. . it’s good for his soul. In fact he wasn’t all that bothered; when he had time to give it a second thought, he realised that another presence at the table could only come between him and his grandpa. The evening did stay warm, so, after Mac had installed himself in the guest suite and freshened up from his journey, I stuck to Plan A and chose one of the pizzeria’s outside tables . . . close to a space heater, just in case. Maybe I should tell you, or remind you if you’ve been here, that Plaça Major in St Martí is a sloping square, bounded by the church, and my house, at its highest point and on the other three sides by old stone buildings, which house a total of five cafés, bars and restaurants. Three of them are seasonal, and closed in the winter months, but the other two stay open all year round, apart from a month or so, rarely overlapping, when their owners take their holidays, and carry out their annual maintenance. Mac smiled contentedly as he settled into his chair, and looked around at the maze of tables.
