Glenys headed for the phone box, glancing at the station clock as she did so and noting that this was a time when it had never occurred to her to ring Frank; she had always been at the school. For once there was no queue at the box, so she went inside, laid out her pennies in a long line and lifted the receiver. She gave the number to the operator and to her considerable astonishment and delight it was Frank himself who lifted the receiver at the other end.

‘Oh, thank God it’s you, Frank,’ Glenys said gratefully. ‘We’ve been living in a small Welsh village, searching for Griffiths, but we’re on the move again. I can’t explain why . . . no time. Can you tell me what’s happening at Solomon Court?’

There was a noisy crackling and then Frank’s voice, distorted and faint, spoke in her ear. ‘Glenys? Where are you?’

‘We’re in transit,’ Glenys said. She hesitated. ‘Look, I’ll ring you at the same time tomorrow and give you our new address. But what’s happening your end?’

The line buzzed and crackled again. She thought Frank said, ‘Don’t stop there . . . farther . . . not safe for you and the kids to . . .’ crackle, crackle, crackle.

Desperately, Glenys raised her voice to a shout. ‘We’re heading for Bangor, but we’ve decided to stop at Deniol on the way . . .’ The line buzzed and Frank’s tiny voice seemed to get even tinier.

‘Terrible line . . . might catch up with you . . .’ The line crackled again.

‘Catch up where? In Deniol? Do you mean you will catch us up, or the Huxtables?’ Glenys said desperately. ‘This perishing line . . .’

But at this point the operator’s voice cut in. ‘Place six more pennies in the box, caller,’ she said, and her voice too, was distorted. Glenys grabbed her pennies and began to feed them desperately into the slot provided, but just as she finished the line went dead.

Cursing softly beneath her breath, Glenys tried to reach the operator to ask to be reconnected, but it was useless. She thought that whatever the trouble was further up the line it must have affected the telephone, and pressed button B to get her money back, without success. Crossly, she thrust open the door of the box, and as she went across the platform an elderly porter caught her arm. ‘Excuse me, miss, been tryin’ to telephone, have you? That there box should have a sign on sayin’ Out of order.’ He wagged his grey head. ‘Button B isn’t workin’, either, but if you come along to the office we’ll refund your money, because it’s our fault, see?’

‘I’d be most grateful,’ Glenys began. ‘I lost a shilling in pennies and I need it urgently to contact my friend. Is there another box in the village that’s in working order? If the train stops here long enough . . .’