The winter rain had driven everyone off the streets and half London was down here in the Underground trying to get home in the dry. My train was packed and we stood crushed together swaying from the straps as the thing moaned through the curves. Flashes came now and then against the black windows as the contacts hit some dirt on the rail, making it look as if lightning had struck We stood with the patience of cattle, our clothes steaming from the deluge that had drenched us up there in the streets.

The man had got on at Knightsbridge. I was standing next to him now.

We stood reading the advertisement panels and watching the light bulbs dim and flicker intermittently. A couple of girls along at the end were getting some furtive attention, one of them still managing to look sexy under a colourless plastic mac and with hair like seaweed; but we were mostly men on this train: the typists had gone home punctually an hour ago, leaving the department and managerial staffs to goad their ulcers into overtime.

In the window I watched the reflection of the man standing next to me. I had forgotten his name but I knew who he was. It was two years since I’d seen him and at that time I hadn’t thought I would ever see him again.

“Is this Piccadilly?”

I looked down at the plump woman. “No. Hyde Park.”

“I’ve got to get off at Piccadilly,” she said, looking worried about it.

“I’ll let you know.”

“You can’t see what the names are, can you, with the windows so dirty?”

“Not really.”

The train rocked again and the man swayed against me; I eased away from him slightly, not wanting him to bump me too hard, in case he felt he should apologize. I didn’t want to look at him, for any reason whatever. He was jammed into the corner between the glass partition and the doors, so that I was the only person close to him. I could feel the draught slicing through the gap in the doors where the rubber had warped; they said it would freeze tonight.