‘No. That’s silly, I don’t know when I’d be ready. Depends on Eric … I’ll call you.’ She bent to kiss Giles, her handbag swinging, under her arm the London papers slipping.

‘It’s the Hôtel La Maison Blanche, Bargemon-sur-Yves. You know that?’

‘’Course I know that. Goodbye, Giles. Have a super time. I’ll be back soonish. I’ll keep in touch, let you know where we are in Marbella. Aphrodite Productions will get me, I reckon. It’s a long address. All in Spanish.’

‘If you’ve read the London papers, I’d be very grateful –’

‘Oh William! I’m sorry, lovie, I bought these for Eric. He goes spare without the sports news.’

‘I see. Okay.’

Ron called above the rush of traffic for her to hurry. She pulled a paper out of the bundle and pushed it at me.

‘Don’t look so miserable, William, really! Take this Financial Times – that do? Eric likes his Mirror. I must go.’ She kissed me hurriedly, waved to us both.

‘You look like the Bisto Kids!’ she shouted and was lost behind a roaring surge of traffic.

In the Simca, Giles fixed his seat-belt, settled back comfortably. ‘Funny feeling, sitting on this side. Terribly near, I mean you are. The traffic. In the middle of the road really.’

‘Cheer me up. Thanks.’

‘You looked as if you needed cheering up.’

‘Did I? Why?’

‘When you saw Mum.’

‘Well … I only expected you. With a handgrip and a label round your neck.’

‘Well, you don’t mind, do you? I mean, me coming?’

‘Of course I don’t mind! I’m really pleased. You’ve got a decent room, and a super dinner tonight, specially ordered for you.’

‘Which is what?’

‘Your favourite. Poule au pot.’

‘Brilliant! How long can I stay?’

‘How long do you want to stay?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about school?’

‘Look! It says Marineland, that big poster. Dolphins … could we go there one day?’

‘Yes. About school, what do we do about that?’

‘I don’t know. It’s nearly end of term, you see …’

‘Not till July, Giles, they’ll have me arrested.’

‘Who will? The school? Mr Davenport?’

‘No. The education authorities. Someone. I don’t know.’

‘But we can go to Antibes? To Marineland?’

‘Yes. We’ll go.’

It was after five by the time we got to Bargemon-sur-Yves. Helen’s flight had been delayed, there was more traffic than I had expected, and we stopped at a service area for petrol, a pee, then a tin of orange for Giles, a beer for me.

After that, I turned off the ‘Provençal’ towards the distant hills and Bargemon. I drove slowly so that he could see the vines in their immaculate rows, the groves of olive and almond, and the red-tiled farms and barns scattered about the wide fertile plain, and then we started, gently, to climb.