Martin leaned from the train window, his hand on the heavy brass handle. As the train drew to a halt, he stepped down into the crowd. ‘Fifth row facing the engine, right-hand side, feels safer travelling second class,’ he said, brushing past a man swinging himself onto the train.

‘Oh, the bugger,’ said the man without looking at Martin. ‘I had looked forward to travelling in comfort.’

Martin grinned and started elbowing his way through the crowd to the exit. As he paused to give up his ticket, he looked back: the train was already moving and he could see his successor through the window standing near Clug, heaving his bag up onto the rack. Clug was studying his score.

Martin strolled out of the station to the car park where his car waited. He was very hungry. The quiche at the concert had been uneatable; he had swerved away from the wine. He looked forward to the meal he had ordered earlier in the day at a small country restaurant not yet recommended by Egon Ronay, run by the friend of an acquaintance who would be ready to oblige with a late meal.

On his way to the restaurant he stopped at a callbox, reported in and registered the fact that he had a few days’ leave. ‘I have left my umbrella behind,’ he said.

‘If by that,’ said the voice at the other end, ‘you mean you are hotfooting after a pussycat—’

‘Retrieving my brolly,’ said Martin equably. ‘It belonged to my grandfather; he bought it pre-war at Briggs, the umbrella makers in Piccadilly, London, SW1.’

‘Snob,’ said the voice, envying Martin his ancestral umbrella with its malacca handle and gold band with the grandfather’s name on it. ‘One day it will get nicked,’ he said, ‘I hope. Don’t miss your flight, will you?’

Martin replaced the receiver.

He drove back the way he had come by train then, leaving the main road, found his intended restaurant in a village restored to peace and calm by being by-passed. The restaurant was small and comfortable, several tables still occupied by customers lingering over the debris of their meal. He ate a particularly delicious mussel soup, woodcock with matchstick potatoes, watercress salad, and a plain orange compôte. The house wine was so good he wondered whether he could safely drive on. Discovering that there were bedrooms to let above the dining-room, he reserved one, ordered cheese and disposed contentedly of the bottle. Later when he went up to bed he found that the house, which he had not seen in the dark, had once been a mill and that his room was above the mill-race.