A squall of rain sent him back to the shelter of the shed wall. The vehicle he had driven down, a light van, had been taken away for loading at once, and before they could leave the dock for the warmth of some bar or café, there was the usual delay over the official clearance forms. Besides the job: his glance flickered nervously over to the door set in a concrete wall, with ‘MEN’ painted in dark crude letters beside it.

It was time. The forms were issued, and folding them into their pockets, the drivers trailed away in ones and twos to the gate. Charles stepped behind some crates to be out of sight during the few minutes he must wait before entering the lavatory. Another of the men concerned had already had the same idea, and he silently produced a cigarette. Charles, laying down his trade-plates on the ground, made a lengthy business of bringing out a match and lighting it for him; should anyone chance to pass and see them, they were just sheltering from the wind to keep the match alive. After a moment the other, his eyes deep-set and dark beneath his cap, looked at his watch and jerked his head in the direction they must go. He set off, and Charles followed. He felt sick; his flannel trousers were dark with rain at the front, where he had faced the drizzle-carrying wind.

They were the last to enter. The lavatory was shadowy and damp, with an incessant dripping from pipes and cisterns that matched the weather outside. Come on, get it over. Bunder seemed unnaturally thin and elongated as he collected the trade-plates in a bundle under his arm and turned to one of the cubicles. Suddenly there was a concerted stirring and stiffening of attitudes. Someone else had come in. Charles, who was standing with his back to the scene, using the urinal, felt immediately and desper­ately certain that something terribly wrong had happened. He shivered violently. There was no sound from behind him. After a long moment he buttoned and turned round. Bunder was there, motionless, with the plates under his arm; the other drivers were gathered into a knot, staring fixedly towards the newcomer. Dogson, rigid as the others, was staring back at them.

He did not look towards Charles. It was impossible to tell whether he was aware of his presence. All that he was aware of, all that any of them were aware of, was that the swift and ultimate crisis had been reached.