Some raucous laughter from the seats across the gangway caught her attention and she gave a quick glance across at their neighbours. Two young men had boarded the train at the last stop, dressed in combat trousers and tee-shirts with huge black boots, their hair cropped short. Perhaps squaddies from the local barracks? They were very young, teenagers even, fresh-faced, wide-eyed but, once the thick layer of acne had run its natural course, would both be quite good-looking.

She bent her head to Mrs Leyel once more, whilst straining to decipher their accents. Scottish. That much was easy. East coast probably rather than west as she felt her ears throb to the barrage of strangulated glottal stops. Not dangerous young men. Not hostile. Just loud.

The coffee trolley was approaching down the carriage, inching its way between anxious mothers with restless children, Jaeger dressed ladies going to town to lunch with old school friends, business men – not the dawn rising kind, the older more leisurely breed – students and tourists. And people like her. One offs. In her case, visiting a magazine with some newly commissioned illustrations. The trolley was doing good business – tea, coffee, Cokes, orange drinks, Kit-Kats and flapjacks. It stopped alongside them and James Campbell lowered his paper for a fraction of a second to shake his head curtly at the girl. Caroline too declined but with a smile. The two young men sat forward eagerly. The girl obviously instantly tuned to their speech and had no difficulty in interpreting an order for two cans of lager each, but firmly declined the suggestion that a third, to keep in reserve, might be even better. She pocketed their change, handed over the drinks and then to Caroline’s delight wagged – actually wagged – her finger at the boys. ‘Now, no nonsense, you two. Behave yourselves, you hear me?’ she admonished loudly. ‘And put the empties in the bin!’ How did she do it? How did she escape with her life? She must have brothers, Caroline thought, to give her that ease of communication with them. Or was she just a natural leader of men? Far from being angry, they beamed at her and sat back to enjoy themselves as she trundled on her way.

Caroline realised suddenly that James Campbell had folded his paper in half. He was still reading, but the slightest glance enabled him now to see across it to their neighbours. And her. She frowned, trying to concentrate on the words on the page in front of her, but it was hard. The voices of the young men were growing louder and she discovered suddenly that her ear had grown accustomed to the lilt and staccato of their speech in spite of the impression that they were talking through mouthfuls of marbles. They were discussing a night on the town which they had both enjoyed. And they had, she suddenly realised, only a limited vocabulary when it came to description. The more baby-faced of the two tipped back his head and drained his can. He then stood up and obedient to instructions carefully tucked it into the litter bin behind his seat. He reseated himself and produced the second can with a flourish.

‘Och it was a fucking guid night!’ The expression of contented reminiscence reached her clearly. ‘I like watching fuitball; I like clubbing.’ He beamed across at his companion. ‘But not as much as I like fucking and brawling.’ He paused. ‘But, oh fuck, I like brawling best!’

Caroline bit her lip tightly to keep her face straight. She had seen the expression on the face of the woman in the next row of seats. It was scandalised. Her eyebrows had hit her hairline. Beside her, two more travellers were staring hard at their feet. Caroline glanced up at James Campbell. The Financial Times was trembling slightly. She could see his knuckles white against the pink paper. She frowned. No doubt he would take it upon himself to throw them off the train at the next stop.

The boys’ conversation had changed tack slightly, but not in any adjectival sense. ‘It’s fucking impossible to get back tae Edinburgh,’ – so that is where they came from – ‘and down tae fucking Colchester in that space of fucking time!’ The second can was neatly disposed of in the bin. They were oblivious to the other passengers, intent now on travel plans. ‘It’s fucking scandalous. If you like fucking brawling, you should do something about it! Go and have a fucking brawl with the fucking train arrangers!’

The Financial Times slipped a little and just for a second Caroline caught a glimpse of James Campbell’s face. It was very red. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth held in a tight-lipped grimace. Tears of laughter were streaming down his face. She stared, still trying to hold back her own mirth, and suddenly he looked up and caught her eye. His mouth twitched. He reached for the newspaper supplement which he had discarded on the seat next to him and held it out to her with a shaking hand. ‘You’d better borrow this!’ Already he had disappeared once more behind his own screen.

Caroline opened the paper hastily, aware that one of the boys was staring at her suddenly. But he wasn’t angry. There was no cry of ‘What are you looking at then?’ On the contrary, his huge blue eyes were full of sympathy and understanding. ‘Are you OK, hen?’ he asked gently. ‘Fucking hayfever!’

As the train drew into London Caroline refolded the paper and handed it back to its owner with a smile. ‘Thank you.’

The boys had been first off the train, not a can, not a crisp packet to be seen, the seat where they had been sitting spotless. ‘I don’t think I could have coped with that without your help.’ His face had returned to normal except that his eyes were no longer cold and critical. ‘I hope you’re not going to report them to their f -’ she stuttered. She had almost said it. ‘To their commanding officer!’

He shook his head. ‘I haven’t enjoyed a train journey so much in a long time. Did you see the faces of those women?’

They were making their way out onto the platform now and somehow he was carrying her portfolio as well as his briefcase. He glanced across at her and she realised suddenly that not only were his eyes not cold, they were a startlingly bright blue. ‘You haven’t got time for a coffee, I suppose? To help compose ourselves before we are launched into the metropolis?’

And, gentle reader, do you know, against her better judgement, she agreed!

Barney

Theo Dexter, the house agent, was a young man of about her own age, Kay thought, or a little older. Good-looking in a floppy, self-deprecating, Hugh Grant sort of way. When the key wouldn’t turn he looked at her with an apologetic shrug.