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the Racing Green , and sitting next to him there was a very old brass in a trouser suit leaving her lipstick all over a glass of Guinness. But no sign at all of the person I was looking for.
    It was quarter past seven.
    I walked over to the bar. The landlord was looking at something in the till and thinking. The barman was leaning against the mirror at the back of the bar. He had his arms folded. His hairstyle was Irish Tony Curtis. Farther down the bar was a man of about thirty in a Marks & Spencercardigan with a lovat green shirt open at the neck. He was sitting on a stool and looking at himself in the mirror.
    I put my hold-all down and looked at the barman. He didn’t move.
    “Pint of bitter,” I said.
    He let his arms unfold, reached out for a pint mug and made his weary way to the pumps and without putting anything more into it than it needed he began to pull the pint.
    “In a thin glass please,” I said.
    The barman looked at me and the bloke down the bar looked at the barman.
    “Why didn’t you bloody well say?” said the barman, slowly putting the brakes on the beer.
    “I was going to, but you were too fast for me.”
    The bloke down the bar threw back his head and gave a short hard laugh.
    The barman looked at the bloke and then looked back at me. The movement took him about thirty seconds. It took him another thirty seconds to decide not to call me a clever sod. Instead he found a thin glass and poured what was in the mug into it and topped it up from the pumps. After another fascinating minute the drink was in front of me.
    “How much?” I said.
    “One and ten,” said the barman.
    I gave him one and ten and went and sat down on one of the leatherette seats as far away from everybody else as possible. I took a long drink and settled down to wait. I was expecting her any minute.
    Quarter of an hour passed and I got up and went over to the bar and got Speedy to pull me another pint. I walked over to my seat again, and out of sight, up a flight of stairs, a phone began to ring. The landlord stopped looking at what was or was not in the till and came round the bar and went up the stairs. I sat down and took a sip of my pint and the landlord reappeared at the foot of the stairs.
    “Is there a Mr. Carter in the bar?” he said, looking straight at me with that expression all publicans have when they answer the phone for somebody else.
    I stood up.
    “That’s me,” I said.
    He walked back to the bar without bothering to go into any further details. I walked over to the foot of the stairs and followed the distant sounds of the Coronation Street music until I arrived on the landing where the receiver was dangling from the pay phone. I picked it up.
    “Hallo?” I said.
    “Jack Carter?” she said.
    “You were supposed to be here quarter of an hour ago.”
    “I know. I can’t come.”
    “Why not?”
    “Me husband. He’s changed shifts. Ten to two.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “I’ve made all the arrangements,” she said.
    “What time?”
    “Half-past nine.”
    “Did you get the flowers?”
    “Yes.”
    I took out a cigarette.
    “Is Doreen at the house?”
    “No. She’s staying with a friend.”
    “Who’s with him then?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “He’s not on his own, is he?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Well you’d better go round and find out then.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Same reason as I couldn’t meet you.”
    Silence.
    “Look,” I said, “when can I see you?”
    “You can’t.”
    “Will you be there tomorrow?”
    “No.”
    “Now look …”
    “Door’s on the latch,” she said. “He’s in the front room.”
    She rang off. I looked at the dead receiver for a few seconds, then put it back on the hook and went down the stairs and finished my pint standing up. Then I picked up my hold-all and went out into the rain.

    I walked away from The George, turning left down a dark street of terraced houses with narrow front gardens. Above the rain and the