This suggestion we considered in silence, each with his own thoughts, until M’sieur Simon made a gruff remark about Marie-Louise being a good wife, even if she did nag. All French women nag, he said. It is normal to them. Marc shot a sideways look at his father under thick brows, drained his glass, reached for another bottle of beer.

‘The range,’ said Georges suddenly. ‘If he went up to the range – and he liked to be there to paint, you recollect, hein? – If he went to the range, well, maybe…’ He shrugged.

I looked across the dim room in the fading light. The sun had gone. ‘Where is the range?’ I said, lighting a candle which we had stuck on an old tin lid on the table.

‘Up there.’ Simon jerked his head towards the back of the house. ‘At Jericho, the firing-range. Military zone. It’s very dangerous because you can trip over a grenade maybe, or an unexploded shell. They litter the place. Dangerous.’

Marc took a handful of crisps and stuffed them into his mouth. Through a spray of crumbs he said, ‘The range is closed. Between April and May the 26th there is no action there. They suspend training.’

‘Why? Why then? There is a reason?’

Simon scratched his head, cap between finger and thumb. ‘Sure. It’s the lambing season. The shepherds have to collect their lambs, it’s a big effort. Then they go up to the high hills for the summer. But there will be no firing until the end of this month.’

At that moment there was a deep rumble of thunder, the room had grown dark. We got up and walked to the door. Marc hurried down the path to cover the back of their truck just as the first rattle of hail spilled down into the vine and clattered across the terrace.

‘A treacherous month,’ said Simon. ‘Some people are foolish and impatient and plant everything out without waiting. Now look! Regardez! Catastrophe!’

The hail was tearing down in a white curtain; through it the scurrying body of Marc, head bent, hands covering his face, weaving and leaping towards us. Another crash of thunder, the hail thrashed into the tender new leaves above us, the cherry tree shook and swayed in the sudden violent wind. Marc stood shaking his head like a dog on a duck-shoot, brushing his jacket, his face streaming with water.

‘Malheur! Hey! That is the end of my broad beans. Merde!’

I lit another candle, and we went back to the table to wait for the storm to pass, which, thankfully, because the beer was running short, it did in a half-hour when the whole sky suddenly cleared, the great cauliflower cloud moved elsewhere trailing veils of hail behind it, and the Simons made their way to their truck, my money safely stowed away in M’sieur Simon’s pocket.