He could sit on other stations too, missing trains. He’d been doing it for months, and he could sit on certain buses and miss his stop, because it didn’t matter. If you had a day-pass, it didn’t matter at all – and you could zigzag from A to B to C and come back by some other, circular route. You could head down the High Street, for example, and there was the library again. In you went, to join the old men who’d arrived earlier and were now staring at newspapers. Some researched local history, or studied maps. There was a stamp enthusiast, and the one with the wild, Karl Marx beard: they assembled like a club of silent bachelors, and Michael wasn’t a member just yet. He was only fifty-six and he still laundered his clothes carefully. The library men were older, and smelled of neglect and sweat – deodorant was a luxury they could ill-afford, or a nicety they’d long forgotten, and they sat there waiting for him. One day his washing machine would break down, and he’d lose his flat. Then he’d be one of them.

Michael smiled, then frowned.

His reading glasses were surprisingly dirty, so he cleaned them harder with the little duster that had come with the case. When he put them on again, everything was so much clearer – including Monica, sitting opposite him on the other platform. There she was, or someone who looked just like her, and he was tempted to wave. She was hunting for something in her bag, even as the 09.46 came slowly and quietly into view.

It was the commuter train, and Michael knew he couldn’t take it. The 10.13 was on its way, running just two minutes late: whether it would make those minutes up or experience further delays was impossible to say. He watched the train he’d intended to catch get closer, as the woman he’d spoken to stood up and moved further down the platform in readiness to board.

She hadn’t looked at him.

‘Excuse me,’ she might have said. ‘Excuse me, aren’t you getting this one after all? Sorry, what’s your name? I thought we were travelling together?’

‘I’m Michael. Michael MacMillan.’

‘I’m Henrietta, or Hilary – and as you know, I’m on my way to Cheltenham. Shall we sit together, Michael? We could talk properly.’