However, this woman was a surprise. She did not wear her greying, wiry hair in a neat, constrained bun; instead it was caught into a loose, tumbling ponytail that sprouted from high on her head, like a girl’s. Her free curls showed that her hair had once been a joyful mix of auburn, copper and gold. She had a small, symmetrical face with deep-set, intelligent dark eyes beaming out, a narrow, long but elegant nose and the sort of mouth that danced, always ready to burst into a smile. She offered one up to Vivian. It was quietly complicit; she’d heard Mr Walker’s list of ailments on countless occasions too, no doubt, but she was not mocking him, she was asking Vivian, the stranger, to bear with. Her smile was gentle, reassuring. It was like climbing into a warm bath. Vivian smiled back. It was hopeless to try not to. The woman had a petite, lean figure; she was dressed in misshapen, ill-fitting clothes, but not in a way that suggested she was poor and wearing cast-offs (although that must be considered). She was wearing them in a way that suggested she had no idea that she had clothes on at all; they were an irrelevance, she had greater things to think about.

The idea of someone having greater things to think about than clothes came to Vivian from nowhere and it took a moment for her own mind to accept the very thing it had suggested. She shrugged contritely at the woman, apologising for ever enquiring about Mr Walker’s health.

‘It’s quite all right, I’m not in a hurry,’ the woman whispered in a low voice. Irony? A criticism? A condemnation? Everyone was in a hurry nowadays, surely. The woman smiled and Vivian saw that no, it was just a comment, the truth.

Eventually Mr Walker ran out of ailments or breath and got to the matter in hand. ‘What can I do for you today, Mrs Owens?’ He knew she didn’t do the shopping – Cook managed that – but he afforded her the respect of a customer because ultimately she paid the bill. Or rather Mr Owens did, but she approved it. Still, Vivian never liked to visit without choosing some small thing; it seemed wrong that all she was picking was the grocer’s brains. She asked for a quarter of boiled sweets and another of toffee. As he was pouring the treats into thin brown paper bags, she asked whether he knew a young man who might like to tidy the garden.

‘No, ma’am. No man. Not young or old.’

‘None?’

‘Every spare lad has gone off now. The older men are picking up the slack on the farms.’

‘Really?’

‘They came recruiting and our lads were not lacking. Twenty-five our village has sent. My two boys among them.’

‘Oh, bravo.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Owens. Six more volunteered but weren’t found fit. Timmy Durham isn’t right in the head; they couldn’t take him. A couple had problems with their eyes and a few were too short, scrawny you know. That said, it’s no wonder young Jonny Joyce was thought too small – he’s not yet sixteen. Still, as keen as mustard he is. Swore blind he was nineteen. So did his da. Not his mammy, though. She told the recruiting officer what was what.’ Mr Walker chuckled at the memory. ‘But even those exempt from attesting . . .’ He paused, aware that he was using new words that sounded rather grand; he wanted to make sure they were sufficiently impressive and impactful. Vivian widened her eyes appreciatively. ‘Them boys, left behind, are up to their eyes in it doing the work of four men each.’