‘Where did that bonnet come from?’ It was unusual for a man to notice a baby’s clothes, and she knew that Aubrey had only noticed Mabel’s because they were a bit of a show. Not white, lemon or a soft pink; Enid had knitted her a bright blue bonnet and a matching matinee jacket too. ‘She looks like a boy.’

‘No she doesn’t. She couldn’t.’ Vivian swept the baby into her arms; hugged her close, as though her daughter had understood the slight. She was offended for her rosebud-cheeked girl, glowing and pretty, and she was offended for her industrious friend.

‘One of the ladies from the village knitted it for her. A gift.’ She hadn’t ever found the need to lie to him; they didn’t talk often enough.

‘Ought you to be accepting gifts from the villagers.’ It wasn’t a question. It was a condemnation. He shook his head and returned to cramming down the tobacco into his pipe. He drew on it, sucking noisily. Anything to do with his mouth was beginning to cause her distress. She tried to ignore the sucking sound.

‘The war means everyone is in reduced circumstances now.’ Either financially or emotionally. ‘One must make do. Be grateful.’ She thought he’d have approved, but she had come to realise that her nouveau riche husband clung more staunchly to concepts of respectability than old money did. Old money had the confidence to patriotically embrace war-induced poverty; one didn’t have to be quite so ashamed about it. Even her mother accepted that it was fine for the baby to wear mittens and hats knitted by the local ladies, who were bored of knitting for their boys on the Front. The secret was not that they couldn’t afford to dress the baby as they would in London before the war; the secret was that the women were fed up of the war. Wished it was all over, although they could never say as much to anyone. There were still a lot of secrets; it was just that poverty wasn’t one of them.

The way he looked at her made her feel uneasy. Uncomfortable. Nothing stupendously awful. His glance wasn’t cruel or jealous, bitter or angry. He looked rather more inconvenienced. His expression was the sort one pulled when the eiderdown slipped off the bed at night and one had to crawl out to rescue it, the cold slamming through the body. Snuggling down the second time, peaceful sleep was invariably elusive. That was what his glance was like. He equated her with a lost eiderdown. He sat square and solid in the chair. She seemed slight; her fingers flapped in her lap as though she was knitting with invisible needles and wool.

‘Which lady?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Mrs Henderson. Enid Henderson.’

‘The conchie’s mother.’

‘Yes.’

‘I heard that she comes here quite often.’

‘Yes, quite often.’ The set of her shoulders insisted on defiance.

‘Humph.’ It was a funny sound but explicit. Disapproving. ‘You mustn’t get involved.’