The train went on its way down to the coalmines and the coast and left us standing on the platform while Nathan and an old porter organised our pile of luggage. There seemed a lot of it for seven people intent on living simply. As well as the knapsacks and cases of books I counted at least three food hampers and a small crate of bottled ale. The porter heaved three cases and a hamper on to his trolley and looked towards the empty station yard. ‘Where to, sir?’ Nathan looked at Alan. Alan looked worried. ‘There isn’t a cart or anything to meet us?’ ‘Where from, sir?’ ‘Studholme Hall. Mr Beston’s place.’ The porter’s face was weather-beaten and as wrinkled as a hippo’s hide. It wasn’t the kind of face that changed expression easily but I had a feeling he didn’t like what he’d heard. ‘No sir.’ ‘Is there anywhere we can get a cab?’ ‘Cab’s away to Carlisle. Thank you sir.’ He accepted a tip and strolled away. Alan called to him to wait, but he didn’t seem to hear.
