‘No! Not trapped. I am just sharing a larger part of the burden: it is my affair after all. And anyway …’ She gathered up the two separate bunches, wrapped them round with some old raffia she had found. ‘Anyway, I am here this afternoon, am I not? I am not trapped, you see.’

The sky was a brilliant egg-green, almost blue. Like a blackbird’s egg. The sun slanted through the trees, blossom scattered from the big cherry tree. I got up suddenly. I had never touched her, and the desire to do so overwhelmed me. Just to touch her; to put my hand on her arm, to feel her warmth.

‘Would you take me up to Jericho?’

She looked at me in surprise, the flowers in either hand.

‘This is Jericho.’

‘No. The hamlet. Jericho up there. On the cliff. I’ve never been. We can take your car? Leave mine. Would you?’

She got up, looking rather helpless, then down at her two bunches.

‘These’ll die. Without water. It’s quite a long drive.’ I took the key from my pocket and opened the front door.

‘Stick them in the sink, until we get back. Okay?’

She drove well, carefully and in silence. About two minutes along the road to Bargemon-sur-Yves there was a left turn on to a track which began to climb gently through olive orchards, stands of walnut and, here and there, cane breaks and the tall admonishing fingers of dark cypress.

‘Maybe it is closed, you know? The road. If you hear the roar of the cannons you’ll know it is closed.’

‘Cannons?’

She turned towards me patiently, a smile, eyes alight.

‘Dear Englishman, you are approaching the enemy camp of the French. We are headed for the Zone Militaire. You know what that means?’

‘No. What?’

‘Army training-ground. All the area up here is a range for tanks and heavy weapons. Jericho, dear Mister Englishman, is abandoned. It is not a target, because of its history, but no one can live there, it is quite fenced off and deserted. You will only hear the birds and goats; unless you hear the roar of cannons.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me, you idiot child?’

‘Because you didn’t ask me. You just demanded to be taken there, and after three years with a demanding child, I know the only thing to do is to hit it, or …’, and then she touched my hand, ‘humour it! So I humour you. For a long time Mama and three old ladies used to be allowed to come up here on Christmas Day and New Year and at Easter. Just to put flowers in the church. But the old ladies died one after the other and Mama lost heart, and she got old. Now no one comes; except the soldiers.’