‘Do you now,’ Joe said. It wasn’t a question. He’d never wanted company on his birdwatching trips, let alone from a woman, let alone a German.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I hope you can keep quiet.’

They ended up in the Vallée de St Pierre.

‘Listen.’ Kweek-kweek-kweek, burru-burru-burru. He handed her the binoculars. ‘Ruddy breast, flash of white. Look, there he goes.’

Chaffinch.

‘You see, Miss.’ Joe wasn’t about to be familiar and call her by her Christian name. Nor was he going to use Fräulein. ‘Listen. That’s why you can’t make a sound. You need to hear before you look. Listen, look, the ornithologist’s motto.’

‘Am I making a noise?’ she said.

‘No.’

He pushed his way through some hawthorn. An angry screech, a flash of white and blue. Trude breathed in sharply.

‘Beautiful,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be fooled,’ Joe said. ‘It’s a jay. A crow in fancy dress.’ He added, ‘Do you not have these in Germany?’

She smiled. She hasn’t a clue, Joe thought.

Trude was harmless enough. She didn’t chatter, so when she asked to come again, Joe said yes. She needn’t come every week, he reasoned. He could be selective with the invitations. Besides, he enjoyed sharing his knowledge with her. It was the one thing he was sure about.

Trude had the makings of a fine ornithologist, Joe finally had to admit, watching her as she squatted motionless, field glasses trailing a distant fluttering form. Hours together, with scarcely a word between them except to identify a bird call or a sighting, jotting down in their notebooks the ordinary birds, Phasianus colchicus, and the rare, Pernis apivorus. It was companionable, in its way. Perhaps, Joe thought, this was what friendship with a woman was about.

‘You must know the island well,’ she said.

‘I get around,’ Joe said.

‘And where’s the best place for birds?’

‘Well, now.’ Joe hesitated. ‘That depends on the time of year. And what kind of birds you’re interested in.’

‘Let’s say seabirds?’

‘Well, seabirds,’ Joe said. He stared into the distance. ‘The north is good in spring. The east in autumn. The south and west, all year.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Perhaps this autumn we should go east. What kind of birds would we see?’

‘Gulls,’ Joe said. ‘Auks. Divers.’ He could head for St Catherine’s.

‘Listen. Look,’ she said. ‘Is that what you do with people too?’

‘Sometimes,’ he said.

‘You must know a lot, then.’ She laughed, sweet as a song thrush. ‘And you,’ she said to him one day as they cycled back. ‘A boxing champion.’

‘Well,’ Joe said. ‘It was a long time ago now.’

‘Why did you stop?’

‘I had to choose,’ Joe said. ‘Boxing or the priesthood.’

‘Why a priest?’ Trude went on.

Joe slowed down, back-pedalled, toes on the ground. ‘I had a calling,’ he said.

Trude looked puzzled.