She rubbed Betjeman’s cool bronze belly and followed his gaze upwards to where the sun flashed on glass and girders from the bright blue sky beyond. She was an orphan twice over. But she had also known the best love a mother and father could give, unlike the pitiful souls who had passed through the Foundling Hospital commemorated in Brunswick Square. She had no reason for self-pity, but she could murder a latte. Downstairs, clutching a paper cup in one hand and a muffin in the other, she found a seat close to one of the pianos, where an urbane-looking gentleman in his mid-sixties was just settling himself down to play. His hair and small moustache were dove-white and neatly groomed, and he wore a tweed suit, pink shirt and striped bow tie. His fingers were long and slender as he held them poised above the keys before straightening his back and nodding his head to signal the beginning of his performance. He began with ‘Bring Me Sunshine’, then ‘Strangers in the Night’, and by the time he had finished ‘As Time Goes By’, he had attracted quite a crowd. Billie finished her coffee and got up to find a bin, but the first notes of the next song pulled her back. ‘Smile’. She couldn’t help but. Her dad used to sing it to her when she was little and fell off her bike. He sang it to her mum on the rare occasions that they fell out and on rainy days to the passengers on his bus. ‘Smile’ was his cure for all ills and inevitably it had sent him on his way to whatever comes next at his funeral. Billie drew nearer to the piano, weaving her way through the crowd, until she was almost close enough to touch the man at the keys. But she had no need to – he knew she was there. As the final notes evaporated into the chilly air and the crowd drifted away, he turned and handed her a pristine white handkerchief. Although she was still smiling, her cheeks were wet with tears.

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Now

The musician’s name was Henry Hayward and he travelled to the station every Thursday to play the piano. Having been very happily married, he had suddenly found himself alone, and performing at St Pancras had at first been a welcome distraction but was now the highlight of his week.

‘When Jocelyn died, I was completely bereft,’ he told Billie, sipping the tea that she had bought him as recompense for the loan of his handkerchief.