‘Not one of them. Not if I can help it.’

After Ava’s visit two things occurred to Vivian. The first being that Ava had not asked what it was like. She couldn’t imagine any virgin passing up the opportunity to glean some information on the mystery of intercourse. She could only surmise that Ava Pondson-Callow had had a lover. Possibly still had. Possibly more than one. The thought was breathtaking. How had she managed it? There was not a hint of scandal or shame about her. Secondly, despite her assurances to the contrary, Ava must have heard rumours about her indiscretion with Nathaniel, because what else, other than a show of solidarity, had motivated her visit? The same thought must have occurred to Mrs Foster too, as she redoubled her efforts to marry off Vivian as swiftly as possible.

MAY 1914

8

IT WAS A long and bumpy train ride north, although what third class lacked in the way of comfort was somewhat alleviated by the rowdy, entertaining company. The carriage was packed full of people determined to make the most of their bank holiday. They swore, sang, swapped sandwiches and shared boiled sweets; some of the young men surreptitiously drank bottles of beer, hidden in brown paper bags that fooled no one, especially as the journey progressed and they became more voluble and argumentative.

Howard and some of the lads from the theatre – Jack, Will and Ted – had made a plan to travel to Howard’s home village, which was almost as far up the country as Derby, and much further north than any of them had ever travelled before. He’d often talked to them about Blackwell village fair, his mother’s baking and the local ale, which he swore every man should try once in his lifetime. Not many of the thesps had any experience of a warm home life and no one had a better idea for a day out, so the suggestion was quickly adopted. Beryl hadn’t been invited but she hadn’t let that subdue her fervour. She galvanised the chorus girls and in the end a party of nine set off to Blackwell. Beryl had carefully thought through the numbers: the extra girl not only lent respectability to the trip, but she might do for Howard’s brother, Michael.

His mother and brother met them at the station. She’d brought a picnic big enough for everyone. It weighed a ton; she’d been baking for four days solid. Howard’s brother joked that his arms had stretched two inches carrying the wicker basket as far as the station. The brothers shook hands and beamed. Howard couldn’t stop himself: he pulled Michael close and slapped his back.

‘You’ve grown, little brother.’

‘Not so little now.’

‘No, I think you are nearly as tall as I am.’

‘Taller.’

‘Oh well, if that’s the case, I won’t offer you any help with this massive bleedin’ picnic basket.’

Michael made as if to jump on his brother, or shove him. Howard deftly dodged. Choreography they’d been practising for years. They grinned at one another. Close. His mother held back until he turned to her. Her arms were rigid at her sides. He knew she’d have wanted to fling them wide and fold him into them, but she was made shy, or at least cautious, by the presence of his London friends. She wouldn’t want to make a show of him. He pulled her tight into an embrace. Little Mother. A foot smaller than him now, yet his rock still. She squeezed him tight. Five months since she’d seen him last.