He was, I was comforted to see, perfectly content, silent, watching. And when we did speak we spoke together easily, relaxedly. As if we had done this kind of journey often, when, in fact, it was about the first time ever, by ourselves. He had his hands folded in his lap, head craning about on a slender neck, looking, watching, missing nothing.

‘Are those sheep? Up over there? With the man on a horse?’

‘Sheep and goats.’

‘Why goats?’

‘Sheep follow goats. They are good leaders. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know.’

‘And cows pulling the plough-things?’

‘Oxen. Not cows. Like percherons – they are enormous horses. Very strong.’

‘Brilliant. Do they always use oxen?’

‘Not now. Farmers who can’t afford a tractor do, and some do because they are easier to hoe with through the vines.’

‘Are we going into the hills then?’

‘That seems to be the general direction I’m taking, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yup, I did say. That’s what I meant, I mean.’

‘Bargemon is up there. You’ll see the cliffs in a little time.’

‘Awesome. What’s Valbonne like? Do you know?’

‘No. Never been there. Why?’

‘Uncle Eric’s house is there. It’s got a huge swimming-pool.’

‘ “Uncle” Eric?’

‘Yup. That’s what we have to call him.’ ‘But why? He’s not your uncle.’

‘I know. Mum says it makes him feel more welcome. More at home. Belonging.’

‘More at home?’

‘They are all called Uncle.’

‘Who are? Who is “all”?’

‘Well, you know. Mr Price, Mr McKenna and Eric. It gets a bit funny.’

‘I should bloody well think it does. Do you like them, you and Annie?’

‘Oh, they’re all right. Really. Eric’s a bit … well …’ He turned away and looked out of the window.

‘A bit what? Eric’s a bit what? You said. Something, what?’

‘Well, actually, it’s a bit rude to say really.’

‘You mean he farts?’ This was a deliberate attempt to disarm him. It worked.

He collapsed into a heap, giggling, sniggering, helpless, rubbing his face with his hands, burying his head in his chest, avoiding my look.

‘Giles! If he doesn’t fart, what does he do? Something awful?’

The laughter had subsided, he was still hiccuping, eyes rimmed with tears of sheer pleasure, hand to his mouth. Conspiracy in the look he suddenly shot at me.

‘You wouldn’t tell if I say?’

‘’Course not.’

‘It’s his breath! It’s amazing. So awful. I don’t know how Mum can bear it.’

I heard myself saying flatly, though I had not intended to let it show, ‘Bear what, Giles?’

He looked straight ahead, ignored the question.

‘Flies all over the windscreen. Millions of them, all squashed. We must have been going very fast. A flies’ cemetery. Brilliant!’

‘Bear what, Giles?’

‘His breath,’ he said.