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where they’d feed Maltese dogs on toast to their Pit Bulls. Damn Ian’s eyes! What a tottering crackbrained idiot he was.
    â€˜Oh! What an adorable puppy!’ A little old lady had stopped to admire Gawain Perkin de Poer. ‘What a darling! Hello! Hello there! What’s your name, you fluffy little bunnykin?’
    â€˜Pansy,’ said the dog, blinking his eyes at the doting crone.
    â€˜Your name is not Pansy,’ said Edie, emphatically. ‘It’s Milo.’
    The old lady looked confused. ‘Did you say Pansy?’
    â€˜No. Milo.’
    â€˜Milo! How sweet. What age are you, Milo?’
    Milo looked at Edie, at a loss.
    â€˜He’s just a few months.’
    â€˜Little pupkin! Is this your first time on a choo choo train?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Edie answered for him.
    â€˜Well, enjoy your trip!’ said the lady.
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Edie. Once the lady had gone on her way, she rounded upon Milo. ‘What a rotten little fibber you are, to tell her your name was Pansy.’
    Milo smiled, pleased with himself.
    â€˜If you’re not careful, I shall start calling you by your full name.’
    Milo looked aghast.
    â€˜I’m warning you. You’d better behave yourself. What did Ian put in this bag of yours?’
    Inside the carrier bag were a collar of smart red leather and a matching lead, a rubber teething ring, several packets of dog biscuits, a tinfoil package containing minced chicken, a dog bowl, and a knitted kitty with a stitched-on smile and squinty eyes that already showed signs of physical abuse. In an envelope was Milo’s certificate of pedigree, with citations from the Kennel Club and details of Sire and Dam, both – according to the paperwork – prizewinners at Crufts. When she got to the bit about his great-grandsire, Supreme Champion Launcelot Lambert de Poer, Milo stuck his tongue out at her.
    â€˜There’s no need to look so superior just because you’ve a smart pedigree,’ Edie told him, stuffing his accoutrements back into the bag. ‘In fact, all that inbreeding means that you’re probably even stupider than you look.’
    Milo’s jaw dropped in dismay as he saw Kitty disappear, and Edie hesitated. ‘Very well,’ she said, retrieving the toy and giving it to him. ‘You may have Kitty to play with on the train. If you’re very good, I’ll give you a Bonio once we’ve settled down. But you’ll have to wear this.’ As Milo tore cotton-wool stuffing from Kitty’s forelegs and spat it onto the floor, she fastened the collar around his neck, testing it for snugness, then sat back on her heels to admire the effect. ‘Ian is clever. That colour suits you. Just as well he didn’t get the tag engraved. Not that there’d be room for your full moniker on it. Come on, then.’
    She tucked him under her arm, scooped up the bag and went to resume her seat, registering the exclamations of admiration that came Milo’s way as she navigated the aisle.
    Twelve or so hours later, after many adventures involving Kitty, the cord on the window blind, her neighbour’s knitting and the buttons on Edie’s polo coat, they stood together on the starboard deck of the mailboat, watching the lights flare along the Irish coast and the moon ride the clouds. And as the vessel chugged stolidly into Dun Laoghaire harbour, Milo gazed up at Edie with eloquent eyes and told her just how much he loved her.
    The hackney driver Edie hired at the railway station in the little town of Buttevant tried his best to initiate conversation. He was clearly proud of his automobile – a squat black Ford that smelt of new leather courtesy of Simoniz – but Edie was too shattered after her marathon journey to engage with him. After arriving in Dun Laoghaire, she had had to take a train to Dublin, and then another to Cork, and yet another to Buttevant, in the north of the county. So