Hasson, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and afraid, picked up his cases and moved towards the station exit. As he did so an almost handsome, olive-skinned man with a pencil-line moustache and exceptionally bright eyes came towards him, hands extended. The stranger’s expression of friendliness and pleasure was so intense that Hasson moved out of his way, fearful of perhaps obstructing a family reunion. He glanced back over his shoulder and was surprised to find there was nobody close behind him.
“Rob I” The stranger gripped both of Hasson’s shoulders. “Rob Hasson I It’s great to see you again. Really great!”
“I …” Hasson gazed into the varnish-coloured eyes which stared back at him with such intemperate affection and was forced to the conclusion that this was his Canadian host, Al Werry. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Come on, Rob — you look like you could do with a drink.” Werry took the cases from Hasson’s unresisting fingers and set off with them towards the exit barrier. “I’ve got a bottle of scotch in the car outside — and guess what.”
“It’s your favourite. Lockhart’s.”
Hasson was taken aback. “Thanks, but how did you…?”
“That was quite a night we had in that pub — you know the one about ten minutes along the highway from Air Police HQ. What was it called?”
“I can’t remember.”
“The Haywain.” Werry supplied. “You were drinking Lockhart whisky. Lloyd Inglis was on vodka, and I was learning to drink your Boddington’s ale.