The tartan skirt was too short, the leather boots too long. Haron and I ogled happily – and then corrupted the innocent scene, as we are wont to do.

Her uncle had been very clear: whilst she was staying under his roof, she would go out dressed demurely, or not go out at all. She’d presented herself for inspection that morning; he couldn’t not approve of her jeans and jumper.

Only, she’d changed clothes on the train, as a girl would. And would change back on the return journey, hiding in the bathroom. He’d be none the wiser.

And she wasn’t to have known that he would have had that call from an old friend, wondering whether he was free for lunch; that he’d have jumped on the train after hers; that she’d meet him, now, walking the other way along the street.

He’d be with his friend; she’d be in a group with hers. No words would be spoken. But their eyes would meet, and she’d shiver at the thought of the lecture later, and the tawse that would burn her outstretched hands.