Michael looked at the leaflet again, and decided to tell a lie. It wasn’t the first of the day, for he’d told people that he was going to the Highlands even after he’d abandoned the idea. He’d told the boys on Crewe station that the vending machine had malfunctioned, and he had an idea that he’d alluded to a son or daughter at the café he’d used in Gloucester. He hadn’t lied to the steam-train enthusiast, and to Percy’s grandparents he’d tried hard to tell only the truth – they just hadn’t wanted to hear it. Now, looking at the leaflet, and letting his gaze shift back to the blackest eyes he had ever seen, he said:

‘Yes. But I haven’t been there for a long while.’

‘You know this walk?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that—’

‘But you’ve done it?’

‘Once,’ he said. ‘As a boy, I think – a while ago. When I was a boy.’

‘Is it easy to follow?’

He smiled, and she smiled back at him. He could see her anxiety so clearly now: she really thought she was heading into the wilds. He lied again.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was thinking of going tomorrow, in fact – but a little later than you.’

‘You’re walking that way? To the Ridge?’

He was nodding.

‘I hadn’t decided. But I’d like to see it again.’

‘Are you going alone?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Then we could go together. You could take me? You could guide me?’

‘I don’t know about that. I could try, but it’s quite easy, I think – you don’t need a guide.’

‘I do. I will get lost!’

‘I…’

He paused.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I can’t just push in on your walk. Are you sure you don’t want to do it alone, at your own pace?’

‘No. I would like to walk with you. It would help me.’

She was staring at him, and still he wasn’t sure if she had recognised him. Would she say so, if she had? Perhaps she had been distracted? And yet there had been so few people on the bus.

‘What’s your name?’ she said suddenly.

‘Michael MacMillan.’

‘I’m Maria.’

She was lifting her hand and extending it. They shook hands.

‘How is your day, Michael MacMillan?’

‘It’s been good,’ said Michael.

‘And we’ll walk together? You promise?’

‘If you’re sure. Yes.’

‘Then I’ll see you for breakfast. Thank you.’

‘Seven o’clock?’

‘Seven o’clock, yes. Perfect.’

‘At this table?’

‘This table, that table. I don’t mind which table, but I’ll be here. Seven o’clock, Michael – you don’t change your mind!’

She looked at him and there was nothing in her eyes except relief.

He sat at the bar after she left, with another glass of wine.