I had underestimated France’s affection for our monarch

The end that we knew must come eventually, the end we dreaded so much that we could barely think about it, was signalled by a momentously upraised forefinger, diverting our attention to an announcement on the French radio news station. The announcement was in English, live from Balmoral castle. ‘Following further evaluation this morning, the Queen’s doctors are concerned for Her Majesty’s health.’

Previous medical bulletins in the past few weeks on the Queen’s ‘mobility issues’ had made us glance sideways at one another suspiciously. Thank goodness they had turned out to be no more or less than the truth. But two days ago, in that photograph of her standing alone in front of a blazing fire in that faultless room, she had looked negligible, just spirit, and somehow extrinsic to her background. But nobody had suggested that there was anything untoward concerning her health and her stick appeared to be an optional aid rather than a prop.

We were four passengers in the Marseille-bound taxi. In front, Gilles driving and beside him an alarmingly thin Frenchwoman with a straggly perm whom we’d picked up in Brignoles. In the back, me and Catriona. Another hospital run. Me for scan results at one hospital; the straggly perm for a consultation at another. Catriona was present to offer consoling words if my results were bad.

We’d just hit the motorway. On the left, the primeval white stone plateau of the Massif des Maures. To the right the hectic greens of an umbrella pine forest. A warning road sign showed a gracefully leaping deer in silhouette. It was about here that Gilles’s momentous forefinger told the universe and his passengers to stand by while he turned up the volume so that we could all hear.