They get to the station in time for the night’s last express back to London. On the platform the two men shake hands; Brown watches the nanny pull Sheba onto the train, Parker leading the way. “So it’s working out, then,” Brown says.
“I think so,” Zan answers. “In the back of her four-year-old little brain is always the question whether we’ll be one more family who sends her away. So everything’s a test, of course, to see if she can push us to do it.”
“Oh,” says Brown, “yes, quite. I meant the nanny, what’s her name.”
“Molly.”
“Molly, right. Odd name for an African bird, isn’t it? I assume that’s what she is, African. I meant you worked it out with the child-care.”
“It’s strange,” Zan says, the train starting to move, “because we actually saw her, the afternoon before she came to the room, in a. . peculiar way. . at the pub where. . wait,” he says, stepping onto the train, “what?”
“How’s that?” says Brown, walking alongside, trying to keep pace.
“I worked it out? Didn’t you work it out?”
“Uh,” the other man says, the train speeding up and leaving him behind, “you know I intended to, but. . ”
“But I thought you arranged it,” Zan calls from the train.
“Have a good rest of your stay,” Brown calls back, waving. “Regards to Viv, if you hear from her.”