Except, of course, it was a load of rubbish. And I’d got sick of it. Sick of the romanticism that tied them to the past. Four and twenty ponies trotting through the dark. And all that sort of crap. I hated that poem.
There was no one in the pub. Kit had to call before the barman emerged from a back room, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and bringing the smell of salty, greasy chips with him.
‘Half of bitter and…’ Kit looked at me.
‘A tomato juice and some crisps. Three packets, please.’
We sat in a corner and Kit told the barman to go back to his meal. We’d call if we wanted anything. I took a mouthful of the juice and opened my first packet of crisps. Cheese and onion. I devoured them while Kit sipped his beer and scratched at the grease spots on the table.
‘It is money, Kit,
