‘Is he going to France?’

‘No. But he’s been packed off.’

‘Where to?’

‘He’s at Richmond.’

It took Vivian a moment. She did try to stay informed; she forced herself to read the papers, even though all the news was the same. Endless battles, endless losses. It made her feel so heavy. It was difficult to stay bright for the baby if she read too much. But Richmond? It rang a bell. It wasn’t a training camp. Those were at Sandhurst, Staffordshire, Tring and such. Those names came to her quickly enough.

Richmond was a camp for conscientious objectors.

The shirkers. The men who wouldn’t do their duty.

Vivian forced her gaze to meet Enid’s watery blue eyes. The older woman waited patiently and allowed the younger one to join the dots, make the correct leap. ‘He’s a conscientious objector?’

‘Yes.’ Enid was firm. She didn’t sound ashamed, or even apologetic.

‘Is he a Quaker?’ If there was a belief, Vivian might be able to understand. It might be forgivable. She wanted there to be a valid excuse for her friend’s son’s cowardice.

‘No.’ Enid chuckled as though the idea was somehow amusing. ‘You know we’re not Quakers. I’m not even sure if he believes in God. You’d have to ask him.’ Vivian would never do any such thing. Why would she ever have cause to talk to a man like that? One who wasn’t prepared to do his duty. Even if he was Enid’s son. ‘He’s a playwright.’

‘Is he really?’ Vivian thought she probably should not be so openly impressed in case she came across as shallow, but everything had been so dull since the war. It was irresistible fun to think of happier times. The theatre in all its glamour seemed an incredible concept now, but she had once liked playwrights, actors and such. Dream-makers. Thinking about it, she had been quite the actress herself throughout her season. She’d presented herself as though she was in a play, or maybe one of those Hollywood films. The beautiful daughter from the respectable family with a declining fortune, drifting about like a fairy-tale princess, making it clear she was waiting for a knight in shining armour; not with any vulgar word of encouragement but by flashing her eyes here, lowering her gaze there, laughing heartily at mediocre jokes, appearing very impressed by run-of-the-mill sporting achievements. Eyes, teeth, chest. Yes, she’d played the role to perfection; well, until the final scene of the final act. Then, after Nathaniel, she supposed she became more like one of the audience. Infinitely detached.

‘Has he written anything I might have heard of?’ she asked.

‘Mrs Cooper’s Boy, All This Time, The Blackest Night.’ Enid raised her voice at the end of the name of each play, asking Vivian to recognise them.

‘Really! It was at a performance of The Blackest Night that I first met Aubrey. I still have the programme somewhere, I think.’ It lay in a dusty toffee tin in the bottom of her wardrobe, in amongst other keepsakes: dance cards, wedding invitations and so on. She rarely looked through them.