I look at May again. The rash on her neck. Rising up. The music will be starting at Jim’s place by now. All the bottles of beer and cider ready for the real head wetting to begin. I want to grab her hand and run to the car. Drive away and sod the consequences. Now her Mum’s got going on this topic I have a feeling there won’t be any stopping her.

‘Here–’ she reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and brings out a crumpled envelope. She hands it to me. A letter.

‘I keep it on me always. It’s from a soldier from the same company who witnessed it all.’

The paper is yellow and starting to go brittle. I open it because I have to, because she’s watching me. So many years of being warned off reading other people’s post. I can’t do any more than scan through. He was a good man, it says, he was a man who always thought of others before himself. It’s all too private.

‘He was very brave,’ I say because I can’t think of anything else. I hand it back to her and wonder how on earth I’m supposed to change the subject. There’s no polite way to do it, but time is running out.

‘I was wondering, Mrs Matthews, if you could spare May for a couple of hours this evening. She could join the celebrations. It’s just a quiet dinner, but my friends would love to meet her.’

May squeezes my hand and I can’t tell whether it’s excitement or a warning.

‘Oh!’ her mother says and bends forward clutching her stomach, the cup and saucer starting to slide off her knee. ‘Oh!’

May stands up and rushes over. She catches the cup and hands it to me.

‘What’s the matter?’

She shakes her head at me. ‘It’s ok, Mum,’ she says and rubs her back, ‘just breathe as deeply as you can.’

She’s groaning and rocking now. The sound is like nothing else.

‘What can I do?’

‘Nothing,’ May says, ‘you’d better go.’

‘I could help you get her upstairs.’

‘Go, Arthur.’

She has that look on her face – as if it’s all my fault, as if I should’ve known better.

In the farmhouse there’s nothing but noise and dust. Muddy boots propped in the corner, the smell of mince and onions mixed up with the sour air from outside. I haven’t seen half these people in yonks. Not since Mum died and Jimmy started bringing me back for lunch on a Sunday.

‘What’s up with you?’ he says handing me a beer, the baby asleep somehow in all this noise, sprawled against his shoulder.