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high, arms thrown round a dusty American sergeant, laughing with delight. A really pretty woman, enjoying herself on Liberation Day. It was no wonder that Etienne Ranchett had married her, but extremely odd that she had ever married him. However, power comes with the office of mayor, and perhaps that was in the air then. I never asked. But she did admit, one day when I took a closer look at the photograph, that, frankly, the war hadn’t been a problem in the village. Until
we
started mucking about down at La Napoule and sending tanks and planes all over the place. They were very handsome, very correct, kind to the old and especially to children. Madame Ranchett had no complaints about the Germans at all.
    The Americans, when they arrived, were
far
worse: drunk, stole the chickens as well as the eggs, behaved incorrectly with the young women and cut down the most fruitful olive branches for tank camouflage. They were glad to be free, because it meant that
all
France would be free, but they were quite glad to see the back of the liberators when they finally left.
    â€˜Perhaps’, I ventured mildly, ‘it was different up north?’
    She shrugged, sighed. ‘Perhaps. But I was not there. I believe in Paris it was bad. Very bad. No food. Deportation. Down here it was easier. They left us alone. Of course we had the Resistance … but
they
caused a lot of trouble too, really. If they blew up a bridge, well … how could the farmer get to his stock … the sheep and goats, the harvest? And then, and then! They would take hostages, the Germans. If you live with the hornet you don’t poke sticks into his nest!’
    â€˜Well, anyway. It’s finished.’
    â€˜Thank God. It was bad in England too? Bombs … the mayor and I went to England. Once.’ She shuddered pityingly. ‘Never again.’
    â€˜Oh. I’m sorry! Why?’
    â€˜Look. The ferry was late. It was dark. No signs to London after Ash-Furd. We got lost in some development called Addy-Coombe, I will always remember the name, no one would help us, they looked at us as if we were mad and went away. It was awful. Awful. Then we saw a sign that said
Hotel
... no food. We were too late. Too
late
at
nine o’clock!
We had to find a café in the dark and we had some white chicken like rubber, and frozen peas like emeralds. And as hard. It was a disaster. A disaster. We drove back to the ferry the next morning. We had to sleep in a terrible place one of your policemen told us about. Bed and Breakfast. Horrible! But there was a big bed. I cried myself to sleep, the mayor drank half a bottle of Scotch he bought on the ferry. In the morning we came back to France. You understand me? I understand why you came here to live. Intolerable! Intolerable! Those peas. My God! I wouldn’t even string them on a nylon thread as a necklace. I’ll never forget them. Never.’
    *
    On the west end of this enchanted triangle of villages there was a small area called Quartier des Groules. A narrow road wound downhill, lined with stone plaster-faced houses. Each had a mounting-block of solid limestone just outside the front door, making it easy for the occupants to mount their ass or donkey, or horse very often, but making life almost out of the question for motorists. The only reason that I mention this is that I had to go to the Quartier every two weeks to take and collect the laundry, for my laundress (and that was her permanent job) lived in a three-storeyed house right at the end. So the hazardous narrow road, bristling with mounting-blocks which would easily have wrecked a tank, had to be negotiated with extreme prudence.
    In the first years the Simca Brake just made it; Forwood’s Maserati (a fearful bit of showing-off which he loved keenly) never made the first yard, but, later on, the sturdy Peugeot just, by extremely skilful navigation, managed to get down to Madame Mandelli’s pretty little terrace. Every two