‘Aye, well, it can’t be said that a coal wagon is the most deluxe of travelling compartments … but it is the most discreet.’ Ben bobs up to standing. His white collarless shirt is grubby and covered with smuts, while his trousers are as black as the coal he has spent the night shovelling into the train’s furnace.

‘And for that I’m grateful,’ Jack says, taking the hand offered him. He winces again as he is hauled to his feet. He tightens his grip. ‘For that I will always be grateful.’

Ben’s boyish grin fades. He nods, grave now. Jack releases him and, keen to alleviate their solemnity, he runs his palm over his stubbled jaw.

‘Do I look like shite?’

Ben snorts. ‘Jesus, man, you always look like shite.’

Jack smiles in spite of himself. As he lowers his hand, he catches sight of his swollen knuckles, red raw and ingrained now with the coal dust that coats the wagon’s floorboards and floats in the air around them, sparkling like black diamonds in the slanting beams of sunlight. He spots something else. His stomach clenches at the sight of a rusty blemish.

With trembling hands, he unties his neckerchief and pulls it free. He spits on its edge, then works at the coppery speckles until his skin is clean though bruised. When he finally stops, he realises Ben is studying him. Heat floods his cheeks as he stuffs the neckerchief into his trouser pocket.

‘What are you going to do, Jack?’

The quiet question unsettles him. He draws his hand over his mouth and turns towards the slumped heap of coal that occupies the end of the wagon.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well this is the end of the line, I’m afraid. We’ve just pulled onto a siding to let an express pass, but we’ll be heading back up north as soon as it clears. You’d best get off here, while you can.’

‘Right.’ Gathering himself, he leans down to pick up his jacket, folded into a paltry pillow. Ben crosses to the wagon’s broad door. It shunts stiffly on its runners as he opens it just enough for Jack to slip through.

‘Where are we? Do you know?’ Jack asks, shrugging on his coat before reaching for the small knapsack hastily packed the night before.

‘Berkshire somewhere.’ Ben peers out into the brightening light of the new day. ‘As far away from home as I could get you.’ He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans on the doorframe.

‘Berkshire. A bit different to Tyneside then.’