‘You should see the other fellow.’ He smiled, but it wasn’t convincing. He didn’t care much about what they’d done to him, that wasn’t it. Actually, he pitied the men who’d jumped him; he understood their fear, their resentment. He knew them; they’d been at school together. One was a few years older than Howard, the other – the vicious one – a year younger. He hoped they’d make it through the war.

Her gaze mooched around the room. It was a mess. No doubt she was noting that things had changed since Howard had moved in. The thick smell of meat cooking had replaced the drift of sugar and butter; sausages or sometimes a chicken were the focus now, not scones. Enid was forever scraping around for the scant luxuries that were still available. She wanted to be allowed to mother him, cosset him, even though he was a grown man. She liked to make hearty pies most of all, and he played his part; he was always effusive, appreciative. He thanked her and devoured the food, displaying greed even when he didn’t feel it because there was nothing his mother liked more than seeing him appreciating her gifts. On the days that Enid couldn’t pull together a treat and had to serve bread and eggs, he thanked her and devoured just as earnestly. It wasn’t an act. He was truly grateful. Soft egg yolks running down the side of an eggcup: an immeasurable pleasure for someone who had spent a year at the Front.

His clothes and belongings were scattered about; he was a slob. He brushed his hair back out of his eyes and then grabbed a jacket from a chair and an apple core off a shelf in an inept and pointless effort to tidy up. He held both in his hands. Suspended. Uncertain where to redeposit them as the entire place was littered with books, ashtrays, socks, and newspapers.

‘Bit of a mess, I’m afraid. I plan to tidy around a bit before Mam gets home.’

She looked sceptical. No doubt she knew the devoted and indulgent Enid didn’t bother nagging her son about his untidiness. It was clear she blessed every moment he was in her sight.

‘I don’t mind,’ she murmured. Her voice came out weaker than he’d expected. Sometimes she sounded imperious; today she sounded unassuming. ‘Actually, it seems so cosy. It’s rather enviable, this display of relaxed domesticity.’

‘Disarray, you mean?’ He grinned.

‘It was never like this when I lived at home with my parents.’ He suddenly had a vision of her straight-backed, sitting in an immaculate parlour, teacup balanced elegantly, not a thing out of place, certainly not a word. The image made him shiver. He couldn’t imagine old Aubrey was the sort to tolerate untidiness either. She no doubt had to be on her best behaviour the entire time. So she must mind the mess. In a way. No one wanted to be shown what they couldn’t have.