She spread her fingers wide, pressed him back into his seat. ‘Don’t move, Charles … I can’t stop, I’m on my way to the ship. There’s been some kind of an accident, they just called.’

He folded his Nice Matin. ‘Good Heavens! What’s happened? Something very bad?’

‘I don’t know. But I imagine it can’t be very good. It’s Wolf Hagel, the blond boy, you remember, yesterday?’

‘Ah yes. German fellow. I say, that’s rather worrying, isn’t it?’

‘It isn’t exactly reassuring, shall we say. Cuckoo isn’t down yet?’

‘No. She’s staying put, rather whacked after yesterday. You know …’

‘Sure: well, don’t tell her, right? No point in fussing her, I’ll call when I can. Say … oh! say anything if she asks where I am. I’ve gone to see Grottorosso, which is true anyway, but don’t say why.’

‘I won’t. You’ll call?’

‘I’ll do that.’ She hurried out to the waiting car, waved to Tonnino who was raking the gravel by the Triton.

‘Bonjour, Principessa … it’s going to be a beautiful day, eh?’

‘Just darling,’ she said.

In the circular day-room Cuckoo pushed open the shutters, felt the warmth of the sun through her thin nightdress, leant against the balcony watching the hoopoe jabbing his long beak into the trodden turf. Busy thing: I should be down there too; so much to do. Haven’t dead-headed for days, the aquilegia to clip down, don’t suppose Tonnino’s got around to that. A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot. What about God then? She leaned up, holding the rail. Go down a little later, just stay here a bit. Calm, quiet. Ought to get all those damned carnations off to the hospital … what on earth will they do with fifty dozen white carnations, may I ask? Wreaths? She turned into the room abruptly as Archie came through from the bedroom, letters in his hand, an anxious furrow on his brow.

‘Thought you were in your bed? Bruna said …’

‘Having a little wander. Mail come?’

‘Nothing very exciting.’ He handed them to her. ‘Card there from a “Caroline and Auberon”. In Barbados. We know them?’

She looked at the card. ‘Caroline, dear, Harriet’s girl. Auberon’s the Estate Agent. I went to the wedding, remember?’

He sat carefully on an overstuffed chair. ‘Losing my head. Can’t seem to remember a thing these days. So much fuss, I suppose. Honeymoon, is it? Thought they’d be up in Cumberland, tramping the fells in a fog with a thermos flask.’

‘Anything lovely for you?’

‘Wine Society catalogue … a slip from Country Life regretting “Industrial Action” for the loss of four editions. Not greatly lovely. No. One for the boy’

She looked up sharply. ‘The boy? Marcus?’

‘Ummm…’

‘From England?’