He stood at the bar and let his hands run along its thick polished wood edge. How many pissed Yorkshiremen had slumped against its comforting bulk? Two centuries’ worth, give or take. All the arguments that had been settled here, swilled down with Best and Mild and pints of half ’n’ half, the bullshit talked, opinions given, received, discarded like empty crisp packets.

He inhaled the lightly acidic smell of beer swills as if it were the lingering presence of candle wax in a church an hour after mass. He could have stayed here forever. Then he saw her. She was propped up at the bar in the corner, her back to him, watching rugby league on the TV screen. She was in black jeans and a loose white shirt. Very casual. Then again, this was technically a background interview, nothing more than that. What was she supposed to wear, a cocktail dress?

For a while he stayed where he was and looked at her. She was slim, about his height, and had the poise and angularity of someone in good physical shape. Naturally attractive, there was a kind of understated sensuality to her. Even now he could see that she had the air of a woman slightly beyond his reach. The idea of any sort of mutual attraction seemed implausible, the whole thing a joke at his expense. He’d had plenty of time to indulge in this kind of self-doubt since moving back from France. Dating had never been his thing, but now, in middle age, it felt utterly alien. So, with that huge vote of confidence in himself, he made his way over to her.

She turned on her stool as he arrived, a large glass of white wine in her hand. At the same moment, a young, heavy-set barman on the other side of the counter appeared.

‘What can I get you?’ the barman asked.

Joe looked at him, then at Chris.

‘Hi Joe!’ she said, jumping into the awkward moment. ‘Let me get this!’

‘Pint of Mild, please,’ he asked the barman.

‘Mild?’

‘Mild. Tetley’s Mild?’

‘Never heard of it, mate.’ There was just a hint of derision in his voice. ‘Is it non-alchy? It’ll be in a bottle if we have it.’

‘No, Tetley’s Mild. On draught?’

‘What, here?’

‘Everywhere. Used to be. Wishful thinking, I guess.’

‘You’re losing me now, mate.’

It was the second ‘mate’ that did it. The perfect twat-face challenge, a young kid trying to be clever. He even had a beard, which only made things worse. Andy would have been well into it by now, winding the lad up with a mixture of faux-naïvety and implied mockery.

‘Don’t worry,’ Joe said. ‘Just stuff from the Olden Days.’

‘Penny-farthings and coal mines, eh?’

‘Something like that. Let’s see if you can pull me a pint of Bitter.’