‘It’s a market town – and they’ve got a big lodge there now for the visitors to the waterfall. They’ll all be using this branch.’

‘Good point.’ We turned around and began the walk back in the direction of the station. Next to us, the rails hummed faintly, and my father checked his watch.

‘That’ll be the train to Mombasa,’ he said. ‘Be here in fifteen minutes.’ He clapped his hands suddenly, his face breaking into a smile. ‘Doesn’t it get your blood going?’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘We could enlarge it by at least half. Or we could build a whole new station here.’ He stopped short. ‘Maybe we could build a special waiting room for guests at the lodge, they’ll all know each other by then.’

I tried not to grin. ‘That’s taking it a bit far.’

‘Have you never noticed how friendly people are on trains?’ He tapped me on the chest. ‘The sharing of the journey is all, Theo. That’s what you young people in your automobiles are missing out on – the chance to make new acquaintances, possibly friends for life. You’re all so sealed off in your little ones and twos and threes.’

‘It does cut the journey in half though,’ I murmured.

He waved his hand to me. ‘It’s not about the destination. Imagine if everyone thought like that.’

We reached the station and climbed the steps to the platform, passing through the building to the dusty main road out front. A signpost pointed north to Nakuru, and south to Nairobi. The only shade came from the shadow of the duka, with its iron roof. Flies buzzed lazily in the heat around a rotting mango, drowned out intermittently by the sound of a Singer treadle set up in front of the shop.

‘Did you tell Maud we’d be here?’ my father asked.

‘I haven’t seen her for a while.’

‘Must be a coincidence.’

I looked around and saw her coming out of the duka carrying two stacks of neatly folded brown cloth tied up with string. She caught sight of us and waved. I went to her and kissed her cheek. Her smile seemed uncertain, unless it was my imagination.

‘Hello you,’ she said.

‘Hello yourself. What are you doing here?’

‘I buy all the kanzus here. Mr Chaudry’s the best dhersie in Kenya.’

The old man at the sewing machine smiled toothily at us.

‘I see.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Scouting for station-improving opportunities.’

We both looked at my father, who was scribbling furiously in a notebook, his hat tilted to one side.

‘I’m strangely not dreading work each morning,’ I said. ‘What do you think that means?’

‘Whatever it is, it can’t be good.’

‘Oh well.’ I took the stacks of robes from her and she linked her arm through mine. We started walking towards her car.