In the Wellington station a crowd gathered about the platform, each member a stranger to the other so that they coldly read their papers, frankly and without smiles. The occasional person dared to glance about them at the faces, looking downwards when they caught sight of someone they somewhat knew. One of these was Charles Favell. His stinging eyes weren’t used to the gusty gales of Wellington, though they were its frequent companion compared with the people he saw. How fat they were! What were they eating? His eyes followed a woman waddling along the platform. When she noticed him staring Charles quickly resumed his shoe-reading. It was the man behind her he knew. George Brinsdon. Had he come to live here too? Charles dropped his eyes as George scanned the faces along the seats. It was as he expected: George either didn’t remember him, or he still disliked Charles, who beat him in all the medical exams in their young days. Charles continued watching his movements indirectly, seeing him out of the corner of his eye entering the carriage and sitting down at a window. Charles whipped open his newspaper as if the wind wanted him to, and started reading some politics he knew nothing about nor from which he had the faintest desire to retain anything. The carriage began to move. Charles peered over the page and George’s eyes met his. Charles’ first suspicion was confirmed. George waved at him, eyebrows raised and flatly smiling.

“All buses will be replacing trains from platform 3, all buses replacing trains platform 3”. The crowd seemed to become friends after the woman’s announcement on the overhead.

“Typical” said a woman, her eyes rolling ironically. “Yes isn’t it” said a man. “I tell you yesterday was worst of all.” Charles battled with his newspaper, before joining the exodus to the bus terminal. “Buses again” said the waddling lady.

“Sorry, were you speaking to me?” said Charles.

“Yes.”

“Oh yes sorry, I don’t know much about the train routine, it’s my first time.”

“You don’t say?”

“Just arrived from England” said Charles. She rubbed her arms, looked in her purse, and stared at him abstractly. At the terminal the people were disgruntled, but in an altogether gossipy way, as if the train delay had made them happier. The people were roused and full of expression. A tour bus arrived, though no tourists alighted from it. The faces were fully awakened as they filed into the bus. Charles sat down at the front.

“Ah it’s you again” said the lady, struggling to climb the steps like a toddler recently progressed from crawling.

“Patsy” she said, holding out her hand. He shook it. A giggle escaped him. “You’re a jolly one!”

“Yes why not?” he said, trying to push out of his mind the time he filled a rubber glove plump with water, like the hand he shook. “I’m Charles.”

“And what brings you to New Zealand?”

“I’m a doctor, though I’ll be doing some teaching here at the University”

“Will you be seeing patients?”

“Yes I’m a cardiologist.” Her eyes grew bigger than their pin-holes.

“I must take a card.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your card. So I can make an appointment.”

“Oh –

“Yes it’s in the family, heart problems. I’m due for a check up.”

“I will have to –

“Will you come to my house?”

“Well –

“I don’t get out much, it’s hard you see –

“Here’s my phone number, it shouldn’t be a problem.” Glancing out and seeing his stop, he stood up and squeezed past her. "I'll call you” she said in a desperate strain.
“Okay.”

Charles sighed. Staring up at the steep incline of the street, he sighed again. And as he thought of his job, the irony struck him that he should be so unfit, his pulse tripling the speed of the second hand on his watch.

Charles thought nothing of the fat lady on the bus; though she thought so much of him that if it were divided between the two they would be as if madly in love. Had he a wife? Children? Ah what a well-to-do man was this Doctor Charles.

“I met a wonderful man today on the Bus. He’s from England” said Patsy to her daughter.

“Pass the salt.”

“I met a Doctor from England” she said, as if this country had a significance that ought to be recognised by Maryann.

“I see.”

“Much nicer than the other fellow you’ve been seeing. He’s English too isn’t he? Say, I’ve been having a bit of heartburn lately.”

“We’ve Gavascon in the cupboard. That’s worked for me in the past.”

“No no, perhaps I need… an appointment.”
Maryann finally looked at her mother for the second time that day. A crashing despair swept over her, remembering what her father always told her. Life dropped one of its little hints of mystery as her father burst through the door.

“Ah look at my lovely ladies, so alike. Sorry I’m late dear.” He stooped to kiss her puckered lips, not realising it was because her mouth was full. “Don’t get up, don’t get up” he said, “I’ll serve it myself”. With an air of arrogance, though to him it was duty, he swaggered towards the kitchen. The comment about the doctor was made and Patsy decided to leave it for now. There would be a more tactful time for it to flourish. She looked at the flowers through the window, tapping as if they wanted to be inside. The white roses were in full bloom. Ah such a waste to have them concealed in the dark. She gazed at Maryann, elegantly eating her dinner, and glancing about the room with her inner interior designer at work. There was a waste also.

“Ah!” said her husband from the kitchen. She closed her eyes and held her shaking forehead as confirmation came in the sound of a plate crashing to the floor. “You might have warned it was hot!”

“Ovens are often hot places” said Patsy.