On New Year’s Eve, George picked her up at 6.30 as arranged. Marion opened the door to him, then had to hide her disappointment. He was not in his kilt. He was wearing ordinary trousers, tie and jacket. He certainly didn’t have a corsage in his hand.

‘Am I overdressed?’ she asked him anxiously.

‘Goodness!’ he said, taking in her full evening dress. ‘You look beautiful. But did I not tell you we are going to a little pub I know?’ He hesitated. ‘Do you want to get changed?’

Her mind raced. He hadn’t actually said they were going to the Glen Mule but hadn’t he implied it?

‘Oh dear. I assumed … Just give me two minutes.’

The pub was on the Stirling Road, and from the outside didn’t look particularly festive or welcoming.

‘Right. Here we are.’ George got out of the car and left her to get out by herself – something he had never done before.

The pub was dark and noisy. Crowds were bunched by the bar, drinking, smoking and laughing loudly across each other.

‘What will you have, Marion?’ George was not looking at her as he scanned the bar. He seemed to be searching for someone.

‘A sherry, please.’

He headed towards the bar and Marion was left standing on her own in a sea of small tables and chairs. Women were gathered around them, just as the men were at the bar.

She was grateful that George had asked her to change her clothes. This place was certainly not the Glen Mule.

A band was playing from one corner of the room: a four-piece with drummer, fiddle player, flute, accordion and a singer who at that moment was giving his all to a big ballad.

Nobody seemed to notice Marion. Feeling exposed and uncomfortable, she looked over to the bar to see if George had managed to get their drinks yet. He was there, drinking a pint in jolly conversation with a man she recognized: Christopher, his old boss from the garage.

Mustering confidence, she strolled towards them.

‘Oh, Marion.’ George smiled. ‘Look who’s here. You remember Chris?’

‘Of course. Hello, Chris.’ She held out her hand. Chris took it, but pulled her to him so that he could plant a damp kiss on her cheek, as close to her lips as possible.

‘Can’t forget you, Marion, hen.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘Can’t believe you’re still knocking about with this rogue.’ He cuffed George’s cheek. ‘What are you drinking, Marion?’

‘George is getting me a sherry.’

George was sheepish. ‘I was just about to when Chris arrived.’ He signalled to the barmaid – a pretty woman, in her forties, Marion guessed, with brown hair and very red lipstick. Her white lace blouse had one too many buttons undone.

‘A sherry for the lady,’ Chris said, with his eyes firmly on her cleavage.

George put his arm protectively around Marion’s shoulder as the barmaid poured a schooner of cream sherry. She put it down on the bar, took a few coins from Chris, then looked round at Marion, giving her a friendly once-over. ‘You’re a new face round here.’