In the first year here, an English chap worked for me a few times ‘on the black’, ‘under the counter’; otherwise known as cash in hand. It’s illegal to do that in France and both of us, not just him, could have got into serious trouble.

But everybody, even the registered ones, does it, keeping a percentage just for themselves.

Frankly, if it were possible in newspapers, so would I, as I think often when I look at my quarterly social charges, which take a big chunk of my meagre income….even before tax comes into play.

However, that’s the way it is and these are not the times to be playing games if one wants to remain in France.

The man I took on wasn’t very good at what he had to do which was simply painting. In fact, he was dreadful, but he was cheapish and I felt sorry for him.

In his 40s, three kids and a defeated-looking wife – he was basically squatting in a ruin of a house he’d picked up for a song.

Like many, unable to believe his luck at what he now owned after a tiny semi in the north of England, he forgot to add in all the other costs.

The idea of the ‘good life’ – living off the land; a life of that mythical ‘quality time’ with his wife and children where the language would come via osmosis; blinded him to reality.

But over our morning coffees his eyes still brightened when he talked of all the plans he had. Plans that required skilled, knowledgeable workers and cash – lots of cash.

The first winter, when all huddled around the one wood-burner in the house with mattresses dragged down for the night, cured him of most of his fantasies.

The second – all of them.

Somehow, I heard a couple of years ago, they had moved around 40kms away and were in a heavily subsidised rented house in a small estate. Two of the children had left home, but not for further education.

He had taken to drink too or so ‘they’ said. ‘They’ are always so quick to pass on the bad news, never the good.

He had ceased to be my responsibility – not that he ever was really – the day the job finished and there was no more work for him.

Rather reluctantly he’d left with his last wodge of cash. ‘You know where I am if you need work doing,’ he’d said several times before finally juddering down the drive in a van that was, like him, not fit for purpose.

No matter how many questions I’d asked, I never really discovered what work he’d done in England. He dodged and weaved; evaded with ‘this and that’ and ‘a bit of the other.’

Waving him off I returned to the house, relieved that he was finally gone and I could call a real painter in to do it all again.

And so it was until last week.

Enjoying the autumnal sun I was mildly irritated when a van turned in to the drive, then confused by the driver who exited.

Thin, pale, a touch stooped, he was familiar but not familiar and I mildly panicked in case I was about to offend an old friend who I’d failed to recognise.

It was my first painter trying hard to seem as if he were ‘just passing.’

‘Sit down,’ I said, a touch too heartily. ‘How nice to see you again. So, tell me all. How are things?’

He tried, God love him, he tried. He talked of how this hadn’t worked out, then that, then the other – the way in the past he’d talked of work he’d done, or not.

Following me in as I got him a drink, he gave a whistle at all that had been accomplished since that first year.

‘And you never called me?’ He tried to make light of the reproach but the resentment was there.

‘Oh, I heard you’d moved away long ago, ‘I said. We both knew I was lying.

So we talked of his kids, his wife and where he lived now. Finally he said: ‘Look, the fact is, I need work. I haven’t had much for a long time.

‘I did register so I’m getting help but I need more. Cash in hand. I can do anything – you know that.’

I told him the truth – most of it, not that I would never hire him again. I told him I had my little team, friends now, for emergencies, but all that was it.

‘I’ve no extra either,' I said. ‘Gone, all gone.'

He believed me for he heard no lies in my voice.

Shoulders do slump you know, in defeat and his did then. ‘Leave your number,’ I said, ‘and if I hear of anything I’ll let you know.’

‘That’d be great,’ he said, clutching at the straws I was holding out.

‘I really can do most things.’

I eyed him – ‘Except painting.’

I smiled as I said it. There was a long pause as he held my eyes...'except painting,’ he replied.

And off he went and now here I sit, feeling responsible. He is not my responsibility. My only responsibility is to the dog, and keeping myself in bare funds.

It has to be – but damn it.