On the concourse, he stands beside his trolley-cart. He wears a cabbage hat. Poppies are lined up in order, lower denominations in plastic, middle range fabric, the costly poppies in enamel. They make a grid of red in crisp plastic bags. I ask him about the six medals on his coat. It’s seen better days. “My uncle’s,” he smiles. “They were the Rats. Tobruk. I have my father’s too. The Pacific Star.” Others mill around, cheery and subdued, as always in early November. Short of cash I purchase a cheapie. He grins and rubs his four-day growth. It’s all pepper-and-salt.