Enid had no room for pity; her heart was breaking. ‘Yes, you did. You sent my boy away. You sent my boy to war. You succeeded where the British army failed. You must be pleased with yourself.’ She breathed out. It was a long, slow, heavy breath full of solemn mourning.

‘He’ll come back to us.’

Enid stared at Vivian but said nothing. She didn’t have to; her eyes spat out her sentiments.

You are such a child.

Enid had once liked that about Vivian, but no longer.

44

THEY HAD HIM on a boat within forty-eight hours. He’d done his basic training before Richmond and they were desperate for men, haemorrhaging them. There was another push to be made. Wasn’t there always: push after push after push; they were all condemned as Sisyphus had been to an eternity of rolling a boulder uphill then watching it roll back down again. He was sent out to serve under Major Aubrey Owens. It made sense: a bolshie conchie couldn’t be trusted even if he had finally seen the light. Owens was a man who had been decorated; the two of them had known each other since they were boys, so the file said. Best place for this troublemaker was answering to one of their own, a good reliable man. A telegram was sent to Major Owens informing him of the situation, but no one wasted time waiting for a reply. Of course, Howard saw the irony: it was Major Owens he was going to be underneath now. Not Vivian. The crude pun almost made him smile internally. Or at least smirk. Almost. He couldn’t imagine anything generating a genuine beam from him again.

He tried to concentrate on gaining sea legs, but the sway of the ship and the weight of the kit pulling at his shoulders only made him think of Vivian pulling him down on to the bed, the mattress moving beneath them, the squeak of the bedsprings, potentially treacherous. He felt nauseous and didn’t know if it was the waves or guilt. He had tried to say goodbye. He’d wanted to tell her himself about his departure, explain – if he could – his decision, but he found he couldn’t.

They’d finally found a way to be together. When they’d first returned from London, there had been long days of skulking around, making do with a wave and a tilt of the cap across the street or a few sentences passed in the field in the presence of Timmy Durham. After a week she’d caught the train to Derby; it was market day. He’d taken the autobus. They met under the clock tower and went for tea together; he held her fingers beneath the table, the cloth offering them a shield. They’d managed to find a little deserted alley where they kissed, almost savage with longing, in amongst cabbage leaves. The place had smelt fetid. She’d placed his hand on her breast, his fingers bungling and hopeless with frustration. The nearness but ultimate inaccessibility had made him want to roar. They’d travelled home on their separate modes of transport. Last Sunday she had come to his house when the rest of the village were at church. They didn’t make it to his bed; he wasn’t sure if that was because they’d both been aware of the time constraints, or from squeamishness on her part. He took her in the narrow kitchen, on the table where his mother baked. It was urgent and intense. She didn’t stay to talk because Mabel was asleep in the pram; someone might spot her.