‘Would you rather he joined up?’

‘Never.’

‘Is that because you’ve already lost Michael?’

‘Of course, and yet not that alone.’

Enid never shied away from honesty but threw herself into its epicentre, risking pain and bruising, so Vivian knew she could ask: ‘Which of them do you think right?’

‘Both of them. Michael fought for what he believed in; now Howie must too.’ Vivian didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure how that could be. ‘I want him safe. Safe from bullets and safe from the brutality of people not understanding independent thinking. I’d wrap him in my skirts if I could. I don’t care about the name-calling.’ How oddly and magnificently self-sufficient. Enid paused. ‘There’s talk of taking him to France. To be shot.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘It’s hard to believe.’

‘Can you persuade him to fight?’

‘I won’t try.’ This was said with staunch determination. Enid allowed Vivian a moment to think it through, then with less certainty she added sadly, ‘Besides, it would be a waste of time. Howie simply does not care what is going on around him. He’s always been the same. He’s not the puppet of ambition or acceptance, as other men and boys are. If he does not want to fight, he will not fight. No amount of cajoling will change his mind. He always judges for himself what matters, what doesn’t.’

‘But the war matters.’

‘Yes.’

‘But not to him, is that what you are saying?’

‘I think it matters more to him than to some of the men who are out there fighting.’

‘I can’t believe that.’

‘I can’t believe anything other.’ Enid turned. ‘Vivian, will you help?’

‘Help? Help how?’

‘Bring him here to work on the farm. Vouch that you need him as an essential worker. Farm manager can be classified as a reserved occupation.’

Vivian hesitated. It wasn’t an entirely impossible idea. The general consensus was always that women would benefit from the presence of a man; for this reason many a bow-legged, snaggle-toothed, bent-backed man had found employment during the war. She didn’t want to dither, but, ‘Aubrey won’t like it.’

Enid shrugged and looked towards Mabel. She didn’t have to say anything more. Vivian was a mother. Having a child sharpened everything complicated about being human. Mabel made Vivian want to run and skip, sing and dance. Jump, laugh. Take huge gulps of air, actually breathe in sunlight and even brisk winds. With her Vivian felt untied. Free, yet settled. Part of the world in an intrinsic and vital way. Life with her daughter was exciting and easy. Yet she also represented everything that terrified Vivian about humanity. The responsibility she had towards her child made her ache. The world’s shadows cast themselves long and heavy. What if Mabel was to become ill, or someone was to snatch her; what if the Germans invaded and did eat babies as they’d been told, something Vivian had believed to be preposterous until she’d had one of her own, something she couldn’t quite dismiss now because fear lingered. It clung. Whether they ate them or not, children were killed in war. Even if her baby did grow up safely and happily, what if she had sex with a worthless man and then was forced into a loveless marriage with . . . Vivian couldn’t finish the thought. It was too horrible, too much of a betrayal. Aubrey was Mabel’s father. How could she be disrespectful towards him when he’d given her everything that was wonderful? Fear and love were side by side.