. I . . Someone said, ‘Falconhurst!’ and I jerked out of a sweltering half-doze, reached hurriedly for my suitcase and staggered out of the train on to the station platform. I heard someone grumble and the door slam behind me; then the rumble and hiss as the train gathered its strength to leave again. There was a whistle and the smell of steam, and the little train drew away, filling the air with a grimy fog that shimmered in the sunlight and dispersed. I stood blinking and disorientated on the platform, and looked about me. There were the customary embraces and greetings, not to mention a young girl waving her handkerchief until long after the train had gone out of sight; but I was alone, and no one gave me a second glance. It was a hot, quiet afternoon, but a breeze was already beginning to cool the sweat that had trickled down my face and soaked my collar. I was thankful for it; in Cambridge, when I left, the heat had been unbearable, an oppressive, un-English heat that reflected off the pavements and old stone, and in the railway carriage it had been no better.
