'I wish you didn't keep doing that sort of thing, Reg.'

'What sort of thing?'

'Hurting yourself all the time.'

Hibbert grinned amiably. 'I'm a big boy. Nothing hurts me.'

But he was clearly in pain and winced as his left hand brushed the sink. His wife took charge at once. Leading him into the next room, she made him sit down so that she could examine the injury, doing so with great tenderness. They were in their little red-brick terraced house in Crewe. Cramped, cluttered and featureless, it had two small rooms and a scullery. A bare wooden staircase led up to two bedrooms, one at the front and the other at the back. The privy was at the end of the tiny but well-tended garden.

To a married couple in their late twenties, however, it was a paradise after years of sharing an even smaller house in Stoke-on-Trent with Molly's intrusive parents. The Hibbert household had only one major defect. It bristled with possibilities of incurring minor accidents and he had explored them all.

His wife scrutinised the injured wrist.

'I think you may have broken it, Reg,' she said with concern.

He gave a boastful laugh. 'I don't break that easy.'

'You ought to see a doctor.'

He shook his head. 'I can't afford to, Molly. With a baby on the way, we need to save every penny that we can.'

'Then stay off work for a day or two.'

'And lose my pay? No chance of that.'

'At least ask Mr Fagge to put you on light duties.'

'Douglas Fagge does nobody any favours,' said Hibbert grimly as an image of the head porter came into his mind. 'He's a slave driver. If I showed even the slightest sign of weakness, he'd be down on me like a ton of bricks.'

'Then let me come to the station with you. I'll speak to him.'

'Oh, no! That wouldn't do at all.'

'You need to rest that hand, Reg.'

'I need to do my job properly,' he said, rising to his feet and easing her away. 'Think how it would look. If my wife came and asked for special treatment for me, I'd be a laughing stock.'