93.


April 17th.



Ahhh! Mr.Bourelle, explodes Emile. A fine man and yet not a very nice man. How do you mean? I ask. I have told Emile of my visit a couple of weeks back. You met his daughter? Beaten back in life, a mouse; his wife had a hard time of it too. He was an irrascible sort of fellow, a hard husband and father. Maybe hardly surprising given his experiences. I didn't know him before the war of course; wasn't there! Emile laughs at his own joke. We are talking over the hedge, comme d'habitude.

The watery bubbles of quail quiver past in the long grass behind him. He doesn't notice or doesn't hear. Hunting season over, hunting senses off. The quail quails. A new southern speckled wood with a bent and folded, copper splashed wing rests on the spindle tips between us. Emile glances at it and I remark that the butterfly is a duller colour in Britain. Well, naturally, Emile smiles, dull weather dull colours. It is pretty hot in Britain at the moment Emile. Almost hotter than here.
There is a wshhht pffftt! and he goes back to his rotavator. I am dismissed.