‘Some men don’t want to bring up the past, even when they are asked. It hurts too much.’ Isobel lowered her voice a little. ‘He did have brothers. Two of them.’

Ann knew what was coming. She couldn’t believe how insensitive she had been, or how foolish. What must he think of her? ‘Tell me.’

‘They were both killed on the first day at the Somme. They were never found. He’s always wanted to go to Picardy and pay his respects, but never had the money to make the trip.’

‘Their poor mother.’

Neither of them spoke for more than a minute.

Ann leaned her elbows on the table. ‘Something else we have in common. There’s no proper grave to visit, so you always wonder.’ She rubbed her face. ‘And you always hope, even when it makes no sense.’

‘I know.’

‘Finlay hasn’t gone, you know?’ Ann pointed at the scullery. ‘I still want to believe that he’s going to walk right through that door one day. He’ll say, “Long time, no see, any stories, Annie Bee?” in that sing-song way, just like he used to when he came home on leave.’ She stared at the door between the scullery and the kitchen, willing it to open. ‘It’s been fifteen years and I still miss him so much.’

The kitchen was quiet, apart from the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece, and the occasional coal spark.

It was Isobel who broke the silence. ‘Are you going to do it, then? You could start with Keith and see how it goes.’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I could have a man in the house.’

‘We would get used to it. And he’s here almost every day now anyway.’ Isobel chanced a wink. ‘I can’t imagine why that would be.’

‘Yes, but men are so big, even when they aren’t. Their voices are huge and they take up so much space. They leave the lavatory seat up, and there will be arms and legs and muscles everywhere.’

Isobel didn’t respond. She scattered flour onto the table and rolled the pastry out with the rolling pin. A quarter-turn and a few rolls backwards and forwards and then the same again. She opened the door to the pantry and brought out a jar of crimson fruit. ‘This is the last of the plums. Until September anyway.’

‘The trouble with spiced plums,’ replied Ann, attempting to change the subject, ‘is that they are altogether too good. Every year I think I have bottled enough from Finlay’s tree and every year I am wrong.’