Céleste stood back holding, of all things, the red and silver trumpet with which I had been greeted the very first time he and I had ever met. I held him close in both arms. He was not what one might call light but Florence was smiling, happy. Amazingly adjusted to our affection.

‘You have a magic touch. He knew we were coming, he brought the tin trumpet for you. It’s his most treasured possession. A gift to you.’ She took it from Céleste, pointed it at me. ‘Thomas. This is for William? Yes? Your trumpet?’

For a moment he was apprehensive, he swung round in my arms, reached towards his mother, his fingers wagging for the toy. She handed it to him carefully, he took it, held it, and then pushed it at my face. He was beaming with pleasure, bent his thick neck to mine, pushing it at my face, dribbling with joy.

‘It’s for you. You have to take it.’

I took the thing, handed it to Céleste, who was very watchful, and quickly spun him round in my arms so that for a moment he was bewildered, then got the idea of a kind of game, and shouted incomprehensibly for me to do it again. I say ‘incomprehensibly’, except that I understood.

Florence started up the track towards the gate and I stopped her with a shout.

‘Let’s go for a walk. Up this drive. To the château ruins? Under the cedar trees. The garden is a bit dreary. Okay?’ She nodded, changed track and the four of us turned about and set out for the orchard and the abandoned park of the château.

‘I thought these were apple trees. When I first came here.’

Céleste said no, they were olive trees, and badly in need of care. ‘They must be cut right back. There will be no fruit for two years.’

Thomas was rather heavy. I set him down and, while he was complaining, explained why I had done so, and holding his hand walked up through the soft May grasses to the cedar trees. The tumbled tower of the château was busy: a pair of ravens circled about the ivy-covered stones, with shrill cries.

Under one of the trees, in warm shade, I sat down and pulled Thomas with me, holding his trumpet. He watched, eyes brimming with delight, to see what would happen next. Nothing did. I told him I was tired, that we were all going to sit down for a while, and he hit me smartly with his trumpet, laughing.

‘He perfectly understands,’ said Florence. ‘The trouble is that he is so energetic. Poor Céleste. Céleste!’ She patted the grass beside her. ‘Céleste, sit! Take the weight from your legs, and take Thomas off his uncle.’