A small cat stood up, stretched, lay down again by the fire. At the front of the house the dog still gave an occasional token bark.

If I walk through to the front and retrieve my brolly, I could call it a day, Martin thought. Then he heard a car’s tyres crunching on the gravel at the front, the dog’s bark changing to a joyful note and voices raised, one of them in song.

‘Roll me over, in the clover, roll me over and do it again.’ Quavering, old, drunk. ‘Help me out of this, help me out, help!’

‘Wait,’ said a woman’s voice.

‘I want to go back to the pubby pub pub.’ Another voice, female, also old.

Martin came softly round the house. A car with its doors open, two old people struggling tipsily, a woman opening the front door, the dog rushing out to slaver over the old people. The woman saying, ‘Come on, you terrible disgraces, that’s the last time I take you on a pub crawl.’ She tried to lever the old man out of the car. His legs splayed out, folded, he collapsed onto the ground. ‘Oh, God,’ said the woman. The old woman was trying to get into the driving seat from the back of the car. ‘No you don’t,’ said the woman Martin recognised as Laura and snatched away the car keys. The old woman lashed out with her fist and toppled out of the car. Now both old people were on the ground. The dog lavished licks on their faces. ‘Oh, Bonzo, Bonzo, Bonzo,’ they chorused, ‘you love us, boozy Bonzo boy.’

‘Can I help?’ Martin stepped forward.

‘Thanks,’ said Laura, startled.

‘No, no, no, no, no,’ shouted the old man. ‘Gross interference of personal liberty.’

‘Put him on the sofa in the drawing-room.’ Laura raised her voice above the old man’s.

Martin caught the old man up and manoeuvred him into the house, deposited him as told, and went back to assist Laura.

‘Stop it, Ma, stop it.’ Laura tried to avoid wildly flailing arms.

‘No child of mine,’ shouted the old woman. ‘Freak! An asp, an asp, an asp.’

‘You never cherished me much.’ Laura was patient. ‘Come on, Ma, don’t be impossible, you’ll get soaked.’

‘My name is Emily Thornby,’ shouted the old woman. ‘Don’t call me Ma.’ She aimed a blow at Laura’s face. Martin caught her wrists. ‘Where shall we put her?’

‘On the other sofa.’ Laura switched on a light. What a civilised venue, thought Martin, looking about him.

Emily bit his thumb. ‘Ouch!’ Martin snatched his hand away.

‘Drawn blood?’ asked the old man, sitting up and looking interested. ‘You want to be careful of drunks.’ He lay back, clutching Bonzo to his bosom. Bonzo snuffled and licked his neck. (What a disgusting animal, thought Martin.) ‘You love us, Bonzo, even if she doesn’t; she has fallen in love with a spotted youth, Bonzo, brought shame on my grey hairs.’