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means,’ the waiter said, silkily, ‘being Irish myself, sir. It means “Kiss my arse.”’ Then, inclining his head in a courteous bow, he withdrew.
    There was a strained silence. Then, ‘Why didn’t you
tell
me he was Irish?’ hissed Ian.
    â€˜I tried to get you to shut up, you stupid oaf, but you were having such a lark with your codswalloppy Irish accent that there was no stopping you.’
    â€˜I thought he was Scottish.’ Ian sprinkled Tabasco on an oyster and slurped it down, then reached for another. ‘But begob, don’t the Irish have a great sense of humour? I bet you anything you like they’re all chuckling away about it in the kitchen now.’
    Edie hoped so. But she rather thought that in the kitchen the waiter was reciting ‘Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Pepper’ over Ian’s beef olives.

4

    AS THE FINAL passengers boarded the train for Holyhead, Edie saw a man loping along the platform, raincoat all aflap. He was checking the windows of each carriage he passed with some urgency and carrying a bundle in his arms: a baby, by the look of it. As the man drew nearer, Edie realized that it was Ian, and that the bundle he was carrying was not a baby, but a dog.
    Excusing herself to her neighbour, she got up from her seat and made her way to the door. Ian was gesturing at her with such animation that the dog’s head bobbed up and down like a puppet’s.
    â€˜Thank goodness!’ he said, when she yanked down the window. ‘I’ve caught you just in time!’
    â€˜What are you doing here?’
    â€˜I’ve come to give you a goodbye present. Here.’ Before she could protest, Ian thrust the dog at her, then slung a Harrod’s carrier bag through the window after it. ‘His name is Gawain Perkin de Poer. I tried to get a Jack Russell, but they were all gone; there was a run on them, apparently.’
    â€˜What are you on about?’
    â€˜Gawain Perkin de Poer is a bit of a mouthful, but that’s what it says on his pedigree. He’s a thoroughbred Maltese – he’s part of that litter I told you about back in January.’
    â€˜I told you –’
    â€˜You might shorten it to Perky. I’ve been calling him a furry-faced little bastard since I picked him up this morning.’
    The guard waved his flag, the whistle blew, and the dog looked up at Edie, its eyes wide, its mouth an ‘O’ of astonishment.
    â€˜All his whatsits are in the bag,’ added Ian.
    â€˜You can’t do this, Ian! I’m not taking a dog with me to Ireland.’
    â€˜It’s a shame you don’t have much choice. Enjoy your trip, darling. I hope you don’t get sick on the mailboat – there’s a weather warning.’ Ian took a step backwards, sent her a breezy smile then strode off down the platform, blowing a kiss over his shoulder.
    â€˜Ian!’ Edie called, but her voice was drowned by another shrill of the whistle and the grinding of wheels on the track as the train pulled out of the station.
    She stood helplessly by the window, watching as Ian’s figure receded and the steel girders of Euston station rolled by, then the puppy squirmed in her arms and squeaked at her.
    â€˜Stop squeaking,’ said Edie.
    â€˜I can’t,’ blinked the puppy. ‘I’m only a baby.’
    â€˜Well, stay quiet for a minute while I think what to do with you.’
    Edie furrowed her brow. The next station was Crewe; could she put the dog out there? She could approach the stationmaster and ask him to have it sent back to Euston on the next train. But how? It couldn’t travel loose in the guard’s van, and there was no way of letting Ian know that the dog had been Returned to Sender. She was lumbered with the beast until they reached Holyhead, and she’d be hard pressed to find any kind of animal refuge in that godforsaken port. Holyhead was the kind of hellhole