I got up and we shook hands.

He laughed. 'You're surprised.'

'You aren't?'

'I saw a photo of you in a newspaper. I was surprised then all right.'

He insisted on shouting. We took our pints of Guinness into a corner and touched glasses.

'So,' I said, 'second cousins. I didn't know I had any. The Malloys and the Hardys weren't exactly great breeders.'

'Likewise. My mother was an only child and I'm the same.'

I told him I had a sister who had two children I'd scarcely ever seen because they lived in New Zealand.

'A nephew and a niece, eh? I suppose they're some relation to me, but I'm buggered if I know what you'd call it.'

The similarity in our voices and manner seemed to have the same effect on us, making both of us quiet, unsure of what to say. He wore slacks and a blazer with a business shirt and no tie. I was in cords, a football shirt and denim jacket.

'Well, Patrick,' I said, 'there's one difference at least-you dress up a bit.'

He laughed and that broke the ice. We finished the drinks and I got up to get a round. 'I might…'

'Make it just a middy,' he said, patting his stomach. 'Got to watch the flab.'

That was exactly what I was going to propose and for the same reason. I watched while the drinks were being poured. Patrick seemed at ease, very still, perhaps unusually so. The beer loosened us up and we chatted. He told me that his grandfather had been adamant that he came from a line of Travellers, not gypsies, and that recently he'd taken an interest in the subject and had looked it up in books and on the web. Malloy was a Travellers' name, he said, but so were lots of others.

I drank and nodded, mildly interested, but with a question looming larger in my mind. Who is this guy and what is he?