He stepped off the train at Paddington, wheeled his bike along the platform. The train had been crowded and he’d retreated into the guards’ van with his luggage, sitting on the floor for hours. Now the noise and bluster of the city bombarded him. He took a moment to get his bearings, to take in the traffic, the double-decker buses and the taxis, the people scurrying like uncovered woodlice. He had been used to solitude, the gentle sounds of sheep and the wind rustling through the birch and larch trees round the cottage.

His flat smelled stale, airless, his mail was piled on the hall table. He’d thought it best not to get it redirected in case, somehow, Anatoly discovered where he was. He opened the windows, let in the noises and the fumes, looked around him, at his books ordered alphabetically, his saucepans tucked inside each other, the clock on the shelf that had stopped at twenty past five. Perhaps he should move. Get somewhere bigger, with fresh air and a garden. In the country. He heaved his rucksack into the bedroom, pulled out his dirty clothes. He’d have to go to the launderette at the weekend, perhaps pay a visit to the Partisan, see what was happening in the world.

§

The first week of term was always a gentle re-entry into the year. He cycled home the first day. Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Old habits, he thought. He wanted to see her, to explain, beg forgiveness. Start again. The gardens were busy with visitors in the last of the summer warmth. He passed her offices, stopped a small distance away, bike propped on the kerb. He leaned against the railings, clips on his trousers, tie tucked in his shirt front, jacket folded in the basket. He pulled out his cigarettes from the pocket and lit one. He could see the office door and a steady stream of workers coming out. Women first, from the typing pool, he guessed, and the tea ladies. He craned his neck. There was no sign of her. He waited, watching. One by one the men in suits and bowlers emerged. He checked his watch. Six o’clock. The café was shutting and people were drifting from the gardens, heading for the Tube or Southampton Row. He’d missed her. Perhaps she’d left work early, or was off sick. Perhaps she’d quit her job, worked somewhere else now. If he hadn’t spotted her by the end of the week, he’d write to the company and ask after her.

§

The Sunday afternoon meeting was packed. John squeezed through the door. Standing room only. The room was hot and smoky. He could see the speaker through the haze but he mumbled into his notes, was hard to make out.