‘How’s that?’

He’d lifted up the baggy sleeve on his right side, patting at the space where his arm used to be. ‘I need to wait till this grows back, you see.’

The landlord’s grin had been uncertain. ‘Best keep watering it, then.’

‘Exactly. One pint at a time.’

He’d seen a lot of dingy public houses, growing up, and never understood the fuss that people made about them; but sitting there at the bright counter with his glass of Truman’s, speaking his mind amid the rumbling conversations, he’d felt somewhat consoled. The landlord had returned to the back pages of his Advertiser, browsing the classifieds with one lens of his spectacles held up to the print; he’d had a pencil viced inside the hinges of his jaw and, now and then, Arthur could hear the shucking noise of him inhaling his own drool. At some point, years ago, this man had been a patient of Flo’s father. It was strange to think that every filling in that mouth – and likely everybody else’s in the building – had a faint connection to his wife. As a child, she used to help her mother mix the mercury amalgam. There were people in these parts who still canted their heads when they addressed her, lightening their voices, as though she was that kindly little girl with plaits who’d sat at the reception desk in summer holidays. But Arthur had no such associations. Everyone he knew when he was young was either dead or far away or out of touch.

He’d been counting out his pennies for another pint when a voice had carried to him from along the bar: ‘You must be that architect I’ve heard so much about. Doing up that place of Mr Greaves’s.’ And he’d turned to find a weary-looking fella on a stool, hunched over an ashtray with a mound of fag ends large enough to fill an urn. This old man had smoked his rollie with a pleasing eccentricity, clamping it between his thumb and middle finger like a dart.

‘I am. Who’s asking?’

‘Hollis. Geoffrey Hollis.’ The old man had stared back at him, but softly. ‘Used to know your in-laws a long time ago.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Oh yes, he’d a lovely way did Mr Greaves. Always made you comfortable. Until you heard the drill go on.’

Arthur had smiled and signalled to the landlord for another. ‘You must know my wife, then, too.’

‘Not seen much of her since … it would’ve been a good few years back now. I always liked her. Everybody did.’ The old man had stamped out his rollie. ‘Are you still looking for a bit of help there on the farm?’

‘I am. You offering?’

‘Depends on what needs doing.’

‘Killing weeds, for starters, but it’s good advice I’m after really. Someone who can show me the best way of doing things. There must be tried and tested ways I haven’t tried or tested yet.’

‘Ah, you’re looking for short cuts.’