‘Bravo!’

Afterwards, they turn out the lights, extinguish the candles and sit around the fire to tell each other ghost stories. Elizabeth is aware that Philip is manoeuvring to sit next to her in the shadows. Having got himself into position, he moves his chair closer until his knee brushes hers.

‘You can hold my hand if you get scared,’ he says, his smile glimmering in the firelight.

‘I’m not easily frightened,’ Elizabeth says, but she doesn’t move her chair away. She can feel his knee pressing against hers. Her insides are tangling themselves into a trembling knot and she is preternaturally aware of her own body. It is as if she has never felt the slow slam of her heart before, never been aware of the silkiness of her stockings or the way her satin dress shifts over her skin. The fire has a crisper spit and crackle than she has realised before, while the wind pokes and rattles at the windows behind the blackout curtain.

Luckily the stories are not very scary. When it is David’s turn, Philip keeps interjecting comments to make everyone laugh until Margaret gets cross. ‘You’re spoiling it, Philip!’ she complains. ‘Ghost stories are supposed to be frightening and these are just not!’

Boxing Day is a disappointingly wet, grey day but Philip agrees with alacrity to Elizabeth’s suggestion of a walk that morning. She has been thinking, and there is something she wants to say to him, although she is not entirely sure how she will find the words.

Her parents are resting, Margaret wants to play the piano, and David excuses himself, whether by prior arrangement with Philip or not, Elizabeth is never sure.

‘I’m not much of a walker,’ he says.

‘David’s like a cat,’ Philip scoffs. ‘He can’t bear getting his feet wet.’

Elizabeth looks out of the window. ‘It doesn’t look very nice,’ she says dubiously, dragging on an old coat and some rubber boots. ‘But the dogs could do with a proper walk.’

And the conversation she wants to have will be easier outside.

‘Let’s go,’ says Philip. ‘If I get wet, I get wet.’

Outside, a raw wind snatches at the scarf she has tied over her hair and throws petulant handfuls of icy rain into their faces. They walk with their heads down to avoid the worst of it but Elizabeth is very aware of Philip beside her, matching his long stride to her shorter steps, while the dogs bustle around them, snuffling through the longer grass or circling each other skittishly.

It’s hard to talk at first but they pause at last in the shelter of an oak standing doughtily atop a rise and look back at the castle through the murky light. It looms massive and austere in the distance, the Round Tower skimmed by the lowering clouds.

‘There’s something reassuring about that building,’ Philip comments after a moment. ‘It’s seen so many wars, so many changes, and it’s still there.’

Elizabeth nods, her eyes on the grey walls. ‘Even though it feels now as if this war will never end, one day it will be over and it will be part of history, just something children learn at school. It’s good to remember that.’