The woman’s voice was loud and harsh. She spoke an unidentifiable language from which only one thing was for certain: she was not remotely oppressed. Emma listened in wonder and slight envy of this woman’s confidence and unselfconsciousness, how little she cared about the impression she was making on her fellow travellers, what freedom she felt to be herself. The irony was not lost on her. She listened to Mo’s tinny protests. She wondered vaguely where they were from, whether they were refugees or immigrants. She had felt ashamed to be British recently. She pretended to look around the bus, letting what she hoped was a friendly smile rest on her lips, itself an apology to the woman, an attempt to signify that she personally welcomed immigrants and refugees, all people in plight. But the woman took absolutely no notice of Emma at all. Perhaps she despised this country with its shameful binge-drinking city centres, its Magaluf youth, its lack of morals, its greedy landlords; its petty, vain concerns while children still drowned in the Mediterranean Sea.

A wave of sadness washed over her.

Emma turned her face away and looked out into the street again.

It had been a deeply unsettling day. Her head ached and she felt claustrophobic with this woman pressed up against her with her harsh language, the dank smells of wet human beings assaulting her nostrils, the roar of the engine beneath her vibrating seat, the heater blowing stinking used air on to her legs, the soles of her shoes sticking to the filthy floor, the man in the seat in front with dandruff speckled on his rain-splattered shoulders – she was repulsed by humanity, and she wanted to climb out of her own body and escape.

Off the bus, she put her umbrella up and crossed the road, huddled up like everybody else. The rain had stopped by the time she got to her street and she hurriedly folded her umbrella away, feeling faintly foolish for not having noticed sooner. She spotted old Clarence coming down the street towards her. She really hadn’t got the energy for a conversation about recycling or the state of Royal Mail so got out her phone and pretended to chat, sternly admonishing an imaginary errant colleague. A black-and-white cat, taking refuge from the weather under a parked car, seemed unconvinced and stared accusingly at her as she passed by.

Once Clarence had passed her with a nod of his head, she was forced to continue the absurd charade all the way to her front door until she could see that he’d rounded the corner. She looked back at the cat guiltily, putting her phone away and shaking her umbrella, fumbling for her keys, feeling ashamed of herself. She peered through the white slatted blinds; there was a light on in the sitting room.