Outside the bus, he lit a cigarette. A line of faces blurred by the speed of his pace paraded to his right to enter the vehicle. Old people, children and adults, one after the other. The driver beeped once to announce his departure to the stragglers. An old woman in her nineties was the last to pay the fare. The engine roared. Smoke from her cigarette mingled with the exhaust. The bus began to pull away. Before long, its silhouette merged with the overcast horizon of a hooting autumn morning.

The stench of tobacco permeated his worn old leather trench coat and dark woollen scarf. He adjusted his beret in case it sparkled. In his left trouser pocket he kept a manicured white missive with a coat of arms on the flap. The emblem detailed a golden eagle holding a halberd over a red and black English coat of arms. Inside was a simple typewritten invitation signed by Alexander Ashford, 6th Earl Ashford. The earl congratulated him on joining the household staff as butler, and a date and address was given: October, 23th 1971, Ashford Hall, Northumberland, England. He threw the spent cigarette on the floor.

So much sacrifice to end up as a rich man's servant. His father, a hard-working miner, and his mother, a dedicated school teacher, did everything they could to ensure that the youngest of their four children enjoyed a better life than his humble ancestors. At school he was taken for a clever boy, but not clever enough to aspire to become a lawyer or a doctor. At fourteen he dropped out of school and went to work as an apprentice in an electrician's workshop. At sixteen, he left the workshop to replace his father, disabled by a right arm injury, in the coal mines. He was promoted to foreman and, for ten years, enjoyed a good standard of living until he was laid off due to the declining productivity of the mines. With no alternative plan and no better prospects for the future, he ended up on the streets, living on a meagre allowance provided as compensation for his expulsion. He heard about his three siblings during the funeral of his mother, who died a decade after his father.

Taking advantage of the funeral, he tried offering his labour to the church. He was assigned to help install the building's electrical system in exchange for bed and board. It was during his time at the church that he discovered the advertisement that turned his unfortunate life trajectory upside down. A wealthy local woman was looking for an apprentice butler. Because the pay was good and hunger was pressing, he went to the applicant, Mary-Anne Campbell, Duchess of Glasgow. His service at the Duchess's castle ended when she asked him for a favour: to replace Michael Smith as butler to her English cousins, the Ashfords.

He grabbed the chipped, cloth-lined metal suitcase and set off for Ashford Hall, walking along the shoulder of a tarmac road. After a short distance alongside scattered cottages, he turned onto a well-maintained dirt track bounded by a clump of bare trees and bushes. Beyond the trunks and branches, he made out the brown moorland of the Cheviot Hills. Within half an hour, he glimpsed the marble walls of a neoclassical mansion. He quickened his pace. Breathing hard, he reached the estate walls. The access to the country house included a double-leaf trellis gate and, on the right-hand side, a sentry box. He turned into the gatehouse, where he presented himself to the squat, burly watchman to give him passage. The guard, uniformed in a police-like outfit, checked the invitation letter. He allowed him access after verifying his identity over the phone. After manually undoing the locks, he ventured onto a landscaped esplanade whose design reminded him of the Parisian Champs Elysées.

On his way to the front door, two figures appeared on the landing of the stony staircase. A stocky figure in black, who he assumed to be the butler, and a slimmer one in a turquoise suit. As he approached them, he could make out the fine wrinkles of a wiry old man and the neat good looks of a bearded, blond-haired young man. Once in front of the staircase, the prissy old man subtly nodded for him to ascend. There was no one else there but the two of them. Receptions at Glasgow Castle tended to be more boisterous.

"Welcome to Ashford Hall, Mr. Harman. I'm Michael Smith," he greeted with an emphatic southern accent.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith, it's a pleasure," he replied, softening his Scottish.

The blond man joined them. Smith stood to one side with his hands clasped behind his back and puffing out his chest like a barnyard rooster.

"Welcome, Scott Harman, Mr Harman, to Ashford Hall. Alexander Ashford, Earl Ashford. Address me simply as Ashford, the lord is unnecessary in intimacy." The last was said in Scottish.

"Thank you for trusting me, Ashford," he marked the accent.

"Not at all." He cocked his head. "Go ahead."

With suitcase in tow, he crossed the ancient wooden double door into an imperial double-decker foyer dominated by a marble staircase, itself covered with a lustrous red carpet. On either side, a row of Corinthian columns supported the ornate balustrade above. Overhead, a lantern topped a dome decorated with celestial scenes. Smith cleared his throat, interrupting his rapt attention.

"Mr. Harman, if you'll follow me, please, I'll show you to your bedroom and office."

Ashford distanced himself with a parting gesture.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Harman. I hope your work will prove fruitful and mutually beneficial. I'll see you in my office tomorrow to show you around the house and grounds, and to meet my family. Good evening." Again they shook hands.

"This way." Smith pointed to a side door.