‘This’d be a great officer’s billet,’ he said once again, determined to push the idea a final time, ‘honest it would.’

‘I’ll think about it, Tom,’ she said. ‘I really will think about it, I promise.’

When he’d gone, Amelia returned to the kitchen table and poured herself a third cup of tea, which she knew she wouldn’t drink. The house was once again big and lonely. She’d enjoyed the boy’s company, and now she was left with her thoughts as always. The ones that tormented her. Is it possible Martin’s alive? And if he’s not, how did he die? Was he alone? Was he in pain? Did it take long? The questions were always hanging there in the recesses of her mind, resurfacing like a ghastly mantra whenever she was alone.

Perhaps young Tom’s right, she thought. Perhaps I should offer half the house as a billet. Perhaps I need a distraction, a duty, at least some presence in the place.

The noises from outside in the street, the churn of heavy traffic, the stamp of men’s boots and the bark of their voices now infiltrated the house, personally assaulting her, ringing jarringly in her head. Yet she hadn’t even noticed them when the boy had been here.

But surely that’s understandable, she thought, trying to reason with herself, I’ve only felt this way since I received the news. Before then, I was never frightened being here alone. The house didn’t seem so big then. And during all those months he was away, I didn’t even particularly miss Martin, which is a terrible thing to admit.

If only we’d had a child, she thought, perhaps a boy who might have grown up to be like Tom, cheeky, funny. But there probably wouldn’t have been much chance of that.

For some inexplicable reason, Amelia began to cry.

I did love him, she told herself. I loved him very much and he loved me, I know he did, but it was my fault our marriage wasn’t right. It was all my fault.

The tears kept flowing, silently, painfully.

Amelia had always blamed herself for the lack of sexual intimacy she and her husband shared. They’d had intercourse a number of times, it was true, but living in her parents’ house had come at a price. Martin was a private man and clearly uncomfortable making love in the home of his parents-in-law. She should never have agreed to such an arrangement. At least that was the conclusion she’d come to in hindsight. And she’d only been gifted with hindsight on that night. That terrible night, which nobody talked about, that night when it had become so clear to her that it was all her fault. Everything. Poor Martin. How she had deprived him.