But then Soho itself was a long way from Soho. Buffy’s old watering ground had changed out of all recognition; it was now filled with young people bellowing at each other and vomiting in the gutter; Buffy had no place there any more. He remembered, once, digging up potatoes – those firm, white young tubers – and among them the original seed potato, brown, wrinkled, surplus to requirements. For once, however, Buffy felt no self-pity. Fate had presented him with the possibility of a new life, if he cared to take it. And now he had arrived on a recce. He had booked into the Knockton Arms, in the centre of town. Though moribund – he appeared to be the only guest – the hotel welcomed dogs, and he discovered, in the bar, that the Scotch egg wasn’t entirely extinct. He had arrived late, only bar snacks available, and found himself chatting with the manager, Dafydd, who was polishing glasses to the far drone of a vacuum cleaner. Buffy mentioned Bridie. ‘She was a game old trout,’ said Dafydd.
