We sat at the window, chatting idly, with the mountains looking over our shoulders as the musical names unfolded beneath us: Sirhind, Ludhiana, Jullunder, Amritsar. At this last, with a lot of jolting, the prince’s car separated from those continuing on to Lahore and points west, leaving us for a while on an empty siding (empty of trains, that is: there appeared to be a small village living on the tracks) before we could join with a north-bound train. Batala, Gurdaspur, Pathankot, up into the mountains again, the people along the snow-speckled rails again showing the rounder features of the mountain folk. Flat roofs gave way to peaked, sandals to boots, bullock carts to loads carried on the back in long kirta baskets. The snow-laden mountains drew near, the trees grew in height, the windows radiated cold.

A luncheon was brought to us, and Mrs Goodheart woke and put on her shoes, Tommy laid aside his tracts, and we ate the uninspired cutlets and two veg, Mrs Goodheart sighing, Tommy distracted, and me thinking wistfully of Bindra’s curries and the large, greasy, chewy puris we had used to scoop them up.

“Miss Russell.” I blinked and looked across at Tommy Goodheart. “That is right, isn’t it? You prefer Miss?”

“Generally, yes.”

Mrs Goodheart raised her head sharply. “I thought you were married?”

“I am, I just—”

“A lot of married women keep their names, Mother,” Sunny explained.

“But—”

Her son ignored her confusion. “Your husband and I spent a lot of time together, but I’m afraid that you and I never had much of a conversation. You’re English?”

“I live in England and my mother was English, but my father was American. From San Francisco.”

Mrs Goodheart said doubtfully, “I don’t know any Russells from San Francisco.”

“His family was from Boston originally,” I admitted, and saw the woman’s eyes go bright.

“The Boston Russells? Well, well. I wonder if I ever met your father? I went to any number of parties there, when I was young.”

“I doubt it,” I said firmly. “His parents moved out to California when he was very small. So yes, I regard myself as English. Proudly so, particularly at the present.”

As I hoped, Goodheart took the bait of distraction. “Are you referring to the Labour Party’s victory?”

“Yes. Extraordinary, isn’t it? I’ve heard it called a bloodless revolution.”

He was launched: For the first time, he betrayed a degree of animation, and the rest of the meal was dominated by his questions about the English working classes (about whom I knew little, other than farm labourers and London cabbies) and whether or not I had met MacDonald or a dozen other men, most of whom, indeed, I had never heard of. Then one name caught my ear.