‘Every week they cancel trains,’ said the man. ‘I take this train on this day, at this time, every single week. Most times, I don’t get a seat.’

He laughed to himself, and Michael looked at him wondering for the hundredth time about the significance of beards, and why God wanted people to grow them. If it was a badge of virility, that seemed primitive. If it was homage to the prophet, or simply a gesture that said, ‘I believe in this particular nonsense…’ surely both were good, sound impulses that connected you to an almost infinite number of people with similar needs?

It was the beard of a patriarch: a triumphant beard, grey as a squirrel.

‘They take my money,’ said the man. ‘I say, “Please give me a seat. Can I not expect a seat?” “Sorry,” they say. “We have had to cancel a train, or… some other service is running late, or slow – there is overcrowding today. So sorry.”’

He shook his head.

‘“We do not guarantee you a seat,”’ he said. ‘That’s what they said to me once. “We cannot guarantee seats.” “Can you guarantee air?” I said. “Can you guarantee we will not suffocate?”’

He laughed.

‘You know, this train should not be stopping.’

‘Stopping where?’ said Michael.

‘Anywhere. This was the non-stop service, but they turn it into the stopping service. You cannot make timely progress, because of me.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure—’

‘This is the stopping service now. We will stop everywhere.’

‘Right.’

A silence fell.

‘Are you going far then?’ said Michael.

‘No,’ said the man. ‘Only to the next station. Where are you going?’

‘All the way. North.’

‘North where?’

‘Newcastle.’

The man laughed.

‘That’s a long way.’

‘A couple of hours, I think.’

‘And what will you do in Newcastle? You have family there?’

‘No. I’m just… doing a bit of business. Then home again. South.’

‘Very long way,’ repeated the man, laughing again. ‘I go to my father’s house, just fifteen minutes. Back again, to and fro – I’m a taxi driver.’

‘Really?’

‘Twelve years. Before that, a foundry. That is what my father did also.’

‘Where are you from, originally?’

‘Pakistan.’

Michael nodded.

‘That’s somewhere I would love to go.’

‘Then go you must. What is to stop you?’

‘Oh…’

‘Go tomorrow.’

Michael laughed and the man laughed.

‘There’s nothing, in some ways,’ said Michael. ‘But – I don’t know. Fear of getting lost, perhaps, and… not knowing the language.’

‘You don’t speak the language?’

‘No—’

‘Why is that a problem? You will find, everywhere you go, everyone speaks English. And wants to speak English. You will be very popular! People will queue up to practise their English with a real English gentleman.’

‘Do you go back?’ said Michael.

‘Of course. Every two years.’

‘Good.’

‘The most beautiful country in the world. Apart from this one.’

He turned suddenly, and smiled.