The soldiers who guarded Howard looked at him with naked resentment sometimes; ferocious hope at others.

JUNE 1916

25

SUMMER DRAGGED ITS feet, but eventually the weather softened. Doors and windows could be flung wide open for the entire day. Vivian and Enid’s friendship intensified daily, and now, over a year after they first had tea together Vivian wondered how she’d ever managed without her. Enid’s judgement always seemed so sound; not sour, but not too trusting. She oozed confidence and serenity, and somehow her abundance of both attributes covered Vivian’s paucity. Indeed, fixed it.

Their visits to one another’s houses were now regular and impulsive rather than starchy pre-planned appointments. The pianoforte finally had a use, as Enid played beautifully, in a way that made one glad one could stop and listen. The music seemed to flow through her body. Visiting Enid’s home was one of Vivian’s greatest pleasures. She’d thought she’d known what to expect, but she had been wrong. Enid’s was not a melancholy, solitary cottage, nor was it a twee, poor yet cherished sort of place, one with far too many embroidered tray cloths and wooden stools with woven seats. Everything in her home was hard-wearing, shabby and mismatched but somehow wonderful and enduring. Rather like the woman herself.

Instead of the predictable patchwork quilt, there was a good-quality peacock-blue Paisley shawl draped across the rocker. Her tea tray was set with tiny cups and saucers from Russia; there were three shelves packed full of books, and throughout the house there were any number of receptacles (jam jars, milk bottles, vases) holding cowslips and paintbrushes, all splashed with indigo, emerald and scarlet, having been used and loved. It seemed that her things had been acquired almost accidentally, certainly whimsically, Vivian included, but they were all treasured. Vivian included. It was a colourful muddle, a scene of delight and domesticity. Whenever Vivian visited, the place invariably smelt of hot buttered scones with an undertone of turpentine. She was always made to feel welcome.

That was the utter bliss of it. Enid Henderson liked her. It was the most liberating feeling ever. Her approval gave Vivian chances and confidence even though her endorsement highlighted the fact that throughout Vivian’s life no one in a position of authority had ever truly felt that way about her before. Vivian decided, through a great show of determination and will, not to take this personally. Girls were often overlooked. Her governess had been dour and sour. Her father was forever busy at the office or idle at his club. Her mother was too concerned with world approbation to ever consider looking for happiness domestically. Enid and Vivian laughed and talked together. The older woman valued her, listened to her, answered her questions truthfully, even when it was uncomfortable to do so. Not the done thing. Such a wonderful thing!

Enid had delivered Vivian’s baby. Actually brought her into the world. Unbelievable. Unsurpassable. Dr Nicholson had been twenty miles out of the village when Mabel decided it was time to make an appearance. Mrs Rosebend didn’t hesitate in calling for Enid.