Mr Walker was very pleased to see him; indeed he seemed embarrassingly grateful that his son’s death had made Aubrey’s notice. Aubrey always mixed up the two Walker boys. He had, however, crossed paths with one or the other of them briefly last May. He’d found the lad drunk and morbid in a tavern and had instructed his pals to get him back to base and do a better job of keeping him out of trouble.

‘I had opportunity to form the highest opinion of him. I cannot adequately express my sympathy with you or my personal sorrow for his loss. Fine soldier. As is your other boy.’

Mr Walker coughed and turned to blow his nose. ‘I’ll tell the wife you said that, sir. Thank you.’ Nod. ‘Thank you.’ Aubrey decided that he must make time in the next seventy-two hours to visit the homes of all the families who had lost a man. Mr Walker’s list of ailments seemed to have grown since he last enquired; listening to them made Aubrey feel ill himself. His head ached, he even felt feverish. Still, he listened patiently until at last the shopkeeper checked his fob watch.

‘Good grief, sir, look at the time. You’d better get going. Your little wife will boycott my store if I keep you any longer. She must be counting every moment.’

Aubrey was surprised at how brittle and small she was.

Not the baby. Dear, sweet thing, gurgling, plump, robust enough, although not really his concern. Might have been different if it were a boy. He hoped for a boy next. The tubby creature with her unfamiliar scents, ribbons, tiny fingers and such, whilst undoubtedly pleasant, didn’t touch him as he thought she might. She seemed so eternally unfamiliar. Not in any way a problem, but not part of him. He couldn’t see himself in her, although Vivian insisted she had his nose and chin. She had a baby’s nose and a baby’s chin, as far as he could see. Same as any other baby’s. She didn’t feel particular or individual. They had been told that they were fighting for their wives and children; he’d thought that seeing the baby, holding her, might help him make sense of it a bit more, but his wife and child seemed so utterly removed from the war that being with them made him more confused, not less. Still, on the bright side, the baby seemed to make his wife happier.

It was Vivian’s frailty that surprised him. He was used to being surrounded by burly soldiers. If he held her too tightly she’d snap, surely. When she got out of bed, her nightdress sometimes rose up above her knees; they were almost like elbows, so skinny. Her legs slipped over the side of the bed like spilt milk. It upset him somehow; he couldn’t explain it, but he preferred to turn the lamps off when he was enjoying her. He didn’t like to think of her smallness or her youth, particularly. It was odd to think she was only twenty-one. He was just twenty-five. Still young, if you thought about it. Yet he felt so much older. Ancient.