Marcus drained his glass. ‘Don’t worry. We will, promise.’

‘There’s a ravishing lady film star for you, Minna says, and a handsome German gentleman, one for Leni…’

‘I know,’ said Leni.

‘Well there. The briefing’s over. The Auribeaus, the dreaded Reggie Courtneys, worrying Grottorosso … and of course fifty others, but they’ll all leave by five. I don’t “do” teas, you see. And then it’ll just be the Italians … if they want to stay.’ She pushed up the brim of her hat and looked down once again at the Papageno. ‘It’s all a tiny bit of a worry really: but there we are. Not a real cloud in the sky, otherwise … a perfect summer’s day. One does so dread a sudden storm, but I think we’ll be lucky. I cross fingers; they can come up so suddenly here.’ She went towards the staircase. ‘One year there was the most awful Mistral. It just happened without warning really … all the table cloths flew about the garden like demented Nuns, and one got stuck on the lighthouse down at the point.’ She stretched her hands towards them.

‘Come along, off we go! The curtain goes up!’

There is a halfway moment when one suddenly knows that it is all going to be quite all right: it is going as one had hoped; a picnic on a grand scale and everyone is delighted to be there and happy that they came.

The first half hour is always a little uneasy: people stand about like cattle, they laugh too loudly, admire extravagantly, cry out in sudden greeting, exclaim in over-stressed wonder, all a little strained. The herd unnerved in an unfamiliar pasture. But once they have sniffed the air, scented no danger, found the boundaries, moved cautiously about, discovered where to sit, and someone to share the seat, have accepted the first glass of champagne, seen the familiar face, been led to the bar, then they begin to relax and take advantage of the splendours all about them for which they know they will not be asked to pay. The party, the picnic, is off. And Cuckoo, sensing this moment, breathed a gentle sigh of relief as she zephyred, as she called it, from group to group, greeting, laughing, praising, introducing, mixing and arranging, leaving behind her when she left little eddies of laughter and delight. She was an old hand at the game: and did it effortlessly. Apparently. To her infinite pleasure she was aware that Marcus and Leni were following her lead with diligence. He, flashing like a golden oriole in his yellow pants among the hens, peacocks, and guinea fowl of the garden aviary; Leni modestly, elegantly, slight as an egret, and as graceful. Neither was gauche, neither shy, both assured, both confident with the sense of ‘belonging’ which she had bestowed upon them.

‘You aren’t one of Harriet’s brood, are you?’ someone had asked Marcus, and his reply had delighted her.