‘Well I don’t spend many evenings in the local pub, chewing the fat with my old school pals, if that’s what you mean. I’m not especially welcome.’ He smiled. Not because he was happy with the situation but because he felt it was his duty to put her at ease. It struck him as interesting how regularly he smiled with a lack of sincerity or even emotion. How infrequently he felt authentically happy, even writing couldn’t always make him so. Remembering was essential for writing and remembering was vile. He was most content after a day when he’d worked so hard he ached; he was peaceful when she was nearby. ‘Strangely those who have already lost people are not always the worst. Some behave as expected: angry, resentful. “Why should you lie about here when my son has found a muddy grave?” All that. Others are a surprise. One more death is one too many for them. They don’t push me to go.’

‘Aubrey is unequivocal.’

‘Yes. As are those with sons, husbands, lovers still alive but only just; those who are stationed out there. They are unilateral in their hatred towards me. They want me to get off my lazy bastard backside and go and help their men.’ She fell into this category; he was telling her it was understandable if she thought this too, that he forgave her.

She didn’t say anything directly, simply sipped her tea. And then groaned, ‘Mustn’t it be wonderful to be one of those terribly buoyant sorts of people? Those who believe it will all come well in the end.’

‘I always thought you were that.’

‘I think I was, a long time ago. I can hardly remember being so now. I’m so utterly fed up of the war.’ They all thought it but he was surprised to hear it said. Expressing dissatisfaction with the war, however understandable and human, was considered unpatriotic and somewhat defeatist. ‘I think it’s awful that we’ve been born at this time. I try to keep colour in my baby’s life by showing her my pretty dresses, the ones I never have opportunity to wear any more. Sweet little Mabel gurgles and reaches for the scarlet ribbons, the pink bows. I snip them from my garments and weave them through the bars of her cot.’

He appreciated her confession; many would have thought it inconsequential chatter, yet he found it profoundly moving. Gentle intimacy soused the room. It was like stepping into a warm bath.

‘When you came to Richmond, you mentioned that you tried to be a rebel once but it didn’t work out for you.’ He’d often thought and theorised about this.

‘That’s right. It ended disastrously.’ Her pronouncement was so sad and final, he wondered whether he should pursue it. Manners dictated that he shouldn’t, but something bigger pushed him on. He had to. He needed to know her.

‘Sounds like an interesting story.’

‘I fear it’s very commonplace, actually.’ He waited. She sighed. ‘There was a man once – well, a boy. I suppose. When I was young.’