So now he stood before his easel, adding the final touches to a picture that he suspected would never be fully displayed. It was an act of piety on the part of the bank, recording the board in happier times, but its destiny would be to hang – if it were to hang at all – in some back room or corridor, away from the bright offices in which the real business of the bank was conducted. The prospect of his work being relegated in this way filled him with despair and made him all the more determined to do something that mattered. This brought his thoughts back to Italy. Italy was the solution, at least for artists. If there was any country that was the spiritual home of artists, then it was Italy, which had been succouring the artistic soul for centuries. Italy would recharge him, would provide him with the inspiration for a new phase in his work.

He put down his brush, not even bothering to wipe it or dip it in spirit; he would do that later. He looked at his watch. He could go to Big Lou’s for coffee, but somehow he wanted something fresh, something different. A walk perhaps and then … Yes, Italy … He had no clothes that would be suitable for Italy. Domenica and Antonia would be bedecked in large straw hats, no doubt, and cool blouses, whereas he had his Harris tweed and his moleskin trousers (with their paint stains), which nobody could wear in Italy.

‘Cyril,’ he said. ‘We’re going shopping.’

Cyril understood only one word of that: his name. But there was no mistaking Angus’s body language, and all dogs are expert interpreters of body language. Leaping to his feet, Cyril gave two enthusiastic barks to indicate readiness. The lead was fetched and the two made their way downstairs.

It was a walk of some fifteen minutes to the premises of Stewart, Christie & Co on Queen Street. Inside the shop, an assistant greeted Angus and had a kind word for Cyril. Then he listened to Angus’s request: a tropical jacket – linen, preferably – and a lightweight pair of trousers. Perhaps a few shirts, too, and a Panama hat.

Cyril watched as the garments were brought to Angus for approval. He showed no interest in the jacket and the trousers, but the Panama hat engaged his attention, possibly for its evident chewability.

Angus cast an eye about the shop as his purchases were being wrapped. He noticed a tray of large coloured handkerchiefs; one, a spotted red bandanna, stood out from the rest. He looked down at Cyril, who was gazing up at him with dark, liquid eyes. How would Cyril look, he wondered, with a red bandanna around his neck? He made his decision.