Drinking was an answer, if not the answer. The officers were allowed generous privileges when it came to such things. And women. There were French women for them if they chose, which he did from time to time. It was nothing to do with Vivian; she was not in that world. It didn’t matter. Drinking permitted the feeling of separation, disinterest, aloofness and disbelief. They were unavoidable sensations. He found it helpful to pretend it was the drink rather than the war. Sex with whores suited him rather well. He preferred the blowsy, careless women, but the hard, resigned ones did the job too. In more careless moments some of the officers hinted that it was all a bit mechanical, soulless. He thought it was familiar and adequate. It was just a need. If she’d been there he wouldn’t have touched another woman, but she couldn’t be there. He wouldn’t want that. Not in a million years. When this was all over, he’d give it up, this business of paying for women. Probably.

She wrote to say she wanted to send the car to pick him up at Dover, but he’d declined. The train would be quicker, even with a change in London and another in Derby. He could have sent a telegram and made arrangements for someone to pick him up at the local station, save him the walk on the last leg of his journey, but he didn’t trust the train to pull in at the allotted time and he thought he’d want to stretch. Part of his brain insisted that he was putting off the inevitable; he recited Latin declensions in his head to silence the treacherous nagging.

She must be glad to see him. Women were glad to see their men come home; it was a given.

England seemed very strange. Hazy. It was quiet. He hadn’t realised that he’d become so used to noise. Here there was no gunfire or yelling, no shelling or screaming. People whistled when they rode their bikes down the street; birds sang. It was as they had been told. It was a deep, vivid green and pleasant land. The shrubs, lawns and bushes still grew. At least that was not a lie. He liked the feel of his boots slamming down on paved roads and streets, rather than slopping into squelching mud and worse. He’d stood on limbs. Corpses. Bodies. Men. He wasn’t sure how to think about it. When did his men turn to corpses? The moment they died? When they stiffened? When they were forgotten? Best not to think of it.

Instead of thinking, he breathed in the fresh air that did not sting his throat or scratch his eyes. He noticed the women and children and stared at them as though they were from another planet, and well they might be. The kids laughed, squabbled, sang, skipped, chased footballs and each other. They were so delightfully normal. The women looked clean. He popped into the corner shop. He wanted to offer Mr Walker his condolences; he’d lost his eldest at the Somme last month. A bloodbath. Miserable. Unspeakable. Aubrey had been there himself. Couldn’t quite understand how he’d got through it when hundreds of thousands hadn’t. No real progress had been made. Pitiful. Whilst he was in the shop, he bought some tobacco and a newspaper; he surreptitiously sniffed the air around the woman who was stacking shelves. She smelt of lavender water, and even the hint of her sweat was attractive because it was different to male sweat; not as bitter, somehow saltier. He thought of the beach.