“ ’Ullo, ’ullo!” he said. “Who give you a tanner and borrowed ’alf-a-crahn? What’s up?”

“I’m all right.”

“Are you? Your looks don’t flatter you, then.”

“I’m a bit tired and—” Her voice broke and she thought in terror that she was going to cry. “It’s nothing,” she said.

“ ’Ere!” He dragged a box out from under the sink and not ungently pushed her down on it. “Where’s this remarkable tin of very pertikler meat? Give us a shine at it.”

He shoved her suitcase over and while she fumbled at the lock busied himself with pouring out tea. “Nothin’ to touch a drop of the old char when you’re browned off,” he said. He put the reeking cup of dark fluid beside her and turned away.

“With any luck,” Martyn thought, folding back the garments in her case, “I won’t have to sell these now.”

She found the tin and gave it to him. “Coo!” he said. “Looks lovely, don’t it? Tongue and veal and a pitcher of sheep to show there’s no deception. Very tempting.”

“Can you open it?”

“Can I open it? Oh, dear.”

She drank her scalding tea and watched him open the tin and turn its contents out on a more dubious plate. Using his clasp knife he perched chunks of meat on a slab of bread and held it out to her. “You’re in luck,” he said. “Eat it slow.”

She urged him to join her but he said he would set his share aside for later. They could both, he suggested, take another cut at it to-morrow. He examined the tin with interest while Martyn consumed her portion. She had never before given such intense concentration to a physical act. She would never have believed that eating could bring so fierce a satisfaction.

“Comes from Australia, don’t it?” her companion said, still contemplating the tin.

“New Zealand.”

“Same thing.”

Martyn said: “Not really. There’s quite a big sea in between.”

“Do you come from there?”