He reached for two mugs, then thought better of it and swapped one, then the other, for a cup and saucer. He set a tray as his mother might. The kettle would take a few minutes to boil. He had to go back into the living room; he couldn’t very well hide in here. He used up the time opening the two windows and snatching up various items of clothing. She still hovered by the doorway, even now looking as though she might bolt. He again urged her to take a seat and finally she sank into one; her actions had a disproportional air of surrender. When they were furnished with their tea, he chose to sprawl, as usual, on the small two-seater sofa perpendicular to her chair. They both stared at the empty grate.

Abruptly, ‘I don’t understand the war either.’ This was the thing he had least expected her to say. He thought she’d come to issue him with some new tasks, or perhaps – and this thought occurred to him because she looked so serious and forlorn – to discuss where she, or old Aubrey, thought he was not doing an adequate job. Instead she was picking up on the conversation they’d had when he was in Richmond, months back. He didn’t understand why, but he knew enough to realise that the ‘either’ was inclusive, an invitation. A concession. ‘I don’t really understand how it started. I can’t imagine how it will end.’

He thought she was asking for a genuine account. ‘Well, the Austrian-Hungarian heir was assassinated by a Serb. The Serbs expected trouble and started to arm. Austria and Hungary partially mobilised in response. Russia partially mobilised to protect Serbia. Germany jumped in and spurred on Austria, who switched to full mobilisation. The French, bound by treaty with Russia and more importantly by sheer terror, mobilised too. Germany crashed through Belgium, who we were tied to by another ancient treaty. The rest, as they say, is history. War became horrifically unstoppable because of pride. No nation dared even to pause for breath for fear of being put at a disadvantage, and before we knew it, there were millions of men on trains travelling to the Front.’

He stopped. His account was accurate enough, he thought. Honed. She stared at him, eyes cool and sharp, suggesting she was infuriated by him, or even a little insulted. He paused, and then considered that perhaps she thought the most pertinent question was not how the war had started, but how it would end.

‘I can’t remember anyone trying for peace; everyone I knew was braying for war,’ she commented sadly. She seemed preoccupied, not quite there with him in the moment.

‘There was a rally for peace on Sunday the second of August 1914. I went along, but they couldn’t smother the whiff of war hysteria. Too many of us are animals pulling at our chains.’

‘That was the day before I married.’

‘Awful timing.’

‘Yes, wasn’t it?’