‘Why shouldn’t he? I’m very nice. Say good afternoon to Madame Prideaux, she is the mama of Florence, and that is Céleste, who looks after Thomas, when I am not.’

Madame Prideaux moved towards us in her unsuitable tweeds, pulling off her driving-gloves. In perfect, if accented English, she said, ‘Florence said that you were a fine-looking boy. She was right. My name is Sidonie Prideaux, how do you do?’

Giles shook hands correctly, smiled nervously, shook hands with Florence.

‘What do you say to your new cousin, hein? Thomas? Not what you expected?’

‘Yes he is. Will … my father … told me. He’s the only cousin I’ve got. Brilliant.’

‘He can’t speak to you,’ said Florence. ‘But he understands very well, so don’t worry. Forgive my English.’

‘Very good English,’ said Madame Prideaux, sitting down on one of the tin chairs. ‘We will all speak English until Gilles here can speak sensibly in French. Shall we be having tea today? The English always have tea.’

‘We have beer,’ said Giles. ‘But Will, my father, bought teabags. I’ll put on the kettle, shall I?’

It was all a bit like the Mad Hatter’s tea-party. Thomas sat on my knee and Céleste helped Giles in the kitchen, which she had, obviously, known before, for she came out with a plate of biscuits and whispered something to Florence.

‘Céleste says you have painted the kitchen! And there are pictures and flowers. She’s very impressed.’

Thomas suddenly screamed, for no good reason, and clouted me cheerfully. I ducked and handed him over to his mother.

‘I trust I do not intrude? But I was curious. Every woman is curious and I am more curious than most,’ said Madame Prideaux. ‘Also, it is an excuse to use my English, which is very … what? Not used – what is it called?’

‘Rusty?’ I said.

‘Exacte.’

Céleste and Giles arrived with teapot and water in a china jug. After tea, which passed in reasonable comfort, Thomas, sucking on a ginger-snap, and watching everything eagerly, suddenly reached out and pointed at Giles.

‘Look! Another pair of trousers,’ said Madame Prideaux. ‘He thinks everyone in trousers must be his father, you see. He can recognize trousers. Excellent!’

Giles said suddenly, ‘I can recognize my father even without trousers.’ He was grinning broadly, head ducked.

‘Giles! Belt up.’

‘In the shower. I can!’

‘Thomas didn’t really know his father, you see,’ said Madame Prideaux.

Giles put out a hand. Thomas grabbed it, still holding the biscuit in his other wet-crumbed one, slid off Florence’s lap and stood, slightly wobbly, looking up at Giles, grinning, offering the biscuit, and then threw it away. Quietly, wordlessly, they walked slowly down the steps of the terrace on to the path. Céleste was on her feet, watchful, ready to move.

‘I think he quite likes me,’ said Giles, almost to himself but loud enough for us to hear. ‘He’s got a very tight grip. Breaking my hand!’