Giving birth had been hell. The pain, the blood, the fear for and of the baby. It was all so awful. Almost intolerable to bear, and she couldn’t have borne it if Enid hadn’t been there.

‘Breathe. Slowly. Slowly. Good girl. Well done. Not long now.’

The tangy iron smell of her own blood lingered everywhere in the room. On her nightdress, on the mattress. She became morbid and afraid. It made her wonder about the war. Could pain be compared? Were the soldiers in any more pain? Scientifically she doubted it was possible. There had to be a limit. She’d yelled and screamed at the horror of it all, but when her daughter arrived, the pain was forgotten.

Darling baby Mabel.

Literally her everything.

The men didn’t have life at the end of their pain. Only death. There had been two Christmases now and the soldiers hadn’t returned home. No one muttered the hope that they’d get back by the third. It seemed ridiculous and naïve to do so. It was going on and on. They all stood back and quietly watched as the leaves on the trees began to seep from one colour to the next; the green leached out and they turned the brown of toffee, marking the passage of time. Time slipping. Time marching.

It was not fashionable to be quite so besotted with one’s own child, but how was it possible to be anything else? Not that being a mother was easy. It wasn’t; it was fraught with worry and responsibility. Babies were a hideous encumbrance to one’s liberty; and the terror one felt when they shrieked and turned red, or worse still, blue. On very bad days, the terror morphed into fury. Why wouldn’t she just settle? What was wrong with her? What was wrong with Vivian? Then the crying stopped: such jubilance, such a feeling of triumph and purpose. This little being loved Vivian so much, and she loved the little being. It was glorious when you thought about it, how much they needed each other.

It was the day after Mabel’s birth that Enid received the form from the War Office to say that Michael had died of his wounds. It had taken him four days of suffering. It was hard for Vivian to believe or imagine; it was intolerable for Enid. Four days. They hadn’t even known he was injured. Why had no one sent word? Enid could have gone to him. Sat with him. Had anyone sat with him? Instead Enid had knitted a matinee jacket in lemon, the click-clack of her needles only stopping when she stood up to make ginger tea for Vivian, who had moaned about being fat and uncomfortable, constantly wished the days away, longing for the baby to arrive. Vivian felt such guilt.

Enid carried on. She washed the baby, taught Vivian how to latch her on properly and then stayed by her side. For hours, for days, for weeks. Vivian thought Mabel saved them both at that time. Her chubby clasping hands, her small, irresistible mewing sounds, her needs – feeds, nappies, sleep – gave them both something to focus on. Enid settled quietly on a chair in Vivian’s bedroom, holding Mabel close to her heart. Sometimes her tears splashed down on to the baby’s cheeks. Vivian was glad that Enid turned to her then, in that time of vile and black misery. She wished her confidence in their friendship could have been asserted in any other way. She confided as much.