29

A pale, red-haired student your age with a worried expression props open the door with an elbow while talking to a pair of harried-looking middle-aged women. One of the women is carrying a baby; a small boy is tugging at the other woman's trousers, begging her to pick him up. From their conversation, the women are the student's parents.

"I'm fine," says the uniformed student. "Honestly. I just need to find somewhere to sit—and, look, here's somewhere! Goodbye. I'll write, I promise."

Their tone is rather frantic. Both women give them a hug, and the little boy starts to wail. The student gives a despairing sigh.

"Go on, Mother, Mama, I'll be fine," they say.

After a final family hug, the group pushes past you to disembark. The student runs a hand over their severely parted auburn hair and sighs.

"This is right, isn't it?" they say to you. "We're not meant to be assigned compartments? I'm new this year. Don't want to make a mistake."

Their accent is markedly different to yours, and their shirt collar—unlike yours which is so stiff that it cuts into your neck—is wrinkled and ever-so-slightly gray. Second-hand, you suspect, or else washed without proper precautions.

The student carries on talking without waiting for an answer. "I'm Freddie. Freddie Crawford. Well, really that's my middle name, Robin's my first name, but everyone calls me Freddie."

I greet them with a warm smile.

I give them a hearty handshake.

My smile is polite but cool.

I nod brusquely.

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