‘Well, you must be a very proud village.’

‘That we are. Recruiting officer told me that farm boys are proving to be just the sort of soldiers they want.’

‘Are they really?’

‘Muscles. Hardy. Had good food, you see. Great British milk, barley and pigs have fed up our boys, good and strong. Now they are off to fight for that very greatness.’

Vivian smiled; it was difficult not to, faced with Mr Walker’s animation and pride, although she did wonder whether he wasn’t being a little bit romantic in his assessment of Blackwell village. She had noticed plenty of neglected cottages; she could imagine the scenes of deprivation inside them: unswept, untidy, unwashed, signs of mice and threadbare linen, that sort of thing. Not that she was being judgemental. Since moving here she had had to wonder how the really poor managed to keep themselves clean; it was such an effort lugging and heating water and such. One had to rather admire them for bothering at all, she supposed. She hoped they’d be fed well by the army.

‘You should have seen them go. Such laughing and fooling there was, and a brass band.’

‘Surely some of them must have been scared,’ she blurted.

‘No, not one of them,’ he assured her firmly. He grinned, forgiving her girlish squeamishness, actually enjoying it. Vivian heard a slight sigh from the woman in the shop, the one with the lovely smile. She was about to turn around to her and draw her into the conversation, but Mr Walker pushed on. He was a force to be reckoned with. Vivian thought that if they could talk the Germans into submission, he would be the man to send. ‘Have you heard from Mr Owens? Am I right in thinking he is with the Tenth Sherwood Foresters?’

‘Captain Owens now.’

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am.’ Mr Walker’s grin widened; he clearly loved her husband’s title. ‘I won’t be surprised if they put him in charge of our boys. His boys. They’ll all be going over together.’

‘I’m not sure how it works.’

‘He must want to lead the local lads.’ Mr Walker’s confidence and certainty were enchanting; she couldn’t help but agree.

‘I’m sure he must. I read that they want them to stay with their pals, don’t they?’ she offered.

‘Not that I’d presume my lads to be pals of Captain Owens, but they have grown up with one another, after a fashion. When he visited here in the summers, as a lad, like.’ Mr Walker puffed out his chest. She knew he was delighted to be associated with Aubrey. It gave her a queer, unrecognisable thrill to see his reaction. She hadn’t had any occasion to be proud of her husband during their short marriage. It was rather pleasant to find she was, somewhat.

‘Absolutely,’ she beamed. ‘How old are your sons, Mr Walker?’

‘One’s twenty-three, the other is nineteen.’

‘Your eldest is the exact age of my husband.’ The younger son was her age, but she was somehow shy about admitting as much.