‘I notice you’ve been gardening, Mrs Owens.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ She straightened her shoulders, waiting for Mr Henshaw Pickering to chastise her, perhaps for wearing men’s trousers, or maybe because she wasn’t doing something as well as it ought to be done. She lowered her eyes to the plate of scones, as she used to when her mother began a barrage of criticism.

‘Tackled it pretty successfully, from what I can see.’

‘Oh, do you think so? Thank you.’ She flashed him a full, heartfelt smile. She knew he was paid by her husband, and strictly speaking she really shouldn’t care what the staff thought of her, or anything at all but she swelled under his compliment.

‘We’ll have to turn the gardens over, though.’ He threw out an apologetic shrug.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Flowers are no use to anyone. We need potatoes.’

‘Oh. I see.’ She found it bizarre that growing flowers had become unpatriotic, but understood that food was needed. Food for themselves, for their horses and others.

‘Would you be willing to do that?’

‘If it helps, of course. I want to do my bit.’ She bit down on her tongue, desperate not to laugh at herself for using the pat phrase.

‘I wondered whether you could do a little more on the farm.’

‘Do you think I could?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Pickering was enthusiastic. ‘I do. I could run through some basic jobs that you could manage, and it might lighten the load for everyone else. If you’re willing, like.’

It was no longer enough to be adorable. There wasn’t anyone to adore her. Besides, she feared the whole worshipping thing – which she doubted had ever been substantial enough to mean much – had ceased to exist now, because of the war. How could anyone simply love a thing any more? Other women used to envy her, want to be her. Now she frustrated them. ‘I find I am willing, Mr Pickering.’ It was extraordinary what boredom could drive a girl to do.

Basic jobs! Hard labour, more like. Vivian found she was thrown in with the village women and old men, who were all obviously mindful of her superior social position but also quite aware of their own superior skill set. They settled into a relationship where she tried to ignore the girls’ giggles and they tried to ignore her inexperience. The young boys touched their caps, some in a manner that expressed dejection, others with flirty enthusiasm. They didn’t quite know where to peg her. Pretty enough to be somebody, but her house was the size of the doctor’s. They were unsure. Still, everyone agreed she was doing her bit.

No one could say otherwise. She was forever scrubbing, lugging, chopping, weeding or feeding. The animals’ mouths seemed eternally open, their rears incessantly depositing. There was nothing adorable about these animals. Pickering didn’t start her on sweet lambs or cute calves (apparently it was not the season; she hadn’t appreciated there was a particular time when animals had their young). The animals she helped to tend were huge beasts, cows or pigs (yes, pigs were actually enormous!), or scratchy hens (which she found quite terrifying, with their beady eyes and nasty sharp beaks). It was smelly, dirty work but it was not actually difficult, if one followed instructions. No one had suggested she milk anything yet (which did seem to require a knack), and the benefit of winter, as she understood it, was that nothing needed reaping, which she imagined would be quite a task. Thank goodness the men would be back in time for that.