‘All we can do is hope and pray,’ he said. ‘If Angus is alive, we know we’ll hear eventually. Of course we will.’

‘Suppose he’s lost his memory or something like that?’ Ruth said wildly. ‘I keep picturing the most dreadful things.’ She put her hands over her face. Peter guided her to a seat.

I was prepared for the worst. Though I couldn’t help a rush of hope at the infrequent communications from the Red Cross, I forced the feelings away each time their searches yielded nothing. Angus was dead. I could sense it. A terrible knowledge like a light going out somewhere across the world that I couldn’t see, yet sensed it growing darker. I didn’t voice this to the Harveys, but I could at least share other feelings about Angus with them. We remembered him together.

Confiding feelings was something I had given up trying to do with my parents. Even when I made the mildest attempts to open up to my mother, everything, down to the sharp, defensive angles of her elbows conveyed to me that she did not want to listen. Could not endure it.

One weekend during that summer, just before I started my first post as Health Visitor, I was working out in the garden. It was a humid morning. My hands were clammy. And it was sunny, poignant in the illusion of tranquillity. The hearts of the lettuces were washed in dew, and we had good crops of spinach, carrots, beetroot and onions. At one end my mother had set up bean-sticks and the plants snaked up them, mingled at one end with the bright tendrils of flowering sweet peas, her favourites. I stood looking at them, at the pinks, mauves and whites, which had always represented summer and friendship and a kind of innocence. I had not cried much over Angus. The feelings crouched inside, hurting me. I bent over and began to weed for victory between the carrots and onions.

My mother came out with a basket of handwashing for the line. We were silent together among the buzzing insects. Then I realized she was standing at the edge of the vegetable patch next to me. She must have sensed I was close to tears.

She cleared her throat, awkwardly. ‘It’s been a great help having you back at home.’

I straightened up and looked at her. In the bright sunlight her sharp-featured face looked weary and lined. Her hair was still long and pinned up carelessly behind so that bits of it were always coming loose. Seeing the pain in my eyes, her face crumpled suddenly and she burst into tears.

‘Mummy – what’s the matter?’ I stepped across the onions to stand on the grass beside her. I didn’t know what to do with my hands and wished it could have felt natural to embrace her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know how to be of comfort to you.’ She couldn’t meet my eyes. She looked down at the ground. ‘I know how unhappy you are – and Ruth. I just . . .’ She paused with a helpless shrug. ‘In some ways it would be better if you and Angus had never got so . . . closely involved. Then you could just get on with your life.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking like this. Not now.’ Pulling a hanky from her sleeve she blew her nose on it resolutely. ‘Oh, this dreadful war!’ She picked up the wicker basket and quickly crossed the lawn to the house.