Howard R. Henderson! Of course. It was a big case, all over the papers, attracting attention, but Enid called her son Howie, and Vivian had had no reason to link her friend to the infamous playwright. She’d read all about it. First he’d dashed out to France with a famous newspaperman. Apparently he’d made himself useful, quite the hero; he certainly had a heart. There were countless reports of him doing what he could to help the wounded. Some had said he saved lives; he at least made deaths more comfortable. It seemed he was willing to do his bit, but then he’d slunk home, tail between his legs. He’d started telling everyone that no one could win this war and that they ought to just stop. As if that was possible. Stood on a box in Hyde Park yelling about it. Disgraceful. He was now refusing conscription, which was a crime. Leading at the very least to internment. Some were saying it should be punishable by death.

‘You said he’s in Richmond? You mean . . .’

‘Yes, in prison.’

Enid must be torn: ashamed and fearful at once. Vivian wondered which of them her friend felt most. She pitied her either way. Her eyes dropped to where Mabel sat, propped up by a number of cushions, pulling at the grass, trying to cram it into her mouth. Vivian carefully put her finger in and eased out the earth before she swallowed.

Fearful. Of course. Enid was more afraid than ashamed. Her child, locked up.

She floundered about for something reasonable to say. Something polite but true. ‘That must be very hard for you.’

‘Harder for him, I think,’ Enid replied with an unaccustomed touch of irritation. ‘I blame myself.’

‘Yourself?’

‘Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have had children at all.’

‘What an odd thing to say. Why do you say that?’

‘To lose one to war. The other in prison. Why couldn’t I look after them better?’ Enid closed her eyes, pushed her lips together, a thin line.

Vivian reached out and rested her hand on her friend’s arm. Was it any comfort? Was anything? ‘No one has any choice at the moment.’

‘But that’s just it. Howard thinks he has. What have I taught him?’ Enid clenched her fist and pounded it pointlessly on the grass. ‘I’m not the right sort to make a mother. I’m too challenging of the world. Too disappointed in it. I want so much from it.’

Vivian’s gaze inadvertently drifted back to the open door of Enid’s cottage. It was not what anyone might describe as ostentatious or lavish. It did not look like the home of someone who wanted a lot from the world.

‘I don’t mean in monetary terms. I’ve always found money falls my way when I need it. Just enough, never too much. I mean in terms of equality and decency. I brought him up to question too much, to accept nothing. I demand far more than I should. I never imagined it would land him in this mess. My son makes me feel at once proud and dismayed.’