The first spatters of rain hit the dark window, hard, tat-tatting against the glass like a handful of dried peas. The sky was plum-blue-black, the room shadowed and depressing in the shrill light cast by the single bulb in the elephant-lamp. A sudden fearsome feeling of loneliness, hopelessness and indecision swamped me. I am not an easily depressed person: I usually manage to stick things which hit me hard on what you call the back-boiler and let them simmer away quietly until I am ready to deal with them. Helen called this my ‘ostrich attitude’.

But now I felt lost: no good sticking all this on the back-boiler. I would have to face up to things, and quite soon. I could not, and in fact realized in that shadowed room with the kittens and goldfish and the Jesus baring his heart that I would not ditch the situation, would not.

Because of Florence.

I got off my bed, stuck the blue envelope back with the other papers and considered that it was time to go and have a stiff drink, which very often helps me to get the ‘story line’ in proportion, when the telephone by the bed started ringing.

‘Allô? William?’

I knew her voice instantly. Her English accent obviously being used deliberately to evade the curious ears.

‘William here. Are you all right?’

‘Very good. You would like to make a little promenade with me? Tomorrow? In my car? About, maybe, two o’clock you could be here?’

‘I could. Yes of course. I will bring the envelope, if you wish.’

‘I do wish. Thank you. Two o’clock tomorrow. I tell you tomorrow everything.’

She rang off.

I metaphorically removed my pot from the back-boiler and went down to the bar for a drink. It would not, I knew, help me to get much into proportion, but it might just steady my nerves in order to prepare the questions I would have to ask, and consider the answers which I might then receive.

She had an out-of-date small green Renault, which she said was useful for parking: she worked five days a week, every morning, as a dentist’s receptionist, and the village could be very hard to park in; and it was far worse when she went into the local town of Sainte-Brigitte for the weekly shopping.

This was all idle chatter as we drove out of the village and turned out on to the road to Saint-Basile. She was looking neat and attractive, perfectly composed, and drove well.

‘We shall go to Jericho. We can sit there and talk, if that is all right with you?’ We were back to French again.

‘Perfectly. I thought that you were rather trapped, I mean at home? I didn’t expect to see you for a few days really.’