Having secured Aubrey’s permission, she expected that they’d visit Enid’s son immediately, but Enid’s applications were turned down. Twice. Point blank. No discussion. Then suddenly she received a letter informing her that a date had been set for her son’s court martial. The day after tomorrow.

‘What does it mean?’

‘They are letting me say goodbye.’ Enid didn’t look at Vivian; she couldn’t. She looked out on to the corn fields, the bold summer that had emerged from the brown crumpled earth; the letter trembled in her hand.

‘No. We’re not going to let that happen, Enid,’ stated Vivian. When Enid did turn to her young friend, Vivian almost wished she hadn’t. She looked at her pityingly, Vivian’s youth and naïvety misguiding and embarrassing them both.

The journey to Richmond was profoundly uncomfortable. Vivian paid for first-class tickets and they sat in the ladies-only carriage – although this was an ever more redundant form of segregation, there were so few men with loud and vulgar laughs or dirty pipe smoke to disturb their travel – but even so, the journey was unbearable. There was nothing Vivian could say to reassure or comfort. They stared out of the window; towns, sheep, chimneys whipped past. Occasionally, one or the other would find it in themselves to raise a small responsive wave to the groups of children scattered on the bank sides, splitting the light into sharp shafts of bright and shadow as they ran, excited by a train passing, clueless as to where the passengers might be heading.

The prison was as horrifying as Vivian had feared. The guards looked irritable and severe. The prisoners looked dejected or ferocious. They stood around in disconsolate, ashamed huddles. They were grey. The entire place was. The walls, the floors, ceilings, wires and fences. Vivian had thought mud was brown, but it was not here, it was grey.

They were led through a series or corridors, doors locked behind them. Loud clanks holding back freedom. Eventually they opened one on to a room where a man sat hunched over a square table; another wooden chair, empty, faced him. He had the blackest hair, almost blue, and even though he was sitting down, he gave the impression of being tall and elegant; his shoulder blades, elbows, jawbone all jutted with just the correct angle and confidence to suggest grace and athleticism. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. His forearms were muscular; she was close enough to see the wide blue veins running like streams beneath his pale skin. He obviously hadn’t seen enough sunshine of late.

He jumped up to greet Enid, his movements fluid, very much part of the world. Enid lunged towards him, desperate to wrap him in her maternal love. ‘No touching,’ barked the guard.

Enid froze; she looked as though someone had assaulted her. Desperate to do as instructed, not to annoy in any way, she instantly clamped her arms to her sides and threw a brief apologetic look at her son. She’d been promised thirty minutes; she didn’t want to lose one. ‘You’re so thin,’ she whispered. The words scratched in her throat.