‘Where’s Johnny?’ he demanded.

‘Morning nap. Just like you. In fact, he’s becoming more like you every day. Head in the clouds, hair too long, does nothing around the house, loves a fight . . .’

Wilde laughed out loud. ‘Who’s he been fighting? He’s nineteen months old!’

‘Ripped poor teddy’s ear off last night, and his eye is hanging by a thread. Come on – drink your coffee.’

Wilde swung his legs from the bed and rose to his full six feet. Lydia, dressed for warmth in a woollen skirt and an old fisherman’s pullover, put her arms around him, her head against his bare chest, soaking up his warmth.

‘Lydia? Are you crying?’

‘You can’t go, Tom. I can’t bear you to go away. We need you, Johnny and I. Your undergraduates need you.’

‘Oh, Lydia . . .’

‘I know, Tom. You have to go.’ She sniffed. ‘That’s why I can’t keep these bloody tears in. God, I hate crying.’

*

‘You had better explain exactly what you want from me,’ Wilde said at last, when the meal of lamb chops and sautéed potatoes was finished and the plates had been cleared away.

Lydia picked up Johnny, who’d already closed his eyes, to put him to bed.

‘I’ll let you boys get on with your secret talk,’ she said. ‘Don’t want the little woman hearing, do you? I might let slip a secret at the WI.’

‘Now hold on, Miss Morris,’ Eaton said. ‘You know it’s not like that. We need to hear exactly where you stand on all this.’

Wilde was grinning. ‘She’s having you on, Eaton. She doesn’t even belong to the bloody WI.’

Lydia blew them a kiss. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t really want to know what you’re planning. Whatever it is, you have my blessing. Just get my husband home safe.’

‘Husband? Have you two lovebirds finally tied the knot?’

Lydia looked to Wilde for guidance. He shrugged.

‘Not exactly . . . not in the legal sense,’ he said. ‘But it makes it easier to use those terms – husband, wife. English sensibilities, Eaton. You know about those.’

‘So, a common-law marriage?’

‘A magistrates’ court might put it like that, I suppose.’

‘Well, whatever you call it, you both look very happy – and your little boy is adorable.’

Wilde grinned. ‘I rather wanted to call him Horace – but Lydia had a veto on that. To tell the truth, I’m rather glad she did – the boy’s a Johnny through and through. Johnny Wilde . . . has a certain ring to it, I think.’

Cashbone nodded his approval. ‘He’s a swell kid, whatever his name.’

‘Thank you,’ Lydia said. ‘But I repeat, keep Tom alive. His son needs a father.’

So now there were just the three of them. Eaton rose stiffly from the table and went to the window, looking out over the space where Wilde’s house had once stood. Wilde and Lydia had been neighbours before they became lovers. And then his house had burned down. Now it was a vegetable patch.