Wallflowers flourished in scattered clumps, insects droned and zinged about. Along the uneven path, through the potager, clumps of chives, bright with purple pompoms, and the tall, unfolding stems of fennel lined the edge. At the far end a flowering currant, hung all-about with tassels of coral blossom, shook and trembled under the onslaught of a hundred bees.

The air was still, warm, scented. Dust spiralled from a scrabble of sparrows bathing in a dip of the pathway, and far across the meadow at the château came the dulcet, suggestive call of the cuckoo.

We looked at each other, content. Strain ebbing, tact restraining.

Florence said suddenly, ‘Your son. Does he like the country? I mean, this place will be very dull for him if not. So silent. Nothing to do.’

‘No. He likes the country. On holiday he was always very happy. With me anyway. Not that I gave him much time somehow. We used to take a gîte in Cognac, and in Normandy. He enjoyed it. My wife, Helen, loathed it! She hated the silence, insects, the outdoor privy, that sort of thing. Loved people, the market, the cafes and the bars. But the rest, she hated.’

‘But why go to the country if she hated it so?’

‘For the children. Healthy. Good for us all. Being together, a family. A total disaster always.’

‘Do you think he’ll like being in the hotel then? Stuck indoors.’

‘I’ve got him a room, paid in advance. We can come here every day. He can do what he likes while I’m getting the place in order.’

‘Will he like that?’

‘Florence! How the hell do I know? He’ll have to put up with it. After all he asked to come out here to me. Not the other way round.’

‘He asked to come?’

‘I told you.’

‘No. Not that part. That means he wants you. Like Thomas, you see? A boy needs a father.’

We started to walk back towards the house slowly. I kicked a pebble into the chives.

‘He’s happy. Helen is a very good mother. She does drive me mad sometimes – not to-suicide-mad, but just impatiently insane. She and my daughter are the two extroverts in the family, as I told you. My son and I are rather dull, I fear. He likes reading or fishing, or sitting looking into space. Thinking. You know?’

She had stooped down to pick a bunch of mint.

‘I’m thieving your mint,’ she said. ‘Some for me, some for Annette, and some for Celeste. You must take care with this, it will spread everywhere. I had no time in the autumn. There was too much to do …’

‘Of course there was. I’ll come to terms with it all. When I move in here.’

‘We’ll have to see how your son feels about the house. There is a stream up at the top, did you know?’