2 January, Southern Rail

A man died in the carriage ahead of mine today. Heart failure, almost certainly: Human, perhaps sixty, travelling alone. The conductor asked whether I was a physician. I said yes, which was true enough for the purpose. There was nothing to be done by the time I reached him.

His luggage contained two shirts, one pair of boots, several books, and a wrapped wooden toy shaped like a horse. There was no identification beyond his ticket and a receipt from a shop in Bellcross. The toy bothered me, and I kept imagining a child expecting it, which is sentimental and unhelpful.

I informed the conductor that the railway company should make every effort to locate his family. He said they would. I asked how, and he said they had procedures. I asked what procedures, and he did not know.

I became angry with him, which was unfair. The man had been dead perhaps twenty minutes and I was already assigning blame to railway administration. I apologised, and the conductor looked relieved. I am not certain which of us was more uncomfortable.