To leave, destroying everything, wrecking his life, disappearing into the air without any sense of responsibility, that indeed was easily understood because it was quite typical of James. But the rest, her story, was rubbish.

We got into Bargemon about four-thirty. I remember that the church bell struck the half-hour with its tinny tongue as she dropped me off at the hotel.

‘I would ask you back, you know … but perhaps Mama is already there, they may have returned from the trip, it would be difficult …,’ Florence said lamely, not looking at me, and I agreed, thanked her, and watched her drive round the square to 11 rue Émile Zola.

I went across the hotel terrace, past the painted menu-holder with the pink hands, and then discovered that I was still holding the envelope which I had promised to return.

Her green Renault was parked outside the house. The front door was shut – she had clearly been in a hurry to return. I opened the gate and crunched up the gravel path, rang the front-door bell, heard it clanging somewhere inside, and stood looking at the house opposite, private, shuttered, aloof like her own.

She opened the door suddenly; she must have only just entered the house. ‘Yes? What is it?’ Her voice was hurried, eyes anxious. There was a sound behind her which clearly distracted her attention; she held the door only half open.

I proffered the envelope. ‘I forgot this. I’m sorry. You wanted it back.’

She reached out to take it, a word of murmured thanks forming on her lips when Annette’s voice – I assumed it was Annette for I could not see her at that point – cried, ‘Madame! Madame! Quick, quickly –’

Florence turned instantly, the envelope fell to the floor, and a small figure burst into the dim light of the banistered hallway. The door swung wide open as she bent down and swiftly grabbed the flailing, staggering creature, hoisted it up, held it hard against her on one hip.

She looked at me, a mixture of fear and defiance.

The child, for child it was, stuck pudgy little arms towards me. Its mongoloid head, flattened eyes, snub nose, mouthed odd sounds which sounded, in a spurt of bubbles, like ‘Ppppf … Ppppf.’ It struggled and wrestled for release, the head nodding, stubby arms and legs kicking, waving in one small clubbed fist a tin red and silver trumpet.

Chapter 5

I dodged the flailing trumpet, reached out for the child, took him from Florence and held him tightly to me. His broad face suddenly hooped in a huge smile, like a demented Hoti, a laughing Buddha, head nodding and swaying, little bubbles of mirth splattering into my face, the trumpet hitting my ear. He was suffused with joy, crowing with a wild high cry, spurting little cries of ‘Pppf … Pfpppf’. Saliva dribbled down his chin and I wiped it with my hand.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Thomas.’