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But wasn’t this exciting? A new day and new beginnings in a brand new part of the world? The train from Paris would take us to Amsterdam in a little over three hours, hopscotching over Brussels, Antwerp and Rotterdam. Connie pointed out that we’d be bypassing Bruegels and Mondrians, a notorious altarpiece in Ghent, the picturesque city of Bruges, but the Rijksmuseum lay ahead and I was still entranced by European train travel, the ability to board a train in Paris and get off in Zurich, Cologne or Barcelona.

‘Miraculous, really, isn’t it? Croissant for breakfast, cheese toastie for lunch,’ I said, boarding the 0916 at the Gare du Nord.

‘Goodbye, Paris! Or should that be au revoir?’ I said, as the train pulled out into the sunlight.

‘According to the map on my phone, we are in Belgium … now!’ I said, as we crossed the border.

It’s a terrible habit but a silence in a contained space makes me anxious, and so I tug and tug at the conversation as if struggling to start a lawnmower.

‘My first time in Belgium! Hello, Belgium,’ I said, tugging away, yank, yank, yank.

‘The wifi on this train is useless,’ said Albie, but I smiled and looked out of the window. I had decided to shake off last night’s ennui and enjoy myself by sheer effort of will.

My high spirits were in contrast to the landscape, which was, for the most part, industrialised farmland interspersed with neat little towns, the church spires like push-pins punctuating the map. Last night’s storm had kept me awake and I was still a little queasy from the beer, but the swelling in my eye had eased and soon we’d be in Amsterdam, a city that I’d always thought of as civilised and, unlike Paris, easygoing. Perhaps some of that ‘laid-back’ quality would rub off on us. I reclined my seat. ‘I love this rolling stock,’ I said. ‘Why is continental rolling stock so much more comfortable?’

‘You’re full of fascinating observations,’ said Connie, laying down her novel with a sigh. ‘Why are you so full of beans?’

‘I’m excited, that’s all. Travelling through Belgium with my family. It’s exciting to me.’

‘Well, read your book,’ she said, ‘or we’ll push you off the train.’ They returned to their novels. Connie was reading something called A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter. On the cover, a hunched naked woman bathed at an impractical sink in black and white, while the back cover description claimed the novel was ‘sensual and evocative, a tour-de-force of erotic realism’. ‘Erotic realism’ sounded like a contradiction in terms to me, but it boded well for the hotel in Amsterdam. Albie, meanwhile, was reading L’Etranger by Albert Camus, which in English was the title of Billy Joel’s fifth studio album, though I doubted the two were connected. The book was a gift from Connie, who had presented Albie with a selection of novels in translation by European authors, many of whom had consecutive Ws, Zs and Vs in their names. It was an intimidating reading list, I thought, and Albie clearly felt so too, as he was making heavy work of L’Etranger. Even so, with regard to fiction, he was still a better student than I.

63. aspects of the novel

In the early days of our relationship, on a trip to Greece I think it was, I neglected to take a book on to the plane. It was not a mistake I would make again.

‘What are you going to do for two hours?’

‘I’ve got some journals, work stuff. I’ve got the guidebook.’

‘But you haven’t got a novel to read?’

‘I’ve just never really been that bothered about fiction,’ I said.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve always wondered who those freaks are who don’t read novels. And it’s you! Freak.’ She smiled through all this, but I still sensed an incremental slip, a loosening of my grip on her affections, as if I’d casually confessed to some racial bigotry. Can I really love a man who doesn’t see the point of made-up stories, a man who would rather find out about the real world around him? Since then I’ve learnt never to sit down on any form of public transport without a book of some sort in my hand. If it’s a novel, then chances are it will have been provided by Connie, and will have won some award but won’t be too complicated. The literary equivalent, I suppose, of my father’s ‘a good beat, a good tune’.