‘It’s one of my many secret vices, Pearly. One thing I’ve noticed since I’ve been back, people have got the message here a lot better than in the UK.’

‘It’s been so long since you’ve been back, there must be lots of changes. I meant to ask you before how long ago your dad died. I didn’t pick it up in the paper.’

‘Years ago. I should’ve come back then, but I was hectically busy at the time. Selfish too, absorbed in what was important to me. I regret it now, although I always got on better with my mother.’

‘And how’s she?’ asked Pearly. Andrew made small, adroit movements with the cigarette between puffs, rolling and turning it in his left hand as if in preparation for some minor conjuring trick, the actions so habitual he was unaware of them.

‘She’s an old woman who has no idea of my life and keeps asking me the same questions. You can be away too long. I love the person she used to be, and perhaps it’s the same for her. What about your folk?’

‘Dead. My brother Richie’s here tonight, though.’

‘I don’t remember him very well,’ said Andrew.

‘Two years younger,’ said Pearly.

‘Not so easy for him then.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well there he was as a fifth-former and you head boy and everything.’

‘He made his own way,’ said Pearly. ‘We got on pretty well most of the time, and still do. He’s on the family farm now and making a really good fist of it. Better than I would have, and his son’s working with him. I was talking to him before I came out.’

‘You should ask him sometime, though, how he found it to be in your shadow. I’m glad you get on. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so no competition. I was everything to my mother; more than her husband, perhaps.’

‘So you were spoilt rotten?’ said Pearly.

Before Andrew could answer, a group came down the steps talking loudly. One guy halted briefly to tell Pearly what a bloody good night it was. Another, still walking, shouted back that there wasn’t enough to drink. That you could hardly get at it. ‘More booze, more bloody booze!’ he yelled. Neither Pearly nor Andrew bothered to reply, just waited for the group to melt into the gloom.

‘I saw Gumbo tonight,’ said Andrew, ‘but what about Snoz Gazler? You and he always seemed best mates.’

‘He’s not coming. He’s got some particularly nasty form of diabetes, and his wife doesn’t keep well either. Some reflux difficulty, I gather. Things haven’t been so good for Snoz. I should keep in touch with him more.’