‘Mrs Henderson, how lovely of you to call.’

‘Do call me Enid. I’m not one for formalities, Vivian.’ She paused for a moment to see how Vivian would react to being called by her Christian name even before she’d given permission to do so. Vivian didn’t know what to do. She supposed she would have offered it. She smiled.

‘Tea?’

‘Love some.’

They sat opposite one another, holding their saucers and smiling. Despite clear willingness on both sides to be friendly, they stumbled around the obvious subjects. They agreed that the sponge was light, delicious, and that it had been a wet winter – dreadful. They also agreed that they mustn’t complain because the brave boys must be having far worse a time of it. The minute Vivian threw out the comment she regretted it. Enid’s face clouded. Vivian remembered.

‘Your boys are out there, aren’t they, Mrs—’ She corrected herself. ‘Enid.’

‘My younger son, Michael, is leaving for France today, actually. All the boys in the village are. Their training is complete.’ Vivian thought that maybe that was why Mrs Henderson had called on her today in particular; perhaps she needed a distraction. She smiled weakly.

‘Oh yes, Mrs Rosebend mentioned it.’

‘Your husband too?’ Was she here because she thought Vivian was the one who might need company and consolation? How lovely. Unnecessary but lovely.

‘No.’ Vivian blushed. She’d just received a letter from Aubrey (via his parents!) saying that he had not been sent abroad with the men from the village. They’d all expected he would lead the Pals regiment. It made sense. He was bitterly disappointed that another officer had been sent instead. He must stay behind. He’d been put in charge of some home defence or training or something. He couldn’t give details. Security risk and all. It was humiliating. Why hadn’t they sent him to France? Vivian knew she ought to be delighted that he was safe in England. She imagined that women up and down the country were desperate to hear that their men had been detained. The fact that she didn’t feel the same depressed her. It was all rather embarrassing.

‘Well, that’s good,’ stated Enid firmly. Vivian couldn’t lie to her by agreeing, but contradicting her was unthinkable. ‘My husband fought in the Boer War.’

‘Did he . . .’ Vivian stuttered, suddenly aware she was being vulgar and leading.

‘Die? Oh no. He left, my dear.’

Vivian gasped. ‘I’m so sorry.’ In an instant she felt ashamed. She should not have made Mrs Henderson confess as much.

‘He left before Michael was a year old. Howie was just four. Quite a shock. To me at least. Everyone else seemed to be expecting it. Told me they’d never liked him. It’s not comforting.’ She smiled, her lips buoyant, her eyes still regretful.

‘No,’ Vivian confirmed. ‘It’s not.’ Although she was stunned and saddened by Mrs Henderson’s confession, she couldn’t drown out the overwhelming sense of relief and deep empathy. It was selfish, but there was something cathartic about meeting another dissatisfied and disappointed woman.