He glances at his watch.

‘I have to go. My dinner will be ready. Drink that up quickly and I’ll drive you home.’

‘No, thanks. I can walk.’

‘My dear Clara, don’t be foolish. It is lashing. I insist on driving you home.’

‘And I insist on staying here and drinking my wine in tiny little sips. Thank you all the same.’

He looks at me for a moment and I wonder if he’s going to grab me and haul me out of the pub, but he just stands up and gives a little bow in my direction and walks off towards the door.

I feel quite foolish.

‘Do you mind if I bring the dog in?’

‘You have him brought?’

‘Well, yes, but I …’

‘As long as he doesn’t torment, plague or defile the customers.’

‘She won’t do any of those things.’

‘That’s OK so.’

The barman rubbed at a stain on the bar with a greyish cloth. ‘Mind you, if the place was full, that might be a different kettle of fish altogether.’

‘I understand. A pint of Guinness, please.’

‘There’s some people doesn’t like dogs.’

‘That’s true. I wouldn’t want …’

‘And there’s some dogs doesn’t like people.’

He placed a large glass under the tap and pulled the handle slowly down.

‘From the North, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thought I detected the blás. Down on a visit?’

‘I …’

‘Bet you need to get out of it once in a while. Get a breath of good fresh air.’

Lar thought of the good fresh North Sea air and smiled.

‘Metamorphically speaking, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘That’ll be two pound and five pee. I suppose it costs less where you come from.’

‘A bit,’ said Lar.

‘So I been told. There you go.’ He pushed the glass towards Lar. ‘Keep the hound under control.’

‘Thanks.’

He picked up the glass and looked around for a seat. He felt Pansy’s tail thumping against his leg. She was looking across the room to where a woman sat at a table on her own. Gently the dog pulled him towards her.

She looked up as they approached, startled for a moment by the sound of the dog’s claws scrabbling on the floor. She didn’t smile in any welcoming sort of way, but the dog drew him on until he stood beside her table. Pansy put her head on the woman’s knee and smiled at her hopefully. Lar wondered if this constituted tormenting, plaguing or defiling.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘She recognised you.’

The woman scratched the top of Pansy’s head with a finger. ‘Sorry, pal,’ she said. ‘No more biscuits. You’re out of luck.’ She looked up at Lar. ‘Why don’t you sit down? You’re spilling your Guinness all over the floor. I’m going in a minute. I have to get home in time to see Morse.’ She smiled briefly. ‘I am addicted to Morse.’

‘Isn’t there someone sitting here?’ He indicated the empty glass on the table.

She shook her head.