‘But not as big as Russia,’ Vicky said, not wanting him to have bleak thoughts about Britain’s prospects. ‘And Russia has a huge army.’

He nodded, frowning. ‘Do you think boys in Berlin are doing the same thing? Looking at globes and atlases to see which countries are the biggest and which side is likely to win if there is a war?’

‘Probably.’ Vicky found it hard to speak. The thought of Berthold’s friends’ sons poring over maps, whipped up into a hatred of all things English by propaganda, was hideous. Even more hideous was the prospect of Berthold’s friends being maimed and slaughtered by young Englishmen who felt obligated—or were conscripted—to fight. Young Englishmen such as Adam Priestly and his friends.

When Max had gone to bed she stepped out onto the terrace, her head aching. The heat of the day was still coming out of the ground in waves and scent from her father’s roses hung heavily in the air. She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. Berthold had told her that if Germany went to war, neither he nor Josef would be called upon to fight. ‘Our patriotic duty will be seen as being to the steelworks and factories,’ he had said when she had expressed her terrible fears. ‘Please do not worry about me.’

Not to worry, though, was impossible. Looking across the dusk-darkened lawn she closed her eyes, praying fervently that Austria would step back from the brink of war and that sanity would prevail.

It did not do so. Three days later, Austria declared war on Serbia. Four days afterwards, Germany declared that she was at war with Russia and, two days later, that she was at war with France and Belgium also. On 4 August, Britain entered the fray.

‘It’s happened,’ her father said brusquely, dropping a copy of the morning newspaper onto her lap.

The headline ‘BRITAIN AT WAR!’ was spread over the entire front page in huge red capital letters.

Vicky felt as if iced water were pouring through her veins. Despite the August heat she began shivering, goose pimples on her arms.

‘You need a cup of tea,’ her father said gruffly. ‘And I need a brandy.’

As he tugged on the bell-pull to summon the maid, Vicky’s thoughts were in Berlin where she knew the streets would be thronged with exultant, flag-waving crowds. Zelda and Josef would most likely be among them, but Berthold wouldn’t. Berthold, like her, would be heartsick.

For the first few weeks of the war she was too busy to brood. Among other things, Paul had to be found a place in a suitable school and a nursery maid engaged to help her and Josephine care for Max, Hugo and also, in due course, the new baby.

‘Adam Priestley tells me he went to St Dunstan’s in Harrogate when he was a boy,’ her father said, as aware as Vicky that Zelda would not want Paul attending a local elementary school. ‘It has a good preparatory department and the boys don’t have to board full-time. They can board on a Monday to Friday basis and spend the weekends at home.’