She continued to visit Enid regularly, finding various, ever more insubstantial pretexts, although there was no sign that her visits were welcome.

‘Mabel has chickenpox, I can’t get her to stop scratching. What would you advise?’

‘Mittens to stop her scratching and warm baths with oatmeal to ease the itching.’ The door barely ajar. Slammed shut.

‘I’m organising a fund-raiser, a concert. I wondered whether you’d play the piano?’

Mouth tightening, eyes contracting a fraction. ‘Yes. Ditty or classical?’

‘Classical, I think.’

‘Fine.’ The word a sigh.

‘I wonder could I have the recipe for your fig pudding. Mabel simply adores it.’

‘I’ll write it out and give it to Mrs Rosebend.’ The air wet with something sour. Trust lost.

Enid’s replies were always succinct, helpful, polite. The politeness bit Vivian; it was a poor substitute for friendship. Even in bad weather, Enid kept her at the door and wouldn’t invite her to join her at the hearth. Over her shoulder Vivian saw the coal shift in the grate; the rocks, suffused with hot illumination, were mesmerising. The fire needed a poke, or maybe a log. Vivian missed the winters of 1914 and 1915. Back then, when it had grown dark outside, Enid would put on a light and draw the curtains and they’d sit together complete and cosy. No desire to move, sometimes no need to talk. Now, their silences were spiky. Raw. Vivian lived in tight dread that Enid would move away from Blackwell; it sat, a knot in her belly. Then she would be doomed to a lifetime of scanning the casualty lists for information. Lists that were tardy. Unreliable.

On every visit Vivian squared her shoulders and asked if there was news from him. Enid coolly, carefully might admit, ‘He’s seen some action,’ or ‘They’ve been sent to the reserve for a day or two, to rest.’ Once she said, ‘He cut his hand mending barbed wire. He said his tin hat was blown off.’ Vivian had visibly paled, swayed and asked if she could sit down. Enid, forced to recognise that they shared the same desperate desire, fetched a glass of water and resisted scowling. Seeing the most minute thawing, Vivian grasped the opportunity.

‘Does he ever mention me?’ Gulping the water. Dribbles down her chin. Her eyes flashing, flickering almost instantaneously between hope and despair.

‘Never,’ Enid replied. It sounded like a groan of pain.

Vivian knew that however angry Enid was with her, she would not go against her son’s wishes; if he wanted his mother to pass on a message, she would do so.

Pity and perhaps the trace of the attachment once shared caused Enid to add, ‘His letters are heavily censored. Far more than Michael’s ever were.’

‘Do you think that means things are getting worse?’

‘I don’t know what to think. Half of his news is scoured out with a heavy black pen. I’m left with little more than a list of what he’s eaten, descriptions of the weather.’ Vivian had wanted to ask what the weather was like, although she knew really. Dreadful. Aubrey told her that much. She wanted to ask if she could see the letters. Touch something he’d touched. She didn’t dare, and Enid didn’t offer. If he ever got leave, he didn’t spend it in Blackwell.