Breda, sitting by the window, facing forward, studied the view. The journey had been long and depressing, right from the moment she had walked up the rickety gangway onto the boat which, even in the harbour, moved and groaned alarmingly under her feet. The Irish Sea had been horrendous, but mercifully her sickness had stopped the moment when, with legs trembling from exhaustion, she had thankfully stepped onto dry land. All the same, this moment of looking out of the train window was amongst the worst so far. The turbulent sea could be consigned to memory; what she saw now was what she would have to live with for who knew how long. Streets of mean-looking houses ran down towards the railway line. Factories, warehouses, a church, a school, crowded together, no space anywhere. A forest of house chimneys and, rising high above them, great mill chimneys, all belched smoke against what could be seen of a grey sky. What held the scene together into one coherent whole, silhouetted, was that everything was black.
