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you,’ he began, ‘something.’ Mash closed his eyes so tight that a vein appeared on his forehead. ‘You don’t go, do you?’
    That was all he said, but we knew what he meant. A conversation with Mash was a matter of making the right assumptions.
    â€˜How the hell can we go when you’re there all the time?’ I said.
    Emlyn’s elbow jarred approvingly against my ribs. ‘You’re flying solo, old boy.’
    Mash’s face seemed to light up. ‘Honest?’
    â€˜Look mate, we’ve got these two girls to see to,’ Emlyn confirmed.
    â€˜We don’t go, honest,’ I said.
    â€˜But she calls me Philip sometimes – or Emlyn.’
    â€˜That’s part of the gag,’ Emlyn said.
    â€˜It’s no gag!’ Mash banged his fist on the cabin roof.
    â€˜Well – she makes a mistake. Anybody can make a mistake.’
    A silence fell, Mash’s lips moving but no words coming out.
    â€˜For fuck’s sake Mash, how could we go? Me and Philip – we’ve got plenty on our hands...’
    â€˜Yes – but I don’t want you to go no more!’ The words exploded out of him. Suddenly he looked away. ‘Don’t want you two to go no more.’ The line of his jawbone was set tight. ‘It’s what I mean.’ He shook his head. I could see the scar beneath his hair.
    â€˜Is that all?’ Emlyn said. ‘Well – it’s all right by us, isn’t it Philip?’
    â€˜But you’ve got to promise! Promise now. Now.’
    He looked at each of us in turn, deep-set eyes, opaque, anxious. ‘You’ve got my word,’ I said.
    â€˜Me too,’ Emlyn added. ‘Honest.’
    â€˜Honest?’ Mash’s face broke into a huge smile. We both nodded. Emlyn punched him gently on the chest. ‘Great then.’ Mash leapt to his feet and did a handstand above us, lowering himself expertly to the deck. ‘I’ll get some work done, then,’ he said, kicking the soles of our feet. ‘Idle buggers!’
    He climbed over the side. Emlyn looked at me.
    â€˜You and your theories,’ I said.
    Dawn and Shirley caught a train back home and we became questing men about pubs and dances once more. Mash was always with us, but only until a certain hour. He was much brighter, we thought, less inclined to fight.
    One night we met Amos Ellyott, all alone in the saloon bar of the King’s Arms, and three parts cut. It was a Tuesday night, no parties to crash, no dances, all the girls at home washing their hair. I was about to do a smart about turn at the sight of Amos, but Emlyn headed straight for him, and offered to buy him a drink.
    â€˜I never pay for drinks,’ he explained, ‘I am a good cause. They have appeals on my behalf.’
    â€˜Catch him when he falls off the stool,’ I whispered to Emlyn.
    â€˜I heard that!’ The old man said. ‘I have superb hearing. And I am rude and overbearing because society allows me to be.’
    â€˜This is a great ending to a great evening,’ I said, and he heard that as well, and went on talking. He knew all about us, had seen us in the company of the giant; young men home from the war. He knew all about Dawn and Shirley and where we lived, all about our families.
    â€˜Your father,’ he said to Emlyn, ‘is known as the Rustler. The nick–name is everything in tiny towns, is it not? But only among the true natives, not among the nameless new-comers, all these little old women, all these little old men who have come here for the express purpose of dying.’
    At that moment he fell off his stool, and the barman asked us to take him home. I was all for leaving him, but Emlyn insisted we do the right thing. We propped him up and marched him to Ocean View, to the door of his flat. And all the time he talked. He had three honorary degrees; he was the author of learned works; his obituary notice in The Times had