That dull morning as I wandered around Govia it started to rain, so I went to the cafe I'd been in the day before down the maze of back streets behind St Vi's; the cafe with the red-check table cloths, the dusty chocolate boxes and champagne bottles and the man with teeth like a horse. As I sat there, spooning the froth from my cappuccino, thinking about lim and Dominic and everything, it reminded me of the day in a cafe back home I met Andy, another old friend from school.

For a long time, me, Andy and Dominic were inseparable, like Siamese triplets. Although we were in different classes, we would meet up every lunch and break time to chat and lark about together. In fact, we were together so often that, at one stage when we all had longish hair, everyone used to call us the three musketeers. But as soon as we left school - well, we hardly ever saw each other again.

It seems a shame somehow. I mean, I know it was just chance that we happened to be together. And maybe all we ever really shared were the same age and school catchment area. But, whatever, I certainly don't have friends as close as that anymore (except for girlfriends and that's different).

Actually, I do still keep in touch with Dominic, now that he's finished his degree and living back home. But Andy, well, I haven't seen him since that day we met in that cafe in town. Even before that I hadn't heard from him for ages. And it was quite a shock when out of the blue he rang me.

I was round at my mum and dad's place drinking lager and watching 'That's Show Business' with Janice (annoying her by calling out all the answers to the questions - or rather, all the wrong answers). I was so busy winding her up, I didn't realise the phone was ringing (it's got one of those stupid low-pitched electronic warbles that you can only hear if you're standing right next to it or happen to be expecting a call, which I wasn't).

"Eddie," shouted my dad.

"What," I shouted, not shifting my gaze from an old clip of the 'Two Ronnies', in which Ronnie Barker plays a posh bloke who pronounces house 'hise' and brown 'brine'.

"Phone," he shouted.

"What?"

"Go on"' said Jan, prodding me in the guts. "There's someone on the phone for you."

"Eddie," shouted dad, rather bad temperedly.

"All right, I'll be there now," I said. Wearily, I got up and dragged myself into the hall, taking my can of Stella with me.

Even though I recognised the voice the moment I picked up the phone, it took me a while to work out that it belonged to Andy (it having been such a long time since I'd last talked with him).

The funny thing was, Andy spoke to me like he'd only seen me the day before or something. I think that's probably what threw me, why I didn't realise it was him at first. But I was dead pleased that he'd got in touch after all that time. 'wow Andy,' I said, 'great to hear from you.' And we had quite a long chat.

Andy was a great laugh at school, the joker in the pack, (as they say), always doing something stupid to amuse everyone. Once we had this physics lesson with a relief teacher because our normal teacher was off sick and Andy pretended to be deaf. This girl (who was obviously fresh out of teacher training college) asked him a question and he pretended he couldn't hear her.

"Are you deaf or something?" she snapped (trying to assert herself the way these new teachers always do). And Andy said:

"Yes, sorry miss, actually I am."

You should have seen the look on her face.

She was really apologetic then, smiling awkwardly and asking him if he was all right sitting where he was or did he want to move forward so he could hear better. Andy kept a dead straight face and just kept on nodding his head even when she'd stopped talking to him. The whole class was in hysterics.

The relief teacher started getting really angry with us then. She was obviously one of those 'save the whale' types and started to give us this really emotive lecture about why you shouldn't laugh at people with handicaps.

Andy just sat there with this bemused smile on his face as if he really were deaf and couldn't really understand what was going on. And, of course, the

more we laughed, the more pitiful he looked, and the angrier this teacher became and the more we all laughed.

Obviously, it wouldn't have been funny at all if Andy had really been deaf, but because he was just making it up and this teacher was so completely taken in by him it seemed hilarious. I was sitting right next to him and I can honestly say I've never laughed so much in my life. I just couldn't help it, I practically fell off my stool. In the end I was sent outside and given a detention for 'refusing to stop laughing in class.' God only knows how Andy kept a straight face. I guess he was a hell of an actor.

We were in detention together on more than one occasion, me and Andy, for mucking around in class and smoking and stuff (I used to tell my mum I was staying late after school for football practice). And for a while we became very close friends (closer than myself and Dominic at that particular time).

I went round to Andy's house for tea a couple of times and he came with me and my sister to the cinema once and stayed at my place for the night. I remember we had chips on the way home and Andy had this pink cinnamon flavour toothpaste and blue striped pyjamas. He slept in a sleeping bag on the floor of my room and we listened to the radio until about three in the morning. Even my dad seemed to quite like him. And my dad never liked anyone.

Andy was dead good at woodwork and, whilst I was laying the table for tea, my dad showed Andy all his tools and chisels and stuff he kept in the spare room. And when they came out they were chatting like old mates about different kinds of wood and stuff, things that I was never interested in at all.

He was like that Andy, he could get on with people. He charmed the hell out of my mum. He was dead polite to her and my dad and they both thought he was wonderful. 'what a nice boy,' my mum kept on saying. You could tell that she was pleased that I had such a nice friend (but then she didn't know that we were in detention together practically every other week).

What got me about Andy was that no matter what he did he always seemed to get away with it. For example, if he were late to a lesson or something, he'd come up with some incredible excuse, some complete load of bollocks, and the teacher would believe him. Once he told our maths teacher, Mr Goodyear, that his mum worked at the Wilderness Wildlife

Park (which is just up the road from where we went to school) and that she'd been trampled by a runaway giraffe and he was late because he'd had to go and visit her in hospital. Actually Andy's mum was a receptionist for this company that manufactured injection moulded plastics, but the next day Mr Goodyear (obviously feeling guilty about having shouted at Andy) gave him a card for his mum and said 'I hope she makes a speedy recovery.' It was amazing. If I'd said my mum had been trodden on by a giraffe, I'd have got one detention for being late and another one for lying. Basically, Andy was just a very convincing bullshitter. And, he was also a hell of a good laugh. So, when he rang me up after all that time and suggested we should get together, I was really pleased. 'yea, great!' I said, and arranged to meet him the next Saturday morning in this cafe in town.

II

The day I met Andy started off a bit like that dreary day in Govia - grey and drizzly, but changeable, the cloud lifting slightly as I sat there sipping sweet coffee, waiting for him to arrive. When Andy eventually swept cooly in through the cafe door, I recognised him at once (even though he was, to my surprise, wearing glasses). Apart from that he hadn't changed a bit. He was as smart and cocky as ever and carried a little leather case, a document case which, combined with the unexpected specs, made him look kind of studious and academic (although that's the last thing he was).

"Hi Eddie," he said. "Glad you could make it," and offered me his hand.

It felt a bit strange shaking hands with Andy. I'd never done it before. And it seemed a bit over the top somehow. But then, I suppose, we hadn't seen each other for a long time and, I guess, we'd both kind of grown up. Andy got out his wallet and asked, "Are you all right for coffee?" - even though he could see I already had a full cup in front of me.

"Yea fine," I said.

He winked. "I'll just get one in for myself then." He put his case down on the table and called out to one of the women behind the counter. "When you've got a minute I'll have one tea, two sugars over here love, and not too milky OK."

Even though the woman was in the middle of serving someone else she looked up and nodded. Personally, I'd never have the gall to interrupt someone like that. I'm more of a waiting-for-my-tum kind of person. I don't like mucking people about, fUming feathers. Mind you, that women in the cafe didn't seem to mind being interrupted by Andy.

She just smiled and called out, "I'll bring it over to you in a moment my love," (even though the place was meant to be self-service).

"So how's life been treatingyou then Eddie?" asked Andy.

"Not bad," I said and asked. "Hey, when did you start wearing glasses?"

"Oh, a while ago," said Andy taking them off and laying them on the table. I picked the glasses up and put them on, just for a laugh. And the funny thing was I could see through them perfectly.

"Wow, That's weird," I said. "I can see great through these. Maybe I've got something wrong with my eyes."

"I shouldn't think so," said Andy. "They're clear lenses."

"Really? You mean like pretend glasses?"

"Sure," said Andy. "I liked the frames. I wear them for work."

"Oh," I said. "What do you do now then?"

"I'm a financial consultant."

"Really? That's quite a good score isn't it? Financial consultant. Bloody hell. So, you work for some big company or something in the accounts department or whatever?"

"Actually, I spend most of my time visiting clients," said Andy.

"Sounds good," I said. "So, you kind of go round all the different companies telling them how to save money and stuff - tax dodges and things like that, yea?"

"Not exactly," said Andy casually.

"Sorry," I said. "I guess I'm being boring as usual going on about work. I bet you want to forget about it once you get out of the office hey?"

"Yea," said Andy.

The woman in the cafe brought him his tea.

"Thanks love," said Andy with a wink and a smile.

The woman smiled back at him. "It's a pleasure," she said in a smarmy kind of way. I don't know. He always did have a way with the ladies.

"I hear you're still painting then," said Andy.

"Yea," I said.

"Not got bored of it yet?"

"Sometimes, I suppose, but it's OK. You're always doing different jobs in different places and the pay's not too bad."

"How much do you make?" said Andy. "If you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh it varies," I said. "I'm self-employed now so I have to pay all my deductions and all that, but I still get a quite a bit of cash-in-hand on the side, so I don't do too badly."

"I guess you have to be a bit careful if you're self-employed," said Andy. "I suppose you need to keep your savings account topped up."

"Not really," I said. The work's pretty regular. I get by."

Andy smiled.

"Sounds good," he said.

"How about you," I said. "I bet you can earn a bob or two doing the financial consultancy."

"Can do," said Andy. "It depends how hard you work at it. Its mostly..." he paused to sip his tea.

"It's mostly what?" I asked.

"Well, you make most of your money on commission," he said and grimaced.

"Is your tea all right?" I asked.

"Oh fine," he said and smiled again.

"Seen much of Dominic recently?" I asked.

Andy shook his head.

"Nor me," I said. "Not since...you know his brother and everything." I choked a bit.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Just a bit of wafer," I said. "Went down the wrong way."

Andy nodded.

"Terrible shame," he murmured, shaking his head soberly. "Terrible shame. He was a nice kid."

"Yes he was abrilliant artist," I said. "Such a fucking waste."

"Absolutely," said Andy. "A terrible waste, terrible." He took another swig of his tea. "Must have been a hell of a shock for them."

"I don't know," I said. "I could see it coming, you know. He was always off in his own little world, but then he went really weird, really weird." I shook my head. "I don't know. I guess I was shocked when his mum told me. But, afterwards, when I was driving home with Denise in the car, I can remember thinking....well you know, I was shocked but I wasn't totally surprised."

We both went quiet for a bit, then Andy asked:

"Are you still seeing Denise?"

"No " I said. "Not at the moment."

"Oh? So's there's someone new on the scene is there then?"

"Well, you know, nothing serious."

"That's what they all say," said Andy, laughing. "Before you know it you'll be settled down with a wife and a couple of nippers."

"Oh, I don't know about that," I said. "I don't reckon I really fancy that just yet."

"Why's that then?" asked Andy, frowning slightly.

I started counting on my fingers.

"Mortgages, boring cars, dirty nappies, noisy kids, constant nagging. Jesus, I've got plenty of time yet for all that, I can tell you."

Andy nodded and smiled.

"Mind you, I guess it's a worry the way house prices are shooting up. Pretty soon blokes your age won't have a chance of getting a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder."

"Oh well," I said. "I'm not really bothered about it right now. I'll see what happens in a few years time."

Andy shook his head and tutted loudly.

"Well, you don't want to wait too long. See that's the mistake most people make. They keep on waiting and waiting and by the time they've settled down it's too late. They spend their whole life being shunted around between different dodgy landlords. Not much of a life for the kids is it that? No, if you want a bit of free advice from me it's a good time to buy now whilst prices are low. It really is. Money down the drain, renting is. That's all it is. Money down the drain."

"I don't know," I said. "You see all these people in the news losing their homes, what with negative equity and unemployment and everything. I reckon I'm better off as I am for the time being. I mean, say me and Denise had got a place together. It could quite easily have happened. God knows, I'd probably have taken out a loan to build up my own business and on top of that I'd have a mortgage and, I bet, right now I'd be up to my ears in debt. Plus I'd have her on my hands and maybe even a kid as well. I mean, I wouldn't fancy that. I reckon I'm better off as I am."

"So, when do you think you'll get a place then?" asked Andy a bit belligerendy.

"Don't know."

"Have you started saving at all?"

"A bit," I said.

"How much?" asked Andy.

"Oh nothing really," I said, slightly taken aback by the sudden force of his questions. "Anyway, lets not go on about all that again." I laughed. "I guess we must be getting old. Everything we talk about seems to have something to do with money."

"Makes the world go round," said Andy smiling. "Fancy another coffee?"

"Sure'," I said. "Good idea."

As Andy got up and went over to the counter, it struck me that something wasn't quite right. I know we hadn't seen each other for ages, but somehow Andy seemed more detached than I'd thought he'd be. I imagined we'd be talking nbout the old days and all the stupid things we used to do together. But, Andy seemed more interested in talking about serious stuff work and money, the future and everything. I thought that it was probably because of Tim. I guessed he was trying to steer clear of talking about Dominic and school and all that, because he knew that I'd known Tim quite well and didn't want to risk upsetting me.

When Andy came back with his tea and my coffee and some more biscuits he seemed more relaxed. However, the moment he'd sat down he put on his glasses and started going on about money again.

"So you've got quite a bit of dosh saved up then have you?"

"Kind of," I said.

"It makes sense," said Andy. "I suppose if you had an accident at work or something you'd be a bit stuck really being self-employed. You probably wouldn't qualify for benefits would you?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," I said unwrapping an individual Jaffa cake.

"Maybe you should," said Andy. "Do you ever work on building sites?"

"Quite a lot," I said.

"There you go then," said Andy. "There's accidents happening all the time on building sites. I saw an article about it in the paper the other day. It said that ninety five per cent of people who work in the construction industry are likely to have an accident at some time that puts them off work for at least a month or much longer even. And of course no work means no money. Now, I bet that's happened to someone you know."

"I guess so," I said. "Oh yea. There was this bloke Terry on one site whose missus used to pick him up in a Mercedes. I couldn't work it out. Everyone else had Escorts and Bedford vans and he had a bloody A Class. Anyway, it turned out that a couple of years ago he fell off some dodgy scaffolding and did his back in. So he sued the contractor he was working for and got loads of compensation. He didn't even have to go to court. They just paid up to get shot of him. That's what he bought the car with. I mean he has trouble lifting stuff now, but it's a lovely motor. Actually, I keep on falling off the scaffolding myself, but I still haven't managed to get my Mercedes yet. The trouble is I keep landing on my head and bouncing back up again."

Now that's the kind of thing I would have expected Andy to laugh at. But he just nodded seriously and peered at me over his glasses and said:

"It must be a worry."

"No, not really."

"Really?" said Andy. "Well if you did have an accident and you ended up penniless that wouldn't be much of a bloody joke would it?"

"Oh come on, lighten up," I said. "I was only joking. Anyway, you can't spend your whole life worrying about accidents that probably won't ever happen."

Andy wouldn't let up.

"OK. But what if an accident did happen? Say you were married to your girlfriend, right. What would happen if you were to fall off a ladder and drop a pot of paint on your head? What would happen to her? What if she couldn't afford to pay all the mortgage?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Well I'll tell you then," said Andy. "You'd end up losing her, the house, everything. And would that be fair on your kids?"

"I haven't got any kids."

"But what if you did have. What then? How would you provide for them?"

"I don't know. Anyway, what are you asking me all this shit for? It's got nothing to do with me."

"It's got everything to do with you," said Andy. "You could have an accident any time of your life and if you're not financially secure, you could very easily end up in deep trouble, deep, deep trouble."

"Lighten up Andy," I said. "I can't understand what you're so worried about," I said.

"I'm worried about you," said Andy. "I'm your friend. I wouldn't like to see you getting hurt. You really ought to think about getting some proper financial protection."

Suddenly I twigged what was going on.

"Look, hold on a moment," I said. You know you said you were a financial consultant and everything. Well I'm not trying to be funny. I mean, I don't want to fall out with you over this, but if you're trying to sell me something I'm not interested all right. I don't mind having a chat about something else. But I'm not going sit all day going on about how much I earn and accidents and mortgages and kids and stuff."

"Hey calm down "said Andy "I'm only trying to do you a favour. Come on the pubs'll be open now. Why don't we go and have a beer."

"I don't want a beer," I said.

"I thought you liked a pint?"

"I do," I said. "I just don't feel like one right now. And before you start off again, I don't want to arrange a mortgage, or buy any life insurance or any other shit like that either." Andy wasn't giving in. His cover blown he went for the all out attack.

"Well you must be pretty bloody stupid then. What are you going to do when you stop working? You expect the state to keep you, do you?"

"I don't give a shit," I said.

"You can't rely on there being state pensions around by the time you retire. Not the way this government's going. If you don't save now you're going to have nothing in the future. Have you ever thought of that?"

"Look Andy," I said. "I'm not interested." But he wouldn't let it drop.

"Well just tell me what you're going to do when you retire then. Go on a world cruise? Have you own little dream house in the country with a regular income or end up in some old people's home, if you're lucky?" "I don't care," I said. "I'll sit in a little shed somewhere and paint." "How are you going to do that if you don't have any money?"

"Look Andy. I keep telling you. I don't give a shit, OK?"

Andy reached into his brown leather case and pulled out a slimline solar powered calculator and a glossy brochure. On the front of the brochure was a series of pictures: a cottage covered in climbing roses; a sun tanned couple on the deck of a cruise liner sharing champagne as they watched fireworks explode above the Sydney Opera House; and a balding man in a jumper (rather like the one Andy was wearing) playing golf in the sunshine.

"Look," said Andy, the tone of his voice softening slightly, "I'm just trying to help you out here. Now let's see. You earn a couple of hundred a week right? Say you started off saving just ten pounds a week, which is what - the price of a CD or a round of drinks these days? Now if you increase that by roughly ten pounds a week every ten years and you retire when you're fifty five you'd expect to collect around..."

"Andy," I said. "Why won't you just fucking shut up for a bit and listen to me?" But Andy was like a dog with a slipper. He just wouldn't let go.

"Hold on I'll just work this out," he said, tapping away at his calculator.

"Andy, what's up with you? Are you fucking stupid or something? Can't you see I'm not bloody interested?" The lady behind the counter stopped pouring tea and looked over at us.

"Hey cool down," said Andy, frowning as he looked up still half absorbed in his calculations.

Electric bubble gum burst in my brain.

"No I won't fucking cool it," I shouted. "I thought you were my friend. I thought we were going to meet and have a chat about the old days remember, you and me and Dominic, the three fucking musketeers? But that doesn't mean anything to you now, does it? All you care about is this fucking shit, you stupid bastard." I picked up his brochure and ripped it in two. Christ, I was practically in tears (in fact, thinking about it, I probably was in tears).

Everyone in the cafe had stopped drinking and was looking over at us.

The lady behind the counter said:

"Right you're out of here now. Go on. I won't have language like that in here."

"Don't worry love," I said. "I'm fucking going."

I got up and stormed out flinging a twin pack of custard creams at Andy.

"Here finish the biscuits," I said.

"Come on Eddie," he said looking embarrassed. "Don't be like that." But I'd already gone.

III

I was sat in the upstairs compartment of a purple and green, double-decker train, looking down at platform seven of Padua station, waiting to continue my journey to Venice. I'd been quite startled when the train had pulled into the tiny station at Govia earlier that afternoon. I'd never seen a double-decker train before (not to mention one painted in such brightly informal colours).

I wondered if it were maybe some kind of old train decorated for the carnival (or, perhaps, an Italian railway version of the flower-painted playbus that used to tour the estates near my home each summer holiday full of fish glue, coloured paper and moonlighting teachers).

Everyone who got on the train at Govia, seemed quite normal. But I was suddenly struck by this irrational fear that mid-journey they might all metamorphose into clowns and troubadours (or, worse still, trainee teachers who would force me to make a collage from dried lentils, silver foil and little scraps of fabric).

As I hovered outside the carriage doors, I plucked up courage to ask a bloke who stood inside (wearing a very British-looking bomber jacket) whether the train did actually go to Venice. He nodded his head and (talking at about a hundred words a second) explained (I guess) the route that the train took and the time that it arrived or something like that.

"Grazie," I said, clambering gratefully aboard.

"Niente," he said.

Trusting that there were no low bridges between Govia and Venice, I'd taken a seat on the top deck of the train. I've always enjoyed travelling on the top deck of buses. Partly this is because, when I was younger, my mum (for some reason I've never fully understood) always insisted that we should travel downstairs. She always preferred to sway giddily in the lower gangway with me, Janice and five bags of shopping round her feet, no matter how many empty seats there were up top.

The first time I travelled on a bus alone, I headed upstairs with as much guilt-spiced anticipation as any small boy would experience sneaking through the fire doors of the cinema to watch his first X certificate film (a thrill that video has now somewhat sadly taken away). Even to this day, I still feel a slight surge of excitement (on the rare occasions that I catch a double decker bus) climbing those stairs.

There's something very comfortable and relaxing about being above everyone else looking down (a comfort, I guess, inherited from when the world was covered in forests and we had to sleep up trees to avoid being eaten by bears and wolves).

For the first part of the journey from Govia to Venice I'd almost had the carriage to myself. However, a lot of people joined the train at Padua. Many of them were tourists, including a middle aged English couple who sat down right opposite me. The man was surprisingly tanned for someone English.

He wore pale flannels, a blue T-shirt with a button-up neck (quite similar to the one I was wearing) and a pair of flashy sunglasses. Despite the gloom of the carriage, which was shaded by the station canopy, he left the glasses on.

I could tell he'd just bought them. There was a little sticker still stuck to the edge of one of the lenses.

The woman (who I presumed to be the man's wife) wore an unflatteringly tight, foxglove-purple T-shirt, white jeans and sandals. As soon as she sat down, she took a pair of half-moon reading glasses from her battered handbag. She perched them on the very tip of her long nose, and began to browse through a two or three-day-old copy of the Daily Express.

I knew the paper was old (in case you're wondering) because I'd seen a man reading the same edition in the departure lounge at Heathrow. The front page headline was about a gang of terrorists being arrested in North London. Beneath it was a picture of lots of guns and explosives taken from the terraced house where they'd lived.

From the way the couple talked, I don't think they realised I was English. They didn't look the type of people who would normally talk loudly on trains (unless they thought you were foreign and, therefore, couldn't understand what they were saying anymore than an empty seat could).

The man was very excited because he'd just caught sight of The Orient Express, which gleamed all polished blue and cream alongside us on the other side of platform five. His wife, however, was completely ignoring what he said and kept on reading out little news items from her paper.

"There she is love. And what a marvellous machine she is," said the man, lighting up a cigar (as if in celebration of that 'marvellousness').

"I see they're expecting a plague of ladybirds this summer," said his wife reading from the paper.

"They don't make them like that anymore," said the man. He peered out of the window with his hand to his brow, as if saluting, to cut out reflections.

"It says here it could be dangerous to wear yellow clothes on the beach this summer."

"Look at those carriages, absolutely marvellous. They could teach British Rail a thing or two. They should bring back the old railway companies, the old steam trains, the Flying Scotsman. Those were the days, days of steam." The husband billowed out clouds of aromatic cigar smoke. "There's craftsmanship for you."

"There's going to be swarms of them it says here. It says you could get bitten by them. I didn't know ladybirds could bite."

"The Orient Express," he murmured. "Bloody marvellous. One of the most comfortable rides of any train. You can hardly tell you're moving, apparently. It's like a five star hotel on rails."

"I've always thought they were sweet little things. Maybe they're a different sort from usual."

"Oh yes she's different all right," said the man.

"Maybe they're a kind that bites. What do you think?" asked the woman.

"Bites?" said the man, turning abruptly away from the window. "What bites?"

"These ladybirds. If you're wearing yellow they bite you."

"What are you on about?"' snapped the man.

"It says it here. Look!" She tapped the paper rapidly with a carefully-filed finger nail, sharp and insistent, like the blade of some tiny pneumatic drill, denting the page.

The man had a quick glance at the story.

"Don't believe everything you read," he said. "It's the silly season. They'll say anything to sell papers."

The woman went back to her reading. The man wiped his sunglasses on his T-shirt. He looked much older with the glasses off. Deep bags hung under his eyes, surrounded by red veins and wrinkled crevices. He put his sunglasses back on and puffed at his cigar.

"Does it say how Leicester got on in the Pilkington?" he asked, scanning the back pages.

"The whatington?"

"The Cup - The Pilkington Cup. Here, give it to me."

The woman obediently handed him the paper. He looked confused.

"This is Thursday's paper," he said.

"It's all they had," she said.

He tossed the paper back to her and continued to gaze out at the Orient Express.

The train finally started to pull off. We sat in silence for the rest of the journey and watched the parched countryside drift past. Empty irrigationditches ran through fields covered in shattered chunks of soil. Skinny boys chased across a grassless football pitch, kicking up clouds of dust. Brown vines clung to sun-faded walls, with papery leaves that crackled in the wind.

Closer to Venice all that dryness was suddenly quenched as the train clattered onto the narrow causeway that crossed the lagoon. The water stretched out on either side of us for what seemed like miles. On its dark, shifting surface, clumps of gingery weed bobbed like a capsized cargo of false beards and toupees. Through the weed, wave-lashed posts emerged, striped red and white as if marking the watery graves of drowned barbers.

Two small motor boats buzzed round an island with a beach littered by washed-up rubbish. The boats hovered for a while, as if waiting for the train to pass, then headed toward the horizon where the pipes of some kind of refinery sank into the sea.