She said nothing, because she knew that a remark like that would provoke a very long reply. If she suggested the Church could do more, he would agree because it was his job to agree. But then he would explain all the practical difficulties, and the need to balance different interest groups or abide by legislation. He would explain why the problem had to be managed carefully because it was complicated. Things were always complicated, unfortunately: there were no simple things any more. She found that she was looking him in the eye again, and he looked back at her with that gentle, friendly, confident smile.

He blinked, at last.

She thought, He is probably a wonderful vicar – if that’s what he is. Clergyman. Reverend Paul, helping people and strumming his guitar whilst laughing at himself and trying always to be positive.

He no doubt wanted to be kind, and help people.

‘So who’s it belong to? The guitar.’

‘My brother.’

‘And how old is he?’

‘He’s…’

The silence fell between them again, though there was noise everywhere. Behind her, she heard the internal carriage doors open and the distinct sound of bottles and glasses clinking. The train had picked up speed, and there was a low whistling as it swept along the track, flat fields on either side under an even grey sky. Two women were talking in the seats across from hers, though they were speaking over each other, not listening. Between Paul and herself, though, a silence had opened up that she couldn’t quite fill, because he had asked the question out of the blue and she wasn’t ready for it. A random question, as she idly pondered what the Church might have to say about homelessness, and what this very nice man might do to help people.

‘Why do you ask?’ she said.

‘Oh… nosiness. Train of thought. My own son is learning, so—’

‘How old is he?’

‘My son? Fifteen.’

‘My brother isn’t alive any more,’ said Ayesha. ‘He died, almost three years ago. I’m… returning the guitar to my parents, who want to give it to one of their friends’ daughters. I think it’s a daughter – it might be a cousin. Some relative, anyway. It… I think it needs new strings, probably, but it was a good guitar, so it makes sense.’

‘Right.’

‘He’d left it at my place, you see – and… I’ve just been looking after it ever since. Or not looking after it – it hasn’t been out of its case. It’s just been sitting there, so – now, finally… it’s off to a new home.’

She paused, and allowed the man to say what she knew he’d say.

‘I’m so sorry.’