Sometimes famous people use this pub; the odd rock star, film-makers, actors, the occasional poet, a dramatist or two, not of course all at the same time. It is quite a discreet establishment, part of its charm being the possibility of reasonable conversation. This evening only a few locals have braved the rain and there is a corner seat where I can dump myself and sip the plonk and stare at nothing.

Perhaps I could now continue with Shepherd on the Rock? Wrong place. I need the open air, the wind for that.

‘Clara! Did you walk up here in all that rain?’

‘Umbrella, gum boots, macintosh. What are you doing here anyway? I thought doctors only drank in private.’

He puts his glass of Guinness down on the table beside my wine. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Not unless you’re going to lecture me.’

He pulls out a chair and sits. He leans forward and picks up his drink.

‘You get a good glass of Guinness here. After I finish my house calls I always allow myself a treat. Cheers.’

He takes a long drink.

He looks tired. He must be getting on. He has been our doctor for a long time. Twenty years anyway. I believe he is a keen fisherman. He doesn’t smile much; I quite like that. I find doctors who smile a lot rather patronising. He pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and a lighter.

‘I am being quite sinful. I do hope that you are my only patient here.’ He lights up.

‘So?’ He speaks to me through a haze of smoke.

‘So what?’

‘What brings you up here in all that rain? You’d be better off tucked up in bed.’

‘Or having supper with Mother.’

‘Certainly.’

‘I’m starting to feel stir crazy.’

‘That’s a good sign. It’s the patients numbed by lethargy that you have to worry about.’ He stared at me for a long time, his eyes slowly taking in every feature of my face. ‘Don’t do anything crazy for a while yet though. I’d like you under my eye for another few weeks.’

His eyes are a very dark brown. He must have some foreign blood somewhere inside him, Italian perhaps. It’s a funny thing about brown eyes, they always look kinder than blue ones – maybe never so lively, but definitely kinder. Perhaps I should make a point of only falling in love with brown-eyed men.

But he is talking to me and I am not listening. I am following a foolish butterfly in my head.

‘How old are you, Doctor?’

He stops talking and looks surprised. ‘Probably old enough to be your father.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Fifty on Thursday, if you really want to know.’

‘A momentous age.’

‘Or monumental.’

‘Why did you never get married?’

‘I could ask you the same question, but I won’t be so foolish. Nobody seemed to want me enough to seek me out – I suppose that’s the right answer. I have given it quite a bit of thought from time to time. I have a very good secretary and a very good housekeeper; my life is well ordered. I like order in my life.’