‘Thanks!’ Laughing, Laura blew a kiss towards the anonymous humorist. Leaning from the window Clug, taking the kiss to be for him, blew it back.

Walking back to her car Laura was grateful for the note of frivolity which had rescued her in the nick of time from incipient boredom. If I meet Margaret Bannister’s son again I shall treat him in paltry fashion, she resolved. Arm’s length should be the rule for a while, safety lay in being casual.

As the train gathered speed Martin Bengough, laying his newspaper aside, began to fuss, patting his pockets, opening his briefcase, rustling through its contents, then half standing up as though he might inadvertently have sat on the elusive object he was looking for. Not finding it, he sighed gustily and sat discontentedly in his seat to stare out of the window into the dark. Reflected in the glass he saw himself and his fellow occupants of the carriage as they relaxed and settled down for the journey to London.

A pair of adolescent boys had brought a travelling chess set; two girls travelling together wore Walkmen clamped to their heads. While one chewed gum and read a magazine, the other had brought out her knitting and clicked the needles frenetically. A white-haired old woman sat with her eyes shut, both hands holding her bag. By himself, in a corner seat halfway along the compartment, Clug was absorbed in a musical score.

Five or six burly young men of the type seen travelling to or from football matches barged suddenly through the compartment on their way back from the buffet car, bringing a waft of cold air mingling with the smell of stale tobacco; they each carried several cans of beer and sandwiches encased in plastic. As they lurched past Clug his fingers tightened on the score and he winced into himself, hunching his shoulders and drawing in legs which had been stretched out.

The train swung round a curve on the line; one of the young men lurched against Clug. ‘Sorry, squire.’ Clug looked up quickly, then down again, his fingers gripping the score. As the football fans clanged and bumped their way out of the compartment they were followed by the ticket collector, a tall Sikh in a blue turban. He took each ticket and examined it in silence before politely returning it to its owner. Taking Clug’s ticket he said quietly: ‘You are in the wrong compartment, sir, this is a first class ticket.’

‘No matter,’ said Clug. ‘I move if the train crowds too heavy.’ The ticket collector returned the ticket and moved on in the wake of the football fans.

Martin, feeling the train begin to slow, stood up, picked up his briefcase and stood by the sliding doors ready to leave the train at the junction which was the last stop before London. The junction platform was crowded with waiting passengers catching this last connection; some of them carried skis.