It was a near perfect summer day as it often is in the Charente, not too hot, just a faint flow of breeze. I was sitting in the garden near the stream with my book. The sound of the water over the stones may have made me drowsy, because at first I did not recognise my visitor.

But there was perhaps a better excuse for that. Celestine Toutanu was almost entirely reinvented. Gone were the dowdy shawl and clumpy shoes; the woman before me was a ringer for Bette Davis in ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane’. The hair had changed from grey to strawberry blonde, the lipstick and shoes were holly berry red.

‘Madame,’ I said, ‘it is a delight to see you again.’

‘Your wife, Madame Johnson, also said you would be électrisier.’

‘Thrilled?’

‘That also, Monsieur.’

I found her a plastic chair.

‘Have you been offered some refreshment?’ I asked.

‘Madame Johnson is finding something profitable pour la gorge.’

‘I am afraid we have no absinthe.’

A good thing, Monsieur. It makes me break the wind. Like the owl, remember? No, Madame Johnson is looking for the park.’

‘The park?’

‘The park of the high land?

‘Oh, yes. Highland Park whisky. Très profitable. It comes from Orkney.’

‘I think it comes from a bottle Monsieur.’

Doris arrived with a tray featuring, amongst the peripherals, a large pot of tea and a bottle of whisky. Celestine glanced at the bottle and nodded as if to claim her small success in determining the origin of the whisky. Doris poured her a large one.

‘So what brings you to Entrechoux, Madame?’

‘It was the bus Monsieur. But I am here to see ‘Le Petit Chateau’. And, of course, my favourite English peoples.’

Celestine sipped her whisky and looked around the garden. She complimented us on the work we had done and sipped a little more. Then, little by little and whisky by whisky she steered the conversation towards the past. Finally, when we had reached the Second World War she began to sob, gently at first, and then with gusto. We were becoming concerned.

‘It does not matter, Madame,’ Doris said, ‘you do not have to talk about it.’

Celestine wiped her eyes on a pink handkerchief, composed herself, and sat very upright.

‘But I want to tell you,’ she said.

We waited whilst the handkerchief was returned to a pocket.

‘As you know,’ she said, ‘there were Germans living in ‘Le Petit Chateau’. One of them, the Capitaine, was very handsome. His name was Jurgen. Although, the house was the propriété of my family, I was employed there as une femme de chambre. ‘Chamber maid?’

‘Yes Monsieur. He gave me gifts. Some were quite précieux. Precious. And, in time we became lovers. I do not regret that Monsieur. It gave me a penis.’

There was a brief double take. Then I realised what she meant to say.

‘Happiness?’

‘That also, Monsieur. But there was a problème. In the village they talk. They say I am une prostituée. And worse. When it came time for Jurgen to leave, the situation was trés dangereux. What could we do? I was sent to the house of my uncle. To be, as you say, out of the way. And then they make the fire. To leave the house with no fire would have said to everyone that Celestine is truly the whore of the Capitaine. The fire saved my reputation, Monsieur, and perhaps my life. The fire said that the Capitaine was not my lover. You do not burn the house of your lover, do you Monsieur?’