It was Lostock Hall, and some people got off as other people got on – it looked like the same number, in fact – a fair exchange. The authorities had placed planters along the platform, with flowers and shrubs. The paintwork was new, and he was reminded of an elderly man he’d read about who intended to photograph every single station in Britain. His retirement was going to be full of meticulously planned journeys up and down the British Isles – Michael had read about it in some newspaper, and he wondered if the man would see his mission through to the bitter end, or realise halfway that he had embarked upon something so absurd and unnecessary that it brought tears to the eyes. Retired people claimed to be busy, and he suspected that most had become skilful in misleading themselves.

‘That phone never stops!’ they cried. ‘Oh, my God, and now it’s the doorbell!’

Anyone could fill the day photographing stations. You could glue matchsticks into long bridges and towering cathedrals, but all that meant was your life was shrinking. His had shrunk into something so small he could hardly see it himself, and whoever penned his eulogy would be hard pressed to write more than two or three sentences. Not that he wanted a eulogy, and not that he wanted to think about it now.

Would the job fall to poor Monica? Perhaps the brother he never saw would feel obliged to come all the way up from Cornwall, if that’s where he still was? Perhaps he would take Monica for tea, and they would sort the funeral out together.

‘No eulogy. Who’s going to be there?’

‘We should say something.’

‘What?’

‘People liked him. In the council, I’m sure they did.’

‘I thought they kicked him out years ago. What about the DIY store? That was his last pay packet – did he have any friends there?’

‘No.’

The train was rolling backwards again.

He had sold his first house to Monica’s son, who was in his early thirties, and a good businessman – Trevor was his name, and he hadn’t thought about him for such a long time. Trevor had tried to help him, agreeing to buy Michael’s home quickly after he’d got behind on the mortgage payments.

He stared at his knees and remembered how he’d moved back to his mother’s, and looked after her until it became impossible. She’d gone into care and the only flat he could afford was on a troubled estate where the council housed those in desperate need. The fences were broken. There was a barking dog, and litter – the litter seemed to have accumulated over years, and it blew listlessly round and round in circles.