‘Go ahead, take them. They’re yours in any case. But you need soup. The bread’s not fresh, but the soup is good.’