‘He feeds and clothes her. He is the father of her child.’

‘He doesn’t love her, Mam.’

Enid drew her mouth into a thin line; her lips disappeared beneath a hard wall of anguish. She knew it was true and she knew Vivian deserved to be loved. A young woman who always seemed to be suppressing her effervescent nature was bound to erupt, explode, sooner or later. There was a vigorous physicality to Vivian that had been expressed in her dancing, her work on the land, her devoted mothering. Sooner or later it had to find its true form in a heightened sensuality. Enid had long expected it. She wasn’t being tediously sanctimonious; she would simply have preferred it to happen with some other man. Her son could not take this sort of risk. ‘Is there any point in my asking you to call it off?’

‘None.’

‘Even if I beg you?’ Howard had never seen his mother look so old and desperate. She had braved scandals of her own, walked a path of fierce independence and never been afraid for herself. Yet she looked afraid now. He shook his head.

‘This isn’t like you, Mam. You’ve always been an Amazonian warrior.’ He tried to smile and make light of it, but she wouldn’t crack a grin back. ‘I thought you were careless of society’s gossip or censure. I can’t understand why you might feel so afraid for me. A man.’

‘Yes, a man, but my son. Always that, and isn’t every mother in Europe terrified for her son right now? Terrified or grieving.’

‘I’m in love, not at war.’

‘Howard, you are a conscientious objector and her husband is a serving officer. If anyone finds out, they’ll lynch you as soon as look at you and not suffer a moment’s hesitation.’ He knew she was right. She put her hand on his arm. For the first time he noticed her fragility. Her skin was waxy like baking paper; she had age spots. ‘Take care.’

They had arrived at the cottage. The gate squeaked and Enid walked up the path. She opened the door muttering something about needing to have a lie-down. She stayed in her room even at tea time; he had made mutton bone and vegetable soup but she said she wasn’t hungry. He agreed it wasn’t the most appetising of dishes. He hadn’t really expected it to tempt her out of her room.

He ate alone and then sat in the back garden. The small area, no bigger than six foot square, had been turned over to hens. They were scrawny and messy but the eggs were invaluable. He’d be more comfortable sitting in the front garden among the vegetables, but he couldn’t trust himself if he sat in the front. He knew that it would be too easy to swing open the creaky gate and walk – no, run – up the path and towards Vivian’s house. That was just the sort of thing they could not do. There might be a maid working this evening; certainly Mrs Rosebend would be home. Their trip to London was bound to have caused comment. He couldn’t compound it by visiting tonight. He would have to stay away for at least a day or two.