‘There might be another opportunity,’ Enid replied with a slow sigh. She’d lived enough to know that tragedy wasn’t dolloped out in fair measures. She had another son.

For all their intimacy, Enid did not often talk about her elder son, Howie. Of course she told stories about both men when they were boys: grubby, noisy, cheeky, forever apple-scrumping, fishing for tadpoles, playing knock-and-run. Stories that were the staples of a mother’s repertoire, especially a grieving mother. Vivian knew that Howie had not volunteered; perhaps that was the reason they did not often talk of him. For nearly two years now it seemed that the only conversations women ever had were about whether a welcome letter had been delivered, a comforting parcel sent, a devastating telegram received. Such conversations did not pertain to Howie. As conscription had been introduced some months ago now, Vivian assumed that he had finally gone to training camp to do his duty alongside all the other men. It wasn’t a matter of choice any more. It was law. Vivian did feel it was harder, in some ways, to be one of these late conscripts. The early volunteers had had no clue as to what they were signing up to; now everyone knew. The casualty lists were printed in the newspapers, the wounded men hopped in the streets. It wasn’t easy, what was being asked of them.

Due to her previous reticence, Vivian was surprised when one fine early June morning, as they were sitting with Mabel on a rug, enjoying the sound of birds singing in the blossoming trees and the first lick of warm air promising sun, Enid murmured, ‘I haven’t told you much about what Howie is up to at the moment, have I?’

‘No.’ Vivian hadn’t even seen a photo. She was familiar with the one of Michael in his uniform. Stiff, proud, fine-looking, doomed. The picture on the mantelpiece of every mother and sweetheart.

‘Howie is such an exceptional boy.’ Asserted with a mother’s pride.

As he hadn’t volunteered, Vivian couldn’t help but imagine a pale, slight, effete boy with the sort of face only a mother could love, but she allowed her friend the courtesy of describing him.

‘He’s very handsome. Beautiful, actually. Bright. Emotional. Thoughtful. Did very well at school. Eventually, when he put his mind to it.’ Enid was not boastful, so Vivian was a little taken aback. ‘Drew far too much attention to himself. Others were jealous, naturally. I think they rather liked reminding him that his father had left, although it was no fault of his. I think they wanted to feel he was less. You know how children are.’ The words caught in her throat. ‘He learnt not to care what other people thought. He made up his own mind about things. Everything. I encouraged his autonomy. I never told him there was any value in being one of the crowd.’

Vivian feared that Enid was about to announce that Howie was to be shipped to the front, or worse that he had been shipped and some woe had already fallen on him. Injury? Death? Why must they live like this? It was a beautiful day, but the mist of grief and despair lingered above them, ready to descend and saturate everything. Always.