Dinner was not an unqualified success. A lot of the time Mrs Foster seemed unsure as to what she was eating.

‘The bread is a rather funny colour.’

‘It’s made from cornflour, Mother.’

‘It’s terribly patriotic to eat corn,’ commented Toby. He reached for another piece to demonstrate his enthusiasm, and Vivian thought that not every penny of his education had been wasted after all; he was a polite boy.

‘And the soup is?’

‘Lentil.’

Eyebrows brushing the hairline. ‘No meat?’

‘Trout. A local boy caught it this morning,’ Vivian explained.

‘Isn’t it marvellous the things they come up with? What will they think of next?’ commented Mrs Foster, her words considerably more enthusiastic than her expression. Vivian was entirely certain Timmy Durham had not invented fishing for trout, but she bit her tongue.

It was a relief when the clock finally chimed ten, late enough to retire without causing offence. In the privacy of her bedroom, Vivian took off her creased frock. Linen was dreadful. Why anyone bothered with it she did not know. She poured cool water from the jug into the bowl and plunged her wrists into it, wondering how she’d get through the week.

Mrs Foster and Babe had no interest in the farm.

‘None of the animals are babies,’ sighed Babe. ‘They are barely worth looking at.’ Vivian remembered thinking something similar herself so managed to suppress her irritation. The women sat inside, burning coal and making demands on Mrs Rosebend and the housemaid. Toby took more pleasure from the land and the village. The combination of his uniform and his youth meant that when he took a stroll, numerous admiring and approving glances were thrown his way. Several older men offered to buy him a drink if he had time to visit the tavern. Mabel, habitually deprived of male company, was fascinated by him. She trailed around after her uncle, too shy to throw herself into the spotlight of his attention, delighted when she found she had stumbled there. They collected the hens’ eggs together and played chase. Mabel squealed with delight when Toby feigned an inability to catch her and then, when she was least expecting it, did just that.

Vivian shuddered, trying to throw off a strange ache of despondency as she observed her brother play. When they were children, the age gap had been yawning, their relationship punctuated with squabbles and spats. He teased and irritated her, she bossed or ignored him. Then he’d gone to school and soon she’d married. She hadn’t had a chance to get to know him. Now he seemed like someone she might enjoy, but there wasn’t time. He would be handsome, given a chance, although he wasn’t yet absolutely so. He still had a splatter of spots in his hairline, his feet and hands seemed too big for his body, and he didn’t stand tall; it was as though his height surprised him and so he hunched in disbelief. He looked like a boy.

He was a boy. Dressed in a uniform.