Vivian had never heard her mother speak so frankly. The war had after all shaken every tree. The thought of such undeniable impact left her feeling airless, sick.

‘I’ve never asked much from you, Vivian, you’ve always suited yourself.’ It wasn’t how Vivian saw their history, but she balled a handkerchief in her fist and kept her mouth firmly shut. ‘But I do ask this. If Aubrey has any influence at all, ask him to use it to delay Toby’s crossing. If Toby is right and this Hindenburg Line is collapsing, if the end is nigh . . . well . . .’

‘It can’t come soon enough.’

‘Exactly.’ Mother and daughter stared at one another, not sure what to do with their rare moment of agreement.

48

THE PAIN WAS excruciating. Howard passed in and out of consciousness two or three times. When he was awake, he tried to scan the confusion for Aubrey Owens, but he soon guessed he hadn’t made it. The trench was populated with privates by the sound of it; no one was taking charge, although they were managing in a rough-shod, well-meant way. Someone gave him water. Someone else tried to cut away his trouser leg but a third man stopped him. ‘Leave it alone. You don’t touch burns. Something to do with taking off the skin. Besides, he’ll catch an infection if it’s left uncovered and he’s already used his gauze for the bullet wound, look here. Poor bugger.’

The man’s accent was Cockney. A little bit of London in the trench was welcome. Howard closed his eyes. They dashed across Piccadilly and pushed through the big wooden door of the Criterion into the warmth and opulence. Gold-panelled walls, neat tablecloths, the smell of lilies. Her slim hand clasped in his. Red lips laughing. Sleep was welcome. He hadn’t slept properly for days, weeks. He knew now that he could. They were in the little hotel; he could smell the toast and see the crumpled sheets. She was in the bathroom; he could hear her brushing her teeth. She talked to him all the time, non-stop chatter. When she was washing, drawing a flannel over her thighs and between her legs; he spied her through the door she’d left ajar, intentionally he thought. She chattered when she was brushing her hair, even when she had her toothbrush in her mouth. She had so much to tell him. They had so little time. It was coming to him. Death. He felt sure of it.

When he awoke properly, the sky was getting dusky; the ceaseless downpour had eased to a defiant drizzle. His wristwatch was broken but he guessed it might be about four o’clock in the afternoon. His mouth was sandpaper. He felt about and located his flask. There wasn’t much water left in it. He wanted to ask one of the men for a slug of theirs. The trench was still, silent except for the sound of rats scratching; no number of explosions could wipe them out, it seemed. He could hear the occasional round of firing, but it sounded at least half a mile off; he’d become expert at measuring such things.