At one time, light years ago now, I had been greatly attracted to Helen’s hands. They were extremely capable, slender-fingered, long nails – talons to be exact: scarlet, un-chipped, gleaming, predatory, smooth, unblemished. Those hands had never loaded film, sewn on a button, used a hoe, peeled a potato, but they had held a glass with extreme grace, and the scarlet nails bit excitingly into one’s shoulders, to leave red crescents in satiated flesh. They were suggestive, beckoning, quite unpractical and so damned pampered that rubber gloves were worn to wash a salt spoon.

But they had excited me.

Thinking of all this, I nearly drove past La Source and missed my lunch.

Madame Yvonne set a deep bowl of cassoulet (clearly tinned) before me, a basket of yesterday’s bread and a carafe of the red. She had a cold, and tripped over a Donald Duck on wheels as she returned to the kitchen. She shouted at someone, and slammed the door.

At Jericho, parked neatly beside the track under the apple trees, the out-of-date green Renault. My heart did a sudden leap, resettled.

She was sitting on the edge of the terrace, a bundle of narcissi and cowslips scattered beside her, sorting them into separate bunches with care. She looked up as I came towards her, a sudden smile, she waved a handful in the air.

‘I am a thief! Stealing your flowers.’

‘Yours really.’

I sat beside her. ‘Sorting things out. Who for?’

‘Some for Celeste, some for me; Mama got all her loot the last time she was here. She always came at this time of year.’

‘There are enough. Do you know how to make cowslip-balls?’

She looked at me with mock indignation. ‘A joke?’

‘No. Really. Children, in my village, used to make them. Balls. Very pretty indeed. There is a special art in making them. Only the blossoms.’

‘You can show me?’

‘No. I don’t know how to. I only know they were made. I was told so.’

‘I haven’t seen you for a long time, I wanted just to tell you that I will give up my work with Monsieur Colin. The dentist. On Monday I am free. Ouf!’

‘But why?’

‘Thomas is almost three years old now. He is rather difficult for just Céleste to handle.’

‘Will you miss it?’

‘Miss the rinsing? The forgotten appointments? The swirling water? The bad tempers? The filthy mouths? The whimpering cries? No. Not at all. I will miss the extra money. It was not much but it was useful. Little things: an extra bunch of flowers, which is why I am stealing today, English tea, Elle, just silly little things like that. I enjoyed my Elle. Simple pleasures.’

‘So from Monday you’ll be trapped?’