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‘That’s one of my husband’s favourite sayings,’ she said, unsure why she’d let that spill.

The waitress arrived to set down their order.

‘Shall I?’ Alex offered.

‘Please do. We’ll pretend we’re drinking from bone china, shall we?’

‘Stop,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You shouldn’t be. I’m teasing because I like the way you blush when you’re unsure and I suspect you’re not unsure often.’

She smiled, dismayed at his easy assessment, and was glad to busy herself for a few moments pouring the tea. ‘Next time you visit we shall go to Betty’s Tea Rooms, which I hear are opening up in York soon.’

‘Next time?’

She ignored the question. ‘There’s a Betty’s in Harrogate but my mother has it on good authority the owner is looking to create a large tea salon in York. It was started by a Swiss pastry chef and —’

‘Alex, are you making small talk with me?’

She nearly let the teapot slip as she placed it back down on its knitted mat. ‘Er . . . I’m simply being polite.’

‘Don’t be. I prefer it when you’re candid. Let’s instead be friends and share a genuine discussion. Why are you unhappy?’

Her mouth slackened with shock. ‘I’m n-not,’ she stammered and was vexed by how she could feel the warmth rising to her cheeks. ‘Do I look unhappy?’ Alex realised he was not toying with her.

‘There’s sorrow. I can see it because I know what grief looks and feels like and also how it can defiantly show itself when someone is desperately covering it.’

She couldn’t help feeling offended by such surgical insight. ‘You don’t know me well enough to ask such a personal question or air your observations,’ she replied, irritated.

‘No, that’s true. I don’t know you well but sometimes talking to a stranger helps.’

Her tea steamed untouched before her. As she imagined this scene in its awkward pause it was almost as though she were staring at a painting of a couple captured in the moment. She seemed to have time to take in all of its nuances – from the way the last of the day’s light glimmered through an opening in the station roof, bleeding onto the concourse of the platform and angling into the rooms where they sat to brighten one side of his face, as if he were two people in that heartbeat. There was lightness and darker shadings to this man, as though he was hiding something. His gaze was unswerving, though, and as she saw it now she had two choices: she could laugh off his enquiry or show him how insulted she felt by it. She made her decision by pulling on her gloves and standing.

‘I’d better go. Good afternoon, Harry. I do hope you’ve enjoyed your time in York and that you have a safe journey home to London.’ She thought about extending a hand but didn’t want him to touch her for fear he could convince her to stay, so she turned slowly on her heel and drew as little attention as possible, feigning a glance at her watch as she departed. She looked over her shoulder to see him hurriedly digging in his pocket for coins.

Please, let there be a tram about to leave, she cast out.

But the gods paid no heed. Harry caught up with her within moments and she could see a queue for the tram collectively stamping its feet and breathing white mist into the dark, fading afternoon.

He caught her arm. ‘Alex.’ She shook him off and they both looked around, conscious of the potential scene. He stepped back. ‘May I speak with you?’

‘I prefer you didn’t.’

He nodded. ‘I spoke entirely out of turn. War might have given me perspective but I suspect it has also blunted my manners, I’m afraid. I find myself far more direct than is considered polite.’

‘You have no right to ask what you did of me,’ she murmured. It sounded uncharacteristically snarly of her.

‘No, I didn’t. But you put me into a dangerous mood.’

‘I?’ she snapped and looked around to check no one was eavesdropping. ‘What on earth does that mean?’

He pulled her gently back towards one of the doorways and she didn’t resist for fear of everyone noticing, even though clearly no one was paying them any heed. ‘I didn’t expect to make a new friend in York. I came on a single mission.’ He explained about Tom reminding him of his brother and as she watched him talk, her outrage melted away and her attitude found its flexibility again. Her voice had lost its brittle quality when she spoke.

‘That’s a very sad story,’ she admitted.

He shook his head. ‘It’s as though I’ve convinced myself that if I could return his belongings directly into the hands of the mother who grieved for him, then I could somehow untangle myself fully from the war and its cunning ability to leave survivors in knots.’

‘Why only the mother?’ she asked, helplessly charmed by his admission. It was a glimpse into the compassionate soul of this man and she liked what she saw.