‘Of course. But… when I was at school, they called us by our surnames. Maybe there were lots of Percys and I just never knew. My friend was James, but… Crikey. We called him “Seyton”. James Seyton, and we were very fond of each other. We were good friends, but… we lost touch.’

Michael closed his eyes, and suddenly felt so weary he thought he might lapse into coma.

‘As you do,’ he said.

If he fell asleep now, the man would have to climb over him when he got off at Settle. Wherever Michael was going would flash by and he would end up on some awful, unknown terminus and have to come all the way back down the same old line, looking at himself in the darkness.

The man and woman said nothing, but he could feel their anxiety and it made him sad. He had caused them anxiety and embarrassment, and there was no way to put things right: to speak again would make it worse. On the other hand, sitting in a silence that seemed heavy with tension was unbearable. He felt bad, and he knew they did too: they were feeling the same emotions as he was feeling, but they could not find a way of sharing them, or releasing them and that was the saddest thing – how they couldn’t shake hands now. They couldn’t hold each other and weep. He could not turn to this man with white hair and hug him – unless a miracle occurred. No: they would get to Settle, or wherever they had to change, and perhaps they would laugh with relief as they stepped down onto the platform.

‘Poor man,’ they would say. ‘Lonely.’

They would nod, and she would say, ‘Drunk.’

‘Really?’

‘Didn’t you notice?’

‘Notice what?’

‘Didn’t you smell it? He was drinking neat whisky.’

‘He wasn’t!’

‘He was, darling. It was in his juice carton.’

‘Crikey.’