He was letting go. There had been enough. He had seen enough. Too much.

Now he allowed himself to think of Vivian. He had never consciously brought her on to a battle field before today; it was not the place for her. For them. Even in the trenches he was careful about when he fetched her to mind. He didn’t want her sullied, ruined. The intense pain in his leg and side sapped his energy, and he couldn’t keep her away. She wanted to come to him. Perhaps it was right that she visited him here; after all, he was here for her. For the scarlet curtain and the audience applause, for May Day rosettes, candy floss and donkey rides. He was here because those things had to be. Ordinary things. And extraordinary things. Vivian Owens.

Her ear lobes were slim, flat pearls; her eyelids were delicate, with fine blue veins running through them, tiny, almost insignificant, and yet when she was asleep he would stare at them for hours. He thought of her neck, brushed by the sun, her neat, smooth body. Her perfect breasts. He tried to recall the exact colour of her lips and sear that shade into his memory; he did not want to think of the pink of Blake’s innards or the burnt man’s face. She had a mole on her hip. He thought of her on the station platform in Derby, wearing a powder-blue dress and sucking on bright boiled sweets. She laughed at all his jokes and he told so many more when he was with her. He thought of the way she bit down on a fork; somehow it was as though enjoying her food made her flirtatious. He remembered her lilac silk bedroom robe and how it showcased her curves. She’d been messy. Missed the services of her maid, no doubt. Her clothes had spilt around the room. Silk underwear, fine stockings, delicate petticoats that she selected and then discarded but never rehung, just left scattered. He hadn’t cared about the mess she made; in fact he’d revelled in it. He liked to see her most intimate garments showered about, as though she had nothing to hide from him, as though she shared her whole self. Their sex was robust, resounding and extravagant.

He had thought that she would understand that his letters were being impeded, that she would write to him regardless. It hurt him to think she must believe he had given up on her. He imagined her coming to that revelation, assuming he was no different from the other men who had let her down. He wished she had trusted him more. He wondered whether it was anger at him or private shame and guilt that had made her finally forsake him. He had thought she was more vigorous and vital than that. He’d thought that she’d withstand, that their love would endure. But he’d been wrong. After all, she had chosen Aubrey Owens. Old Aubrey. Did she think that was safer? Nothing was safe any more. More conventional? Perhaps.