‘You would not be intruding, not at all.’

Madame Galy was smiling at me now and, despite my tiredness and aching bones, I found myself warming to her. Her enthusiasm was engaging.

‘It is the one night the village comes together,’ she continued, as if she were reciting from a brochure issued by the local tourist office. ‘It is the custom to wear traditional dress – weavers, carders, soldiers, the good men even – whatever a person chooses.’

‘The good men?’ Les bons hommes. I’d heard the phrase before, but I couldn’t recall where or when.

‘It is the night we remember old friends and new. Those that are amongst us still, those that have gone.’ Her voice trembled a little. ‘Those who were lost.’

‘I see.’

This was a change from most of the other places I had visited, where I’d found a resolute determination to forget the recent past and move on. That Nulle honoured its history and clung to its traditions, even if for only one night a year, appealed to me.

‘You say la fête begins at ten o’clock?’

‘Ten o’clock, monsieur, in the Ostal. It is not easy to find, since many of the streets are unnamed in the oldest quartier and several alleyways are now dead ends. But I could provide you with a map, should you decide to join us.’

I had been looking forward to having something to eat and then the chance to turn in early. I was not at my best in strange company, too often shy or tongue-tied. But, against the odds, I found myself attracted by the idea of attending.

‘You are quite sure I would not be imposing?’

She shook her head. ‘You would be most welcome. ’ She paused. ‘Besides, I regret there will be no hot food here this evening. We are all commandeered to help at the Ostal from six o’clock.’

I laughed. ‘That settles it. I shall certainly accept the invitation. And your offer of a map, too.’

She smoothed her hands on her apron and beamed at me, evidently pleased things were settled, and at that moment reminded me of no one so much as the smiling, maternal face of Mrs Bun the Baker’s wife in my old card deck of Happy Families.

‘And will Monsieur Galy be attending?’

The smile slipped from her face. ‘The night air does not agree with him,’ she said quietly. ‘The cold gets into his bones.’

She placed the key on the table and, reverting to her brisk, matter-of-fact voice, added, ‘The bathroom is at the end of the corridor on the right-hand side. I will draw a bath for you, then see to a fire and your clothes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘If there is nothing more you need?’

‘Nothing, thank you.’

She nodded. ‘Alors, à ce soir.’

Once she had gone, I removed my boots and damp socks, which were starting to itch, then emptied the contents of my pockets on top of the chest of drawers. My keys, my cigarette case and matches, my pocket book. Then I sat down at the desk. There were several sheets of notepaper, as well as a rather antiquated pen with a scratchy nib. The inkwell, surprisingly, was full. The paper was not headed, so I cast my eyes around for some official notice that might reveal the actual address of the boarding house. There was a sign pinned to the back of the door about what guests should or should not do in case of an emergency or a fire, but nothing more. In the end, I simply put c/o M & MME GALY, LA PLACE DE L’ÉGLISE, NULLE, ARIÈGE, and left it at that. I had no doubt any reply would find me easily enough.

I scribbled a few lines to my friends, saying I’d be delighted to join them, if they’d still have me, and that, since I had no idea how long it would take to repair my motor car, I would be in touch again in a day or two to let them know when to expect me.

There was no blotting paper, so I waved the sheet about and blew on the ink until it was dry. There were no envelopes, either, so I folded the letter over on itself three times, printed the address of my friends’ hotel in Ax-les-Thermes on the outside and left it on the table to take down later.

I stripped down to my undergarments. Despite my exhaustion, I was in good spirits. As I took the clean towel from the end of the bed and went in search of the bathroom, I realised I was whistling.

When I got back to my room after a long, hot soak in the bath, a fire was burning in the grate, releasing an aroma of pine resin into the room. The smell snapped at my heart strings, taking me back to Sussex winters when I was a boy, with George home from school for the holidays.

Madame Galy had brought a brass-handled oil lamp with a round wick burner and bulging glass chimney, and set it on the table. A tray with a glass and heavy-bottomed bottle had also appeared on the chest of drawers.

It was all very congenial, snug.

My trousers were draped over a wooden clothes horse set at an angle in front of the fire. I rubbed the heavy tweed between my fingers. Still damp, but well on the way to being wearable. My slipover was on a lower rung, the arms dangling down, and my socks were drying on the hearth, the toes, where the wool was thickest, pointing towards the flames. Of my overcoat, cap and boots there was no sign, nor of my shirt. It occurred to me that Madame Galy was soaking it to try to shift the blood on the collar.

She had been as good as her word and found clothes for me to borrow. Rather, a costume. I picked up the tunic of rough cotton from the bed, and smiled. The sleeves only reached the elbow, there was no collar and there were ties at the neck in place of buttons. It was much like the sort of thing I’d once worn for a particularly dreadful school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

I’d been to a couple of costume parties in London in the days after the War had ended and before my nerves got the better of me. I had enjoyed them. I liked the anonymity of disguise, for a few hours pretending to be a man of action from history or the pages of a novel. A Shackleton or a Quatermain.

I was still stiff from the accident, so eased the tunic carefully over my shoulders, then stepped back to take a look at myself in the mirror. Dressed as a peasant with my hair sticking up as nature intended, I was hardly Mr Rider Haggard’s hero. But I was pleased enough.

I looked closer and felt something shift inside me, for, despite the cracks and breaks on the bevelled surface, staring back at me from the mirror was a reflection I had not thought to see again. Myself. Or, rather, the person I might have been had not grief marked me. The lines of loss, of illness, were still there. I was too pale and thin, that was undeniable, and my green eyes were perhaps a little too bright. But the features were familiar. My old self was making its way to the surface. Freddie Watson, younger son of George and Anne Watson, Crossways Lodge, Lavant, Sussex.

I looked a while longer, happy in my own company, until my bare feet started to ache with cold. I hurried to finish dressing. Madame Galy had left no trousers to match the tunic, so I presumed she intended me to wear my own. The turn-ups were still a little damp, but they’d do. I slipped them on, buttoned the fly, then thumped down on the bumpy mattress to investigate the footwear that had been left in place of my boots.

I examined them in the light cast by the oil lamp. They, too, had a theatrical look. Soft leather boots with no heels or fastenings. They set my memories racing once more. A family outing one Christmas when Mother took George and me to see Peter Pan at the Lyric Theatre. The afternoon stuck in my mind because it was rare for her to accompany us. We ate jellies in the interval and Mother, her peaches-and-cream complexion pretty in the dimmed light of the theatre, scrutinised the audience and the latest fashions. For some months afterwards, George and I adopted Pan’s catchphrase of how to die would be an ‘awfully big adventure’ and thought ourselves amusing.