It was only after they became engaged that he noticed what a funny creature she was, in fact. He began to realise that she seemed to lack the ability to conform, truly an unfortunate thing. Being part of it all mattered so. She wasn’t openly, blatantly rebellious; it wasn’t that she ever out-and-out refused his suggestions, or her mother’s, or even his mother’s come to that, but she never seemed to fully embrace them either. She seemed to carry with her an almost imperceptible air of resistance. Subtle but certain. She practised on the piano when asked but in a manner that guaranteed she would never improve; she had moved to Blackwell but then rather than joining the ladies in the church hall who organised the village fetes, she had started to garden, in trousers! Poor show: no one liked an odd-bod. She had fallen pregnant quickly and easily enough, which was a grand thing, although she’d produced a girl and insisted on being almost mawkishly devoted, wouldn’t hear of hiring a nanny. It wasn’t the done thing to feed one’s offspring, like a suckling pig or a villager. He sighed. How could devotion be rebellion? He didn’t know but felt it was so. Not that he could put his finger on it exactly. That was his point: he didn’t know her. He wondered whether he ever would.

The Great War had come upon them so quickly. The months that they ought to have spent becoming better acquainted had been sacrificed to the conflict. Months that were turning into years. Truthfully, joining up had initially been a bit of a relief – simplistic, straightforward, simply correct. The whole marriage business, the actual having of a wife, was more complex and burdensome than he had imagined it would be. She had seemed so lively and competent when he’d inspected her across the dance floors. Assured. He’d thought perhaps she could bring some joy and certainty to his home; a home that operated under a shadow of never being entirely accepted or stable. His family were not considered quite established enough. Not quite blue-blooded enough. Not quite quite.

No matter how much money they had.

Because of how much money they had.

But when she’d arrived, she’d turned out to be almost a frail thing. Not all that confident or robust after all. She seemed to depend on him to make her happy. She’d turned to him, eyes flashing with expectancy. His mother had never demanded as much from his father. All his father had been required to do was ensure a healthy income. His mother had had her friends in bonnets and gloves to offer her succour.

He often thought his marriage was unfathomable.

Did it matter anyway? What with the war and everything. Wasn’t there far more for him to fret about? Him over there, her at Blackwell. Nothing between them but letters and food parcels. Letter-writing! That in particular was fraught and tricky. It became quite uncomfortable to see his own penmanship trying to express the things he thought or wanted to explain, there in black ink, so inflexible, unalterable. Everything was open to misinterpretation or was a cause for concern. He decided it was better not to try to tell her anything at all. Better to play it safe, talk about the food and the weather. Better to wrap it all up in one bundle and send it to his parents at the same time. That way, any formality could be understood, forgiven. What was the point of sending stories back from the Front? Death, injuries and mud weren’t the sorts of things women needed to hear about.