I looked at the two other drinkers. Neither seemed remotely offended by my presence. The pub was no bigger than Felicity’s kitchen. The walls were that yellowish-white that bald men’s pillowcases go after a year or two. It smelled of cigarettes and mud; of wet clothes dried in damp rooms. Of spilled beer and burnt fat. There was a mirror behind the row of spirits behind the bar and the only other decoration on the walls were a collection of horse brasses, a picture of a ship that was hung so wonky it appeared to be trying to correct the waves, and a dartboard that seemed more holes than cork. Somebody had written ‘Macker’s a Puff’ on the blackboard beside it.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay. I’d got myself ready to talk to Chivers. Had my whole speech planned. I wasn’t ready to deflate yet. Wanted something more.

‘We have an American whisky,’ said Stubbs. ‘Nice with a drop of lemonade. My wife’s a fan.’

I found myself liking him. Gave him a smile that he seemed to like. Propped my elbow on the bar as if I had done this before.

‘Had a shock, I’ll bet,’ said Stubbs, putting a glass in front of me. It was filled to the brim. I took a sip. It tasted of vanilla fudge and I nodded my appreciation.

‘A shock?’ I asked, reaching into the pocket of my leather coat for my purse.

‘Yesterday,’ he said, nodding in the direction of Denton. ‘Put your purse away. There’s a dozen drinks in the till for you already. There was a collection when you had your sadness. Nobody knew where to send flowers so they just put you a drink in if you ever came down the hill.’

It felt like there was something blossoming inside me. I pictured closed roses opening to the sunrise. I just nodded. Something between a grimace and a smile gripped my features and I took another long swig of the sweet drink.

‘The wife was going to bring you something,’ he said, resting large hands on the bar top. ‘Wasn’t sure what to bring. We were all sorry to hear. Bad business.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, tightly.

‘What was the nipper’s name?’

‘Stefan,’ I said, blinking rapidly, nails leaving crescents in my palms.

‘You foreign, then?’ he asked, chattily.

‘No. I just liked the name.’

‘First Stefan for me,’ he said. Then he jabbed the air. ‘Tell a lie. There was a Stefan in Holland, I think. I drove a wagon in the RAF. Celebrated the end of the war in this tiny place in the middle of nowhere. Street party like you wouldn’t believe. Met a Stefan then. Trombone player, I think. Hard to remember. I’d had a few.’