“Well, at least you never lose the ball,” said Matthew. What did one say about golf when one has never played it? Did one ask somebody if he had ever got a hole in one?

“Did you ever…” he began.

“We went on British Airways,” continued the taxi driver, waving to another taxi coming in the opposite direction. “We were in the back of the plane and the purser happened to ask us right at the beginning how we were doing. He was Scottish, and when we told him we were on our honeymoon, he indicated that we should get up out of the seats and follow him, bringing our hand baggage.”

“Upgraded?” asked Matthew.

“Yes,” said the driver. “There was hardly a soul in business class and so we settled in there. Champagne. Feet up on those stools they have. It was a great start to our marriage. One Scotsman doing a good turn for another.”

“The so-called Scottish Mafia,” said Matthew.

“It exists,” said the driver. “Thank goodness.”

They were now approaching the airport turn-off; close by, a plane climbed up into the air, as if from a mustard-yellow field.

“The following year,” the driver continued, “when we went back to Florida, I thought that I might try the same thing. I told the attendant that we were on our honeymoon and she smiled. I’ll see what I can do, she said. And then I looked further down the plane, and there was the same man, the one who had helped us.”

Matthew and Elspeth exchanged glances. An act of kindness had been repaid with an act of dishonesty. Suddenly, the whole story soured.

The taxi driver looked in his mirror and laughed. “I’m only joking. I didn’t. But I thought that’s what would happen if you did something like that. That would be the result, wouldn’t it?”

The tension dissipated. “People don’t think it wrong to lie any more,” said Elspeth. “They don’t see anything wrong.”

“Too right,” said the taxi driver.

They turned off the main road and started to negotiate the series of traffic roundabouts that preceded the terminal.