At last the public address system coughed and a tinny voice announced the departure of the delayed Sidcup train from Platform 2. There was a corresponding stampede from the crowd on the concourse as the lucky ones hurried toward the train and a general slumping from those left behind. Jean looked around for Howard, wondering if he had heard the announcement, but there was no sign of him. She was debating whether to pursue him to the ticket office to warn him that his train was in and risk losing him altogether, when she saw him. He was weaving in her direction, against the flow, apologizing as people elbowed past or knocked into his bunch of flowers.

“Your train’s in,” Jean said as he reached her side, looking somewhat buffeted. “You’d better hurry.”

“I can’t leave you here,” he protested. “You might be stranded for hours. Apparently there’s someone on the track between London Bridge and Ladywell. It’s caused a hold-up right down the Hayes line.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Jean. “I’ll wait for the Orpington train and then get a bus.”

Her heart plunged at the thought of this detour, which would double her journey time. She would have to call ahead and warn her mother.

“Come and get the Sidcup train with me and then I’ll drive you home. My car’s at the station,” Howard said.

“Oh no, really.”

“Come on,” he urged. “I can’t abandon you here. Gretchen would never forgive me.”

Gretchen’s imprimatur, even if only assumed, seemed to give the plan an air of inevitability and Jean followed Howard, dodging and stumbling as fast as she could, through the waiting throng to Platform 2, where the guard was already walking the length of the train, slamming doors. Most of the rear carriages were full, with standing passengers crushed right up to the windows. At last a stationmaster took pity on them and held a door open for them, obliging those already inside to shuffle closer together, grumbling.

Howard handed Jean in first and then hopped in after her, the shriek of whistles reaching a crescendo as the train lurched forward in a series of starts as though tugged on elastic. Their eyes slid toward the bunch of roses, now limp and battered beyond redemption, and they began to laugh.

“Oh dear,” said Jean, unable to stifle her giggles. “They don’t look at all well. Were they for a special occasion?”

“No, nothing like that. I just picked them up at Covent Garden this morning on a whim. I’ll have to have another whim tomorrow instead, because these have had it.”

Lucky Gretchen, thought Jean, to have a husband who brought home flowers on a Thursday evening for no reason.

Around them the other passengers were stony-faced; either disgruntled at having to stand, or guilty and irritable at having a seat that could not be properly enjoyed because of those looming over them.

“If only I had a seat myself I’d offer it to you,” Howard said a little too loudly, or perhaps just loudly enough, as a young man sitting in the middle of the row hauled himself to his feet with an air of resignation and nodded to Jean.