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!’

Madame Prideaux was smiling, holding her cup above the saucer. The loop of grey hair had slipped down to her shoulder.

‘Children are much wiser than we are. As we grow older, the more foolish we become. It’s sad. Look at those two, such trust! We lose it, of course …’

Céleste moved slowly down the steps just behind them. Giles bent and found something on the path. He offered it to Thomas, who took it, held it, turned round to his mother, a great smile on his face. He held his closed fist up high. Florence went down and joined Céleste. It was a neat, tidy, careful little ballet. Thomas crowed with mirth, waving his hand.

‘What is it?’ called Madame Prideaux. ‘A toy?’

‘A shell. Giles found a shell in the stones!’

Suddenly Thomas sat down hard on the grass, Giles beside him.

‘He really can’t speak, can he?’ said Giles.

‘No. He’s three … maybe one day …’ Florence let the thought drift into the afternoon. No one pursued it. I poured myself a beer and another cup of tea for Madame Prideaux. It was, to all intents and purposes, a perfectly normal day, nothing was unusual at all.

Florence said, her eyes still on the tableau before her, ‘I think he must know you are his cousin, Giles, isn’t it? Because he does not like people so much usually. You are very good with him. You know this?’

‘He’s a little boy, that’s all.’

‘That’s all. But it is very hard for him.’

‘Will he ever go to school?’

Florence shook her head, stooped to lift her son from the grass. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, he can’t go to school.’

‘Lucky thing,’ said Giles, and came up the steps towards me, smiling, a look of inquiry on his face. I nodded at him. He picked up a flask of Orangina. ‘Perhaps he would like some orange juice, would he, Florence?’

And so we sat, talking idly, Thomas eating another sodden biscuit, Giles on his haunches, the flask in his hand, which he poured into a cup and with which he ‘fed’ his cousin.

‘I don’t suppose I could take him to the stream, could I?’ he said.

‘Too far,’ I said.

‘He’d like it there. Kids like water. Do you want to come to the stream, Tom?’