She got him into the cab in slow, precise movements. The hall, the doorways, the steps, each of these with her arm through his.

The Grenadiers was exactly the kind of place a mother took her son for lunch, or a man his mistress – as she guided Fagus in, they passed a couple shielding their mouths in a corner. Douglas had got it right. Take a mistress, lose the wife, loan the children. The best of every world. Had he been down to see Fagus? She had no idea.

“There’s chops,” said Enid, reading the menu.

“I’ll have chops and mash and jam roly-poly,” said Fagus.

“I’ll have the soup,” said Enid to the waitress.

While they waited she poured them both some water. “Here, Fagus.” She held it out to him. His hand wavered over the table until he found it.

“Thank you, Mamma.”

He sipped and put it down, but his fork was in the way. It tipped – she only just caught it. She put it beside the little vase of flowers set between them. “Put your napkin on your lap.”

He felt for his napkin and slid it carefully towards him.

“And what do you do at school?” she said, as if they’d been talking merrily all along.

“Lots of things.”

“I hear you study French.”

“Madame Santiere left, and the new master prefers book work. He says, when am I going to France anyway. Shall I go to France, Mamma? I should like to. Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.”

“Stop it, Fagus.”

“It’s by Victor Hugo, Mamma. I know it by heart. J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne. Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.”

“That’s enough, Fagus.”

“It’s called ‘Tomorrow at Dawn’. Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées, Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit, seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées, triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.”

“Why don’t you tell it to me after lunch?”

“Madame Santiere said I had a beautiful speaking voice. She said I made her cry. Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe, ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur, et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.”

“I said, that’s enough,” said Enid.

“That’s the end, anyway. Shall I translate it for you?”

“I know what it’s about.”

“It’s about Victor Hugo going to his daughter’s grave.”

“I know what it’s about,” said Enid again. Every child learnt it. She’d learnt it with her own governess.

“Do you speak French, Mamma?”

“Everyone speaks French, Fagus.”

“Oh.”

“Not as well as you.”

“Oh.”

“Your chops are here. Move your hands.”