‘Why was she here? What was she doing?’

‘I think she worked at a pub,’ he said.

‘Which one?’

‘Dunno.’ He drained his soup. ‘That was minestrone.’

‘Why was she here?’

‘Because of Barry, I guess.’

I paused. ‘What?’

‘She lived with him. They had a kid.’

I stared. He put his empty container into an overflowing bin. After a moment I asked: ‘Who was he?’

He looked at me. ‘She a relative or something?’

‘Not really.’

‘He worked on the boats at Windermere. Big chap, chest hair. Dunno what he did in the winter.’

‘How long were they here?’ I asked.

‘About a year.’

I paused. Then I asked casually: ‘What about the boy? What was he like?’

‘Nice kid. Only saw him once or twice.’

‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’

He shook his head. Then he looked at me. ‘You okay?’ There was a pause, then he said: ‘Fancy a drink?’

Robbie could put them away; so, that evening, could I. We sat in a snug, populated by a few very old men, and drank. I liked him. He had a twinkly look, and a Zapata moustache, and he called his drinking delaying tactics. Like Lesley, he was intelligent. Unlike her, he was a bloke. She was muddy and female; he was as clear as water and cracked some terrific jokes. I can’t remember what we talked about; you can never remember the sort of things you say in pubs, can you? It’s a different kind of talk; it was just what I wanted. At one point I asked him why women never had a sense of humour. ‘Because it’s us poor sods who need it,’ he replied. I asked him why and he asked me to supper. Then he told me a story about Mrs Thatcher’s chauffeur, and another about some Polish geezer at Glasgow University, where he’d been a student, and then a couple of pints later we got on to limericks. He stood up, swaying; the old gents turned their heads.

‘There was once a young lady from Brighton,

Whose boyfriend said “You’ve got a tight ’un,”

Said she, “Pon my soul,

You’re up the wrong hole,

There’s plenty of room in the right ’un”.’

Soon after that he looked at his watch, shrank somehow, and got to his feet.

We left the pub arm in arm. He hadn’t got transport so I offered him a lift. We walked down to the cattle market. There was a line of cars parked there, in the dark. He stopped beside them. I dragged him away and pointed to my coach. It filled the end of the street, glimmering in the glow from a Chinese takeaway. As always, I felt pleased to see it. Tonight, with a few pints inside me, it looked magnificent. It was so big that the street lamp sat on its roof.

He was dead chuffed. It was like having a child with me. He bounced on the seats; I had to show him how the gears worked—not much different from anything else, actually. He sat in the driving seat, playing with the levers. We slotted in Ricky Nelson. Raising my voice over the music I shouted modestly: ‘It’s not one of your in-flight, executive whatsits, no bar facility or video facility or, ho ho, hostess facility. That’s for the big boys. My boss is a small boy.’ I measured an inch, between my finger and thumb. ‘Very small. Like this.’