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By anyone.
    The slam of the door caught his attention, briefly. Henry was delighted with the High Street.
    A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker, Timothy was pointing out to him, a fishmonger, plus all those other things so useful to mankind, or perceived to be so, such as Dixons for televisions, a delicious shop for linens and a greengrocer with yellow milk and white, free-range eggs. In absolute pride of place in Tim's eyes were the thrift shops, four or five of them, each described enthusiastically to Henry's mystification, as if they were more important than anything else.
    Supermarkets? he muttered, not really familiar with the idea of anything else, and already, by the time it took to draw level with the slamming door, both charmed on the one hand by the row of disparate shops, puzzled by the thrift shops in particular and irritated with the time it took to get around them all.
    By the time they reached this point, Henry was giddy with gossip and information. The slow passage, with long commentary on the buildings, each fulsomely described down to the last occupant, was accompanied by bewildering pauses, when all he wanted to know was Does this street run parallel to the sea? Where is the castle where she lived? Where am I? How can I get back?
    He patted the map in the top pocket of his immaculate jacket. The map was difficult to detect but he needed to know it was there, reassure himself. He had, after all, come here to find himself, and even in his slightly disorientated state, suddenly wanted to be by himself.
    Again, he felt ill mannered. It was a cheerful, bustling street, a complete and reassuring contrast to the desolation of his limited view of the place the night before, and it was not raining, but still he was impatient.
    'And there's the church,' Timothy was saying, grabbing his arm and pointing out the obvious structure further down the road with an urgency which suggested it was about to flyaway.

    Well, one of the churches. There are rather a lot. . .' They had drawn parallel with a narrow building on Henry's right, dwarfed by It
    s oversized front door and a tarnished brass plaque
    fixed to one side.
    CHISHOLM, LAWTON AND COOPER, Commissioners for Oaths. It was the name CHISHOLM
    which caught his eye and held him transfixed, a reminder, as if he needed one, of his real purpose.
    Not the real purpose, he told himself angrily; not the real purpose at all; he was here to earn his living, to see a part of the world he only knew by proxy, to be a tourist, but all the same, the hidden agenda which had underpinned it all came up and slapped him when he saw the name.
    'What's one of these?' Henry said, stabbing a finger at the sign.
    'Commissioner for what?'
    'What? Oh, lawyers, to you, I suppose.'
    Henry cleared his throat, which was suddenly constricted. 'Are there a lot of people called Chisholm around here? I mean, is that a common kind of name?' He was trying to sound as if the question was not urgent. Peter shook his head, in mid-flow.
    'A few of that name,' he said cautiously.
    'I think I'll just go in here.'
    'Why?'
    Henry shrugged. Peter was offended, but his offence was minimal. He rallied and smiled brightly, 'Well, don't forget to take a walk on the pier, before you come home.'

    Home? Did they think he was going to stay there? With that bathroom?
    Peter and Timothy linked arms unselfconsciously and waved him on. Henry hesitated before he applied force to the handle on the door and went in. A pencilled sign, pinned to a wall, told him to bear left. He stood, uncertainly, wondering why he had done as he did, wishing he had rehearsed something to say, feeling a touch defensive. But lawyers were lawyers: there was no task a lawyer would not accept, however frivolous. They were the ones with the local and long distance knowledge, and as far as the lawyers Henry knew were concerned, the customer was always right.
    The client did not exist who was turned away, unless he had no money. Henry's