‘I know I’m not. Taunts and humiliation, misconception and anger: it’s the price I have to pay for saying what I believe. Moral fervour must have its compensations. A life lived with beliefs must mean more than a life lived belonging to someone else.’ His full, strong voice trailed away. She was left feeling empty. She needed more from him. She needed something to hang on to. She wanted to learn his intonation, his mannerisms and tics. She wanted to learn him. Suddenly he seemed to feel a duty to be chirpy for her. ‘Anyway, what do I care what they call me? A little derision isn’t going to hurt me. I’m a playwright. I’ve endured scathing reviews,’ he joked. Then, more seriously, ‘What people say about me has never been as important as what I do. The posters once read, “Your Country Needs You”; now the pointing finger isn’t welcoming, it’s rather more accusatory. “Is Your Conscience Clear?” Well, mine is, Mrs Owens. I’ve seen war and I can’t be a part of it. I won’t.’

Vivian had just one more card to play. ‘Don’t you care that your mother has to bear it?’

‘I am sorry for that, but she understands I suppose that there’s a balance to be struck, conscience against duty.’ His head stored a separate world, one steeped in art and bohemia, intellectual strength and moral certainty. He was different. He believed in the individual. Particularly in himself. She found it confusing. All that said, he was not made of stone; he had a heart. He shook his head and muttered, ‘Poor Mam. Things have changed from the days when she could brag that I had a show on in the West End. Not that I’ve written anything lately. I’ve given her absolutely nothing to brag about, come to that. Given her nothing but grief.’

‘She’s very proud of you.’

‘I know she is.’ The thought seemed to make him even more distressed.

‘Your mother doesn’t want you to be shot.’

‘No, I don’t imagine she does.’

Deep breath. ‘I wondered whether you’d like to come and work on my farm. I need someone.’

‘I see.’

‘It is essential work.’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t look convinced. No doubt he knew that she could hire more conveniently to do this essential work.

‘She’s lost your brother. Isn’t that enough?’

‘More than. I’m not arguing with that.’ Like his mother, he had warmth, but his heat seemed less benign. It wasn’t that he was threatening or evil in any way; he was simply . . . unsettling. His words and the soft, easy, assured way he delivered them burrowed into her head and colonised there. There was something about him that was insinuating, pervasive.

‘Then say you’ll come.’ She was unsure how she’d fallen into the position of begging him to allow her to save his neck.

He said nothing. The hands on the wall clock slipped round. She imagined Enid anxious outside the door, gambling that this thirty-minute visit might best be used by Vivian talking to her son; trusting Vivian to deliver her more time. But Vivian was failing. She was wasting Enid’s visit; Enid would have been better off being with him, saying goodbye.