Perhaps he’d been asleep, woken up by her call, grumpy like a startled baby.

The station was crowded, even though it was a Saturday. Families, mostly, out for the day. Taking the kids to London. Big Ben. St Paul’s. The Tower. All the sights. She made her way towards the large clock, searching for him. He wasn’t there. She craned her neck, wishing she was taller. She couldn’t see him. A small boy darted in front of her, pushing as he passed, catching her off balance. She teetered for a moment, staggered, regained her footing.

‘Brian, come back here.’ A harassed woman ran past her. ‘Sorry, love. Brian. This. Minute.’

She watched as the woman caught the boy, raised her hand and walloped his bottom. The boy pulled a face, pretending it hadn’t hurt, pretending he wasn’t humiliated. Betty smiled at him, it’s okay. Shook her head, but your mum’s right.

Perhaps John hadn’t heard the bit about the clock. He knew it was St Pancras, though. He’d seen her off at the end of an evening so many times. He kissed her these days, properly, pressing himself against her, Betty, Betty. She’d give him fifteen minutes, get some change at the ticket office, ring him again.

Though what if he was on the way? They could easily miss each other.

She positioned herself under the clock, checked her watch against it. She was a few minutes fast, but she did that on purpose. She hated to be late. She’d never understood this English ‘ish’. Come at elevenish. Why? Come at eleven, come at ten past eleven. No ish.

She felt a movement behind her, two hands cover her eyes, the rough tweed of a jacket sleeve brushing her cheek.

‘Guess who?’ She smelled him, his signature.

The hands came down, spun her round. He must have been running. He was breathing heavily and there was perspiration on his forehead.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

She shook her head. John respectable in his schoolmaster’s jacket with the leather patches, a woollen tie. She brushed her finger against his forehead. ‘Aren’t you hot?’

‘Yes,’ he said, slipping off his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder, groping for her hand, claiming her, she is mine. Why had she thought he could have a girlfriend?

‘Come on. What shall we do?’

She braced herself for a moment. Sometimes, she thought, a woman needs to move first.

‘I’ve never been to your rooms,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go there? Have a cup of tea and then decide?’

He stopped, paused. Her doubts hurtled back. He has someone there. Not just another girlfriend. He’s married. He could be. She’d never asked, but the arrangement would suit him. What had he told his wife? Just got to nip out for a bit.