‘It’s a big county, isn’t it?’ Marta said, fidgeting in her seat. ‘I always forget we’re not there just because we’ve crossed the Tamar.’

She was right. The train’s progress grew more laboured as it neared the end of the line, stopping at a series of towns filled with dark, stone buildings that reminded Josephine of Scotland. ‘It’ll be worth the wait,’ she said. ‘It’s not far now.’

A number of the remaining passengers left the train at St Erth, ready to make the connection to the north coast. Josephine sat forward in her seat, eager for the first glimpse of St Michael’s Mount, and it didn’t disappoint. The island moved in and out of view between the tall reeds lining the track, and somehow the movement of the train served to emphasise the castle’s solidity, standing majestic and forbidding over the crescent-shaped bay. ‘God, it’s stunning,’ Marta said. ‘The photograph doesn’t do it justice.’ 75

‘Isn’t it magnificent? I’ve only seen it once before, but I’ve never forgotten it.’ That had been on an early summer’s day, when the Mount seemed more like a fairytale castle, glistening and insubstantial in the sunlight; today, it had a completely different atmosphere, dark and brooding under a bruised sky, with a handful of buildings clustered round its foot. The tide was out, leaving the causeway clear to cross, but a choppy sea licked at the rocks around the island and white horses flecked the surface as far as they could see. As they watched, a shaft of sunlight broke through the purple underbelly of cloud, changing the character of the day yet again, and Josephine couldn’t help but feel that the scene in front of them would easily upstage any film set that Marlene had stepped onto.

The train came to a halt and a guard announced their destination. Marazion was a tiny station, consisting of nothing more than a modest station house sandwiched between the sea and a stretch of marshland, a small goods yard and a row of stationary railway carriages – apparently used as accommodation – with curtains drawn across their windows. At the far end of the platform, crates piled high with fruit and vegetables were being loaded onto the back of a horse-drawn cart, changing places with several braces of pheasant that were destined for the train. There was a smart black car parked next to the cart, and Josephine noticed that it carried a coat of arms. ‘That must be our transport,’ she said, raising her voice above the starlings that swirled over the reed beds, their cries woven into a long, rambling song.

‘I’m rather relieved it’s not a boat,’ Marta admitted, looking round for a porter. ‘Do you think she’s here yet?’ 76

‘Who?’

‘Marlene, of course.’

‘I’ve no idea, but I hope you’re not going to spend all weekend in a state of high alert. You’re making me nervous.’ It amused Josephine that Marta – who rarely gave a damn what anyone thought – could occasionally fall victim to the same bouts of shyness that dogged her on a daily basis. ‘I doubt she’ll be travelling in a horse and cart, though, so we’re probably safe to go over.’