Far away, at the front, they heard the two-tone hooter as they rattled through an empty station without stopping.

‘Are you sure you weren’t asleep?’ He had the most wonderful smile, she realised suddenly. Gentle. Understanding. Inviting confidences. Slowly she shook her head. ‘I suppose I must have been.’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose those awful louts unnerved me so much I was hallucinating or something.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t thanked you for saving me. I was so sure they were going to rob me at the very least.’

He laughed. ‘Bravado, most of it. You showed no fear, so would probably have been OK. They’re often cowards, that sort.’

‘You handled them like an expert!’

He nodded. ‘So I should. I was head of an inner city school for sixteen years. I expect I dimly reminded them of some sort of authority figure.’

Abi laughed. ‘I should have guessed. Are you still a teacher?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve done my bit for British youth. I’m a straight academic now. Writing books on education.’ He glanced at the window. ‘Nearly there.’ He handed her her papers. ‘Will you be all right now?’

She nodded. ‘Thank you again. I’m really grateful.’ He smiled again as he rose to his feet and then he was gone, back to his own seat, where she could see him busy packing his briefcase.

When they disembarked from different doors she saw him striding ahead of her, out of the station and into the darkness.

For the rest of the week Abi was nervous coming home. She watched jumpily as the train began to empty, aware that in her bag at last was the rape alarm she had always promised herself she would buy. And she kept her eyes open for her rescuer, unable to keep the image of his smile out of her head. Their mutual station served dozens of small villages. He could have come from any one of them, but there was no sign of him again. Until Friday.

It was on the last leg of the journey that he knocked on the door of the compartment where she was once more sitting alone, and slid it back with a smile. ‘May I join you for a moment?’ He was formally dressed today in an immaculate grey suit and sober silk tie. ‘I trust you’re none the worse for your adventure on Monday?’ He paused a second then, not giving her the chance to reply, went on, ‘I’ve discovered something about the woman in the compartment and I wondered if you would like to hear about her.’

She looked up and met his eyes. ‘You make her sound rather intriguing.’

‘She is. Or rather was.’ He paused. ‘Something about her disappearance puzzled me, as I think it puzzled you. It nagged at my brain until I began to remember a story I’d heard, and yesterday afternoon I had some time to spare so I went to the newspaper library to check. I found her. Or at least, I think I did. The woman who spoke to you was a ghost.’ His eyes held hers soberly, challenging her to laugh. She didn’t. A cold draught tiptoed lightly across her shoulders.

‘She was called Sarah Middleton. In the 1950s she was travelling on a train on this line when she was attacked. She managed to pull the communication cord but by the time they found her she was dead. When they interviewed the other passengers later someone who had been in the same compartment with her said she had been very agitated. That the man she was with was very aggressive. When the passenger got off, she tried to alight as well, but the man pulled her back. Apparently she was screaming, “I must speak to the driver”.’

Abi closed her eyes. She shivered. ‘Why on earth didn’t he help her?’

‘He thought it was none of his business. He assumed the man was her husband. He even thought she might be drunk. Didn’t want to interfere. And you weren’t dreaming. Apparently, she has been seen several times by different people over the years, travelling this stretch of line.’

‘Poor Sarah. Did they catch him?’

He shook his head.

‘So her spirit can’t rest.’ She shuddered. ‘That’s a terrible story.’

The train was slowing. He glanced at his watch. ‘I photocopied the newspaper stories. I haven’t got them with me – I wasn’t sure if I would see you again – but I could send them to you. Or perhaps I’ll keep them on me in case I do bump into you again. I go up and down this way several times a week to visit the British Library. I live in Seaton.’

‘So do I.’ She hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘You could always drop them in.’

They walked together to the car park and found their cars next to each other. Their houses, they discovered, were in adjacent roads. How they could have failed to meet or even see one another in the post office on Saturday mornings filled the conversation for the next five minutes.

‘After all, you could hardly miss me.’ Grant laughed. That was his name. Grant Stevenson. She glanced, suddenly a little shy, at his six-foot frame and the black face, unusual in this lonely part of East Anglia, and she laughed with him.

Before they parted, she had discovered that he was a widower with three children all in their twenties, that he was forty-five – twelve years older than she – that he had published three books, two on educational theory and one on local history – hence his memory of the story of poor Sarah Middleton – that she was invited to supper the following evening and that, undeniably, she found him astonishingly attractive.

Moving On

In the spring the garden came to life like a friend she had not seen for months. It smiled. It reached out and she reciprocated. It nestled round the cottage like a silken scarf and kept it safe. When Roy turned one Saturday morning from the window and delivered his ultimatum she felt as though her friend had been violated before her eyes.

‘That’s it. I’m not commuting any more. I’ve had enough. We’re selling up and moving to London.’

The trouble was she had always felt guilty about his travelling. Each morning he was out of the house by 7.15 – in the glorious dawn at some times of year; but at others scraping the ice from the car and setting off up slippery ungritted country roads to stand on a platform in the cold north wind at the mercy of the railway system.

And she? What did she do? In spring and summer she drank coffee when he had gone, then slipped out into the balmy air with her forks and trowels and secateurs and breathed the sweet air and felt the warmth of the sun on the back of her hands. In winter, sometimes she sat by the Aga and read or listened to the radio with Sally-Su, all huge Siamese eyes and charm, on her knee. Sometimes she crept guiltily back to bed.