Molly, opportunely thinking too about the pub, wandered vaguely up the path, still reading her plant book. George found himself driving through the narrow, tangled lanes to the village.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Rob shouted from the back of the van. “ You didn’t even see the bird.”

The car was rattling over a bumpy track. Peter was crushed in the front between Molly and George.

“The delectable Barbara has divorced me,” he shouted back. “Besides, I’ve seen greenish. Many times.”

“Oh.” Rob was shocked. He considered this. “ So you’re not living on the bulb farm on St. Agnes?”

“No bulb farm.”

“No rarities on your back lawn?”

“No more rarities.”

“Welcome back to the real world, mate.”

In the pub Pete told the story of the delectable Barbara and his exile from Scilly with a mixture of genuine regret and irresistible humour. George had never met him before, but had heard of him from Rob and found him larger than life, immensely appealing. Under his flippant description of his life on St. Agnes and his marriage, there was an honesty and a real sadness.

“We were married about six years ago. You came to the wedding, Rob.”

Rob nodded.

“I remember it well. At least I don’t remember much after the reception, but I’m sure that I enjoyed it. There was real champagne, lots of it. And a very attractive bridesmaid.”

“It was a whirlwind romance,” Peter said nostalgically, not quite seriously. “ Barbara is gorgeous to look at: dark hair and eyes, an almost oriental face, a beautiful body, lovely bum. But my love for her got mixed up with my love for the island. I mean St. Agnes is so lovely, and I’d always dreamed of being able to live there, that I think I conned myself into loving her. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t do it on purpose, but I knew that if I married her I’d be able to stay there.”

He grinned lecherously at Rob. “ It was real enough at the time though—midnight swims, romantic walks along Wingletang, love in the bracken.”

Rob sighed theatrically, enviously.

“In fact she was a bit dense and really boring. She had an incomprehensible passion for country and western music. Then she started to go out with the manager of the Dolphin, that dreadful new pub on St. Mary’s. I didn’t mind. I knew that she was starting to realize that she’d had a pretty rough deal too. I wasn’t very good as a farmer. It might have been easier if they’d kept animals, but I could never get enthusiastic about bulbs. They sell them before they get pretty.

“But I think we would have survived. As I said, I loved St. Agnes, and I would have put up with a lot to stay there. Every Thursday she went to St. Mary’s to the country and western club. She told me that she was spending the night with her friend Nancy, but I knew that she was staying with the manager of the Dolphin. I always thought of him as Nancy after that. Remarkably appropriate. He walks very oddly, I suppose because of the strange cowboy boots he always wears. I think she was fond of him, but we stayed together. I knew that she would never leave me for him. She liked being married. Even to someone like me. It gave her some sort of prestige on the island. We’d probably still be together now if I hadn’t played her at her own game.