‘I’ll have that spoon.’ Nicholas Thornby was back. ‘But I shan’t give you more than a fiver. It must have been stolen from us, by one of our dailies perhaps.’

‘Six pounds fifty,’ said Claud. ‘Perhaps it was not a daily.’ He looked Nicholas in the eye.

‘Oh, all right.’ Nicholas produced the money from his wallet. ‘Twice robbed,’ he said. ‘Don’t wrap it up.’

Claud took the money and handed over the spoon. He was amused to see that Nicholas had chosen the most worn note from his wallet. ‘You gave me this black eye,’ he said, indicating the bruise, which over a period of a week had faded from purple to greenish yellow.

‘I wish I had,’ said Nicholas Thornby, ‘by which I mean that I would wish I had if you had stolen my spoon, if you can follow a convoluted train of thought.’

‘I think I can just about manage,’ said Claud. He put the dirty note in his hip pocket.

He sold no more that morning and presently packed up his stall and joined Brian, Susie and other traders for lunch in the wine bar. They all sat round a table while Mavis took their orders, standing graceful and pliant beside the table, reminding Claud of the first morning when he had sat there with Laura. Thinking of Laura he hardly noticed Mavis’ appetising body in its nylon overall appearing for once without the overcoat. If he had bothered to look he would have seen Mavis’ nipples pointing perkily under the nylon as she breathed, but his mind’s eye only saw Laura who was not there. He wished he was sitting alone with Laura so that he could tell her that he was regaining some of the confidence lost with the failed exam and the difficulties with Amy. He had not mentioned the failed exam, it no longer mattered; it was the moral disintegration of his failure with Amy which had significance. Thinking of Laura he endowed her with more power than she had, supposing that she had understood his trouble when she urged him to leave home, to write, to keep a stall, that she wasn’t taking an interest for amusement’s sake but really cared about him, knew about the confidence Amy had snatched from him so ruthlessly, so cruelly. ‘Damn and blast Amy,’ he spoke out loud.

‘Who is Amy?’ asked Brian, looking up from his pizza. ‘Anyone we know?’

Claud did not answer but ordered an Irish coffee, catching Mavis by the skirt as she passed their table, calling her Maeve. ‘Mavis, my name is Mavis.’ She smacked his hand and went away to place his order.

‘I am sorry,’ Claud called after her, ‘I failed to recognise you without your coat.’

Watching Claud settle into a routine at the market precipitated Margaret’s plan to sell up and move. She did not trust him to stay in the Kennedys’ loft; it was too basic. The bohemian glamour might soon wear off. She could see him moving back into her house bringing habits which did not fit with hers, moods which could be trying.