I had ridden the underground so seldom in my life that I was always somewhat bewildered by the various passages and escalators leading from one line to the next. Tottenham Court Road was a hub of activity, with people running in all directions. Everybody seemed to be in a frightful hurry. I took the escalator down to the Northern Line, getting buffeted by people trying to push past me on the right. At last I found the right platform and stood at the front, waiting for the train. More and more people streamed onto the platform behind me. At last there came the rumbling of an approaching train. A wind came rushing ahead of it from the tunnel. Just as it appeared I was shoved hard from behind in the middle of my back. I lost my footing and went pitching forward toward the electric rails. It all happened so quickly. I hadn’t even time to scream. Hands reached out and grabbed me and I was yanked back onto the platform again, just as the train thundered past me.

“Phew, that was a close one, miss,” a large laborer said, as he stood me on my feet again. “I thought you was a goner then.” He looked positively green.

“So did I,” I said. “Someone pushed me.”

I looked around. People were already streaming past us onto the train as if we didn’t exist.

“They’re always in so much of a bloomin’ hurry, I’m surprised there aren’t more accidents,” my workman friend said. “There’s too many people in London these days. That’s the trouble. And those what’s got motorcars can’t afford to run them no more, what with the price of petrol.”

“You saved my life. Thank you very much,” I said.

“Don’t mention it, miss. Probably wise not to stand too near the edge next time,” he said. “You’ve only got to have one person stumble or shove behind you and you’re off the edge, under a train.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll be more careful.”

I completed the journey, glad for once that Belinda wasn’t with me. She’d definitely have something to say about my clumsiness getting out of hand. Although this time it hadn’t been my clumsiness. I had been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

My fingers still trembled as I changed into my maid’s uniform in the lady’s lavatory at Charing Cross Station, but by the time I reached Claridge’s, I had calmed down. It was lucky it was raining, as I could conceal my uniform under my mackintosh. As I approached Claridge’s, I saw my grandfather’s familiar form waiting for me.

“Hello, my ducks. How are you holding up, then?”

“All right,” I said. “Apart from nearly being pushed under a train.”