10

There had been some kind of incident at Charing Cross and the station was in confusion. The rush-hour crowds gathered on the concourse, staring at the departure boards, which declined to display any platform numbers, and awaiting an explanation from the PA system, which had fallen mysteriously silent. Queues had formed at the taxi stand outside as people lost patience. Every few minutes a fresh load of travelers disgorged from the subway would join the throng. A rumor was going around that someone had fallen onto the tracks at London Bridge; incoming trains were delayed.

“If someone jumps in front of a train the driver gets a day off,” the woman in front of Jean was saying to her companion in a tone of great self-importance.

“I never knew that,” came the reply.

“They don’t like to put it about,” said the first woman, her words muffling those from the PA sysrtem, which had just crackled into life.

Idiot, Jean thought, clenching her teeth. This sort of complacent pronouncement of utter rubbish made her fume. And now she had missed the announcement. “What’s that?” “What they say?” people were asking each other, appealing to left and right. There was a flutter from the departure board—Platform 4 for the Ramsgate train—and the crowd surged forward, the momentum sucking along even those with no intention of going to Ramsgate.

Jean fell back a few paces to escape the general drift, wondering whether her mother would think to reheat yesterday’s half dish of leftover cauliflower cheese, or wait helpless and hungry for her arrival, when she noticed a familiar figure ahead. He was struggling to light a cigarette while holding his briefcase and a bunch of yellow roses.

“Howard,” she called, threading through the crowds to join him.

“Hello,” he said, attempting to tip his hat with the hand that still held the lighter and very nearly scorching the brim.

He parked the briefcase between his feet and the flowers under one arm before he could rescue the cigarette from between his teeth and bat the smoke from his streaming eyes.

Jean laughed. There was something reassuring, flattering almost, in his clumsiness.

“Here’s a thing,” he said, nodding to the departure board on which the word “delayed” was prominently displayed. “Do you know what it’s about?”

“I haven’t heard anything official. People have been saying someone’s fallen on the tracks, but it’s probably nonsense.”

“They can’t have fallen on all of the tracks,” said Howard reasonably. “Some of the lines must be running. You need the Hayes train, I suppose?”

“Yes. Or I could take one to Orpington and get a bus, but that will make me very late. Mother will be frantic.”

“Wait here, I’ll go and find an employee,” Howard said, heading toward the ticket office, which was already besieged by indignant commuters.

Jean’s feet were beginning to hurt in her heeled shoes. She thought with some envy of Martha Campkin’s red leather slippers and wondered if she would ever be able to carry off such a look. There had been something admirable in her solitary existence in that seedy apartment, laboring to produce some artwork of which she could feel proud. Martha hadn’t said as much, but Jean was convinced that she hadn’t sold or even exhibited a single painting.