The station café was busy. Harold watched the holidaymakers negotiating the small spaces between the tables and chairs with their suitcases and backpacks, and he asked himself if maybe Queenie had sat in this same spot. He pictured her, alone and pale, in her old-fashioned suit; her neat face staring resolutely forward.

He should never have let her go like that.

“Excuse me,” a gentle voice above him said, “is this seat free?”

He shook himself back to the present. A well-dressed man was standing to his left and pointing to the chair opposite. Harold wiped his eyes, surprised and ashamed to discover that once again he had been crying. He told the man that the seat was indeed free, and urged him to take it.

The man wore a smart suit and deep-blue shirt with small pearl cufflinks. His body was lean and graceful. His thick, silver hair was swept back from his face. Even as he sat he folded his legs so that the crease of his trousers fell in line with his knees. He lifted his hands to his lips, holding them there in an elegant steeple. He looked the sort of man Harold wished he had been; distinguished, as Maureen would say. Maybe he was staring too hard because after the waitress had delivered a pot of Ceylon tea (no milk) and a toasted teacake, the gentleman said with feeling, “Goodbyes are always hard.” He poured tea and added lemon.

Harold explained that he was walking to a woman he had let down in the past. He hoped it was not a goodbye; he very much hoped his friend would live. He didn’t look the man in the eye, but focused instead on the toasted teacake. It was the size of the plate. The butter had melted like golden syrup.

The man sliced one half into slim soldiers and listened as he ate. The café was loud and busy; the windows so steamed they were opaque.

“Queenie was the sort of woman people don’t appreciate. She wasn’t a dolly bird, like the other women at the brewery. She maybe had a little hair on her face. Not a moustache or anything. But the other chaps laughed. They called her names. It caused her pain.” Harold wasn’t even certain he could be heard. He marvelled at the neatness with which the gentleman posted the teacake between his teeth and mopped his fingers after each mouthful.

“Would you like some?” said the gentleman.

“I couldn’t.” Harold raised both hands as if blocking the way.

“I only want half. It seems a shame to waste the other. Please. Share it.”

The silver-haired gentleman took his cut-up pieces and arranged them on a paper napkin. He slid the plate with the intact half towards Harold. “Can I ask you a question?” he said. “You seem a decent sort of man.”