I took off my damp hat, sat down and closed my eyes. Even in my state of shock I realized that part of my shakiness was hunger and I was longing for a drink. If I had taken the time to buy one I would have missed the train, and to keep the peace I had told Douglas very specifically what time I would be home.

As the whistle blew outside, there was a flurry of movement beside me. The compartment door slid across and there was a sound of a bag being rather frantically pulled inside. For a moment I resented anyone else’s presence and then, contrarily, was grateful for the diversion. I opened my eyes to see a short man reaching up to stow his case on the luggage rack. He made a to-do of shaking water from his hat and gloves and took off his overcoat.

‘So sorry,’ he said, turning to me. ‘I hope I didn’t give you a shower?’

I shook my head. We looked closely at each other.

‘I do know you, don’t I – from somewhere?’ he said. I shared the feeling of recognition.

He snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it. You’re a friend of Marjorie’s, aren’t you?’

I managed a smile. Of course. ‘Roland Mantel. Yes, I’m Kate – Munro before I was married.’

Roland darted across and shook my hand with enthusiasm, still clutching his gloves in his other hand. ‘I remember you well now. How are you?’

We exchanged pleasantries and I felt myself relaxing through the sheer obligation to behave normally and make conversation. Marjorie had married a wartime sweetheart and was happily settled in Portsmouth. Roland seemed genuinely pleased to see me, and to have found a companion for the journey. I couldn’t help warming to him, once I’d grown used to the quaint elderliness of his manner.

‘Have a sandwich?’ he offered suddenly. ‘You look all in.’

‘I’d absolutely love one.’ I felt an absurd impulse to burst into tears and realized it was caused by hunger.

Roland stood up again. He was wearing a pair of crumpled tweed plus-fours and a jacket. I smiled to myself, watching him.

‘Been anywhere nice?’ he asked.

‘Just visiting a friend.’

‘I’ve just been to stay with my Auntie Sylvia out at Turnham’s Farm,’ Roland said, reaching up to fumble in his bag. ‘She always feeds me up like a turkey cock, the old dear.’ He gave a grunt of exertion. ‘Where are they? Ah, here we are.’ He brought down a package, firmly wrapped in layers of greaseproof and a final covering of what looked like a page from an artist’s sketchpad. He sat down beside me. ‘Now, these are ham, and I believe she said there’s some pheasant in these. I’ve a flask of tea, too, and some plum cake.’ He looked up and saw tears in my eyes. ‘Gracious, are you all right? You’re not against killing fowls and all that, are you?’

I laughed then, at the sight of his good-natured, anxious face, laughed and laughed so that he looked rather alarmed. ‘It’s all right,’ I gasped, trying to control myself. ‘I’m just very hungry. It takes me that way sometimes. I’m expecting a baby, you see.’