‘I’ve parked rather badly. Not really my fault. I am a poor driver, as Florence has no doubt told you. Not safe to drive, she will say. I find reversing difficult, and you have parked where I normally turn round. You see? While I take some flowers – your flowers, I suppose – would you be so kind as to help me by turning me around? Get the car pointing in the right direction? Towards Bargemon? It’s the reversing, you see.’

I reversed the car, an elderly Renault, the back and the front filled with a jumble sale of old maps, candy wrappers, half-empty packets of biscuits and plastic bags mixed up with a tattered Algerian rug. Turned it round and got it facing the track and the way down to the main road.

Walking back up the path to the house a sudden squall of wind sent scurries of blossom from the cherry tree across the stooping figure of my landlady. She had gathered a decent armful of white narcissi. She stood upright, brushed her skirt, hooked the loop of hair roughly behind her ear.

‘I didn’t think you would be here, but I recognized your car. I was lunching with friends. You were most kind to help me. Perhaps the next time you park you could leave the turning-point free …? A thought. We are always used to it. In the past anyway …’

‘I’m sorry. Not certain of the rules yet. This is really my first day at Jericho to work out my … moves, I suppose.’

‘I suppose so. The car goes, doesn’t it? Mine?’

‘It goes. It needs a coat of paint. And a little oil might be a good idea.’

She moved her quite large bunch from one arm to the other. ‘I’m quite hopeless with cars. They go or they don’t go. I don’t know any more, except for petrol. I do know about that. Ah yes.’ She started off down the path and I followed her.

‘What a pretty day,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘We’ll have a frost tonight. You are quite right. I do need a coat of paint, but it is so expensive. Look at that dent in the mudguard. I hit the pillar on the corner just now. As you can see. A silly old woman, but a taxi costs too much for one lunch with friends, and I did once drive extremely well …’ She nodded her thanks as I held the door open for her.

I watched her try to start three or four times, succeed, and with a quick flap of her hand inch down the track, weaving a little from side to side, turn into the road, and, after a prudent halt, turn left and become lost to sight.

She’d hit the stone pillar at some time. The front mudguard was deeply scored, but it was an old scar, rusty. Nothing recent.

Chapter 8