His eyes leapt about the page. Excitement made it impossible for him to read left to right, top to bottom. Another paragraph leapt out and he nearly laughed out loud, celebrating the very ordinariness of it. She was writing to him about the weather!

Last night the winds whipped around the village and the farms. The maids are saying that some houses lost chimney stacks and fences. The trees are naked. The scene is wan. At least the wind has blown on, bothering some other village now, or town, although the rain is still coming, not finished with us yet.

It was remarkable, wonderful.

Like a child aching to gobble up an entire box of chocolates but needing to eat slowly to make the deliciousness last, to avoid being sick, he dragged his eyes to the top of the page, determined to start at the beginning. 10th April 1917. Seven months after he had left her. He wondered how long the letters might go on for. When had she last written? Last year? Last week? Might she be writing to him this very minute? He allowed his eyes to rest on how she addressed him. My darling, darling Howard. The words were so incredible, so perfect and pure, that he coughed. Snorted. Emotion spluttered from his nose. Restraint was impossible. His eyes dashed to the final sentence. I am worth staying alive for. Come home. Her sense of entitlement to him was the first heartening sentiment that he’d encountered since he came over here. It exploded within him. She understood. He had gone to war for her. Now he had to understand. It was more important still that he returned to her.

He read another letter, and then a third.

2nd January 1918

So a new year has come now. No one knows how to greet it. A friend or another slog? To be enjoyed or to be endured? Will you be delivered back to me this year? I have to believe it, my darling. Mrs Rosebend, Cook and I went to the village hall. We women danced together and with old men. At midnight a shiver ran through the crowd. Some of the children cheered, of course, because they don’t know any better. The crowd, such as it was, melted away pretty fast. Come home.

14th May 1917

I used to care so much about being wealthy. No one seems wealthy any more. Might they ever be again, do you think? Or has it all gone? Did I mistake wealth for innocence or naïveté? I have given this a lot of thought and I think perhaps I’m just being greedy. We grew up in an unparalleled age, I suppose. It’s hard to accept it’s over. No one wants to see their youth close, finish. But that luxuriant materialism and the serene, unperturbed comfort will never be seen again, never be felt again. That’s the biggest loss. Even if in the future, when they make everyone comfortable again and manufacturing finally turns away from producing bullets and back to producing sewing machines, autocars and other things that make our lives more cosy, not vile, what has gone forever is the tranquillity, the placidity. The human race can’t trust itself. Not any more. Not ever again. I ought to be content with what I’ve got. Ought to be.