In her day, the step had been lower, just as the trains had been cleaner and quieter. She had spent most of the journey listening to one-sided conversations. The man opposite had made seven phone-calls between Charing Cross and Ashford. By now, she felt she knew him: his sinus trouble, his mother in Crouch End, his planned trip to Marbella, his dislike of nylon shirts. She smiled as he hurried past her on the platform, but he didn’t seem to see her. He was on the phone again. Emerging from the station, she walked down towards the sea. She couldn’t smell it yet, only the reek of frying onions. Perhaps it was foolish to have come on a bank holiday. With her slow, unsteady progress she was a hindrance to other people - young couples walking entwined, practically devouring each other in public; families with push-chairs or toddlers darting all over the place. “Hello,” she imagined saying. “Yes, reasonably well, thank you. Lovely weather, isn’t it?” A little too hot, in truth.
