At the truck we all shook elbows again, and they climbed aboard, advising me that if I needed anything, two beds for example, I should not fail to go to Futurama on the road to Sainte-Brigitte, where I would be able to purchase all I needed, from nails, tripes à la mode de Caen, double-beds to good nylon socks. With much laughter, grateful thanks once more from me, they bounced down the track and went off waving arms through the window.

The garden was still. Water dripped from the trees, from the eaves, and somewhere I could hear it running fast. The little brook at the top of the garden where the toad had lived was now a modestly foaming cataract. The air was sweet, cool, washed; far away, beyond the great gashed cliff-face, the storm rumbled off to the north.

I started to close the shutters. At least, after two days’ toil, there was a possible place to offer Giles as a future home. If he cared for it. He might not care for the idea at all, but I did. No question of that.

I drove back to Bargemon, splashing along the roads, high-heartedly, to call Aronovich. Once again. He had not replied for two days. Perhaps tonight?

I thought, quite suddenly, that although the Simons had asked, most anxiously, for James and had, apparently, deplored the fact of his departure, not one of them had asked me if the police had been notified. Naturally enough. No good peasant in Provence would dream of such a thing. The police were more disliked than the German tourists who posed for photographs on the war memorials in every village. But I began to wonder if perhaps it was time that I notified someone official? Against Florence’s wishes, her mother’s and, indeed, James’s.

But there would have to come a time when I did. After I had spoken to Aronovich. See what he had to say to me. If anything.

By the harsh light of the elephant-lamp I dialled, for the fourth time in two days, Aronovich’s number in Cannes. This time, taking me by surprise almost, there was a reply. After a couple of rings a voice with a very thick Arab accent shouted, ‘Allô! Allô! Oui?’

I gave my name – the French version, Colcott – and was told, ‘Attendez’.

Which I did.

In a few moments I heard a low, clear, smooth voice, controlled, polite, with no hint of a question in it. ‘This is Aronovich. What do you want?’

I explained who I was and why I was calling, apologizing for disturbing him. I probably spoke too quickly in my borrowed tongue because he suddenly halted me mid-stream with, ‘Excuse me. One moment. I have not understood you perfectly. You are the brother of James Colcott. That is so? And you are now living in his house. Is that right?’