‘Is that a fact?’

‘It is.’ They stood in silence for a moment, rather pleased with themselves for some intangible reason. There was a connection. It was slight, but it was the first Vivian had felt since she’d moved to Blackwell. Who knew the war could be so bonding?

‘Big, my boys. We’ll whip the Huns’ miserable thieving backsides right back over the border.’ Vivian looked a little startled, which caused Mr Walker to add apologetically, ‘Sorry to be vulgar, Mrs Owens.’

‘Oh, that’s quite all right. It’s nothing. I agree with the sentiment.’ There was another sigh behind her, and Vivian was reminded how rude she was being in monopolising Mr Walker. His other customers had waited patiently throughout the conversation.

Mr Walker turned. ‘What about you, Mrs Henderson, are your sons gone?’

‘Michael, my younger boy, went with your lads, Mr Walker, as I’m sure you know.’

‘And the older?’ There was a moment of something in the air. A blade.

‘He’s already out there, as a matter of fact.’

‘Is he now? Already? Well, you do surprise me. Didn’t think he was the sort. Theatre types make good soldiers, do they?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Mr Walker.’

‘What regiment is he in?’

‘Not a regiment. He’s there with a newspaperman.’

‘A what?’

‘A journalist. A Mr Basil Clarke from the Daily Mail.’

Mr Walker looked nonplussed. He took Vivian’s money for the sweets and then folded his arms across his barrel chest. ‘So do these newspapermen just stand by whilst it’s all going on around them?’ he demanded. His tone was obviously confrontational.

Vivian wished to smooth things for Mrs Henderson. ‘Well, we need to know what’s going on, don’t we? My cousin has poor eyesight and so can’t fight. He’s volunteered as an ambulance driver.’

‘Luckily my son is the picture of health.’ It was impossible not to be shocked. Was she saying he’d refused to volunteer?

‘Well, everyone is doing their bit. Newspapermen, ambulance drivers,’ Vivian mumbled, embarrassed. The older woman reached out and patted her arm. Vivian was startled by the touch.

Mr Walker shook his head. ‘Aye, ambulance drivers are vital.’ He placed meaningful emphasis on the words.

Mrs Henderson seemed to deliberately misunderstand him and commented, ‘Sadly, they are, Mr Walker.’ She waved a small tube of chlorophyll toothpaste. ‘I’ll take the price of this off what you owe me for the washing.’

‘Right you are.’

Then, turning to Vivian, she added, ‘You could perhaps tackle the garden yourself.’ It wasn’t said as a criticism, or with any hint of interference or censure; somehow her suggestion was affirming, as though she believed Vivian was indeed capable of such a thing. That she might do a fine job.

‘I’m not awfully good at that sort of thing,’ Vivian confessed.

‘Aren’t you?’ Mrs Henderson’s smile was teasing, gently challenging. She was an odd woman. She didn’t fit into any of the types Vivian had come across before. She seemed to have very peculiar views on the war, almost unsupportive, and yet she was all smiles and humour, which Vivian couldn’t help but think of as anything other than lovely. Vivian didn’t know what to make of her. All she did know was that Mrs Henderson’s spontaneously illuminated face was a great relief. She instantly felt less alone. Before she got the chance to confirm that she was absolutely not capable of sorting out the garden, the bell on the shop door rang, signalling Mrs Henderson’s exit.