We gazed at him, sadly silent until Sissy asked, ‘What about food, Arthur? What do they give you?’

‘The food’s infested, yet we have to eat. We’re all horribly weak, and tired, and so outnumbered we can hardly advance.’ He shook his head. ‘The situation’s impossible. They say half a million casualties have gone to the hospital sorting station on a Greek island. Lemnos, I think it’s called. Not too far away, but it’s understaffed and overcrowded. Now the rainy season’s with us, wounded men lay dying in the mud as they wait to be collected by British hospital ships.’ He sighed so deeply he trembled. ‘We’re all doing our best, but . . .’ He shook his head again. ‘It’s futile. We’re bound to retreat before New Year. If the worst happens, Gertie, I’ll remember how much I enjoyed this Christmas dinner. Promise you’ll toast me every Christmas in my absence, preferably when you set the figgy pudding alight and swig the brandy.’ He grinned at us all, his eyes bright with a sort of madness that I didn’t understand.

That was the last time I saw my brother, Arthur. When I woke the next morning, he’d gone already. He never came back. We learned he’d died of shrapnel wounds at the hospital he’d told us about on Lemnos, waiting for a ship to bring him home.

The telegram boy came belting down Lighthouse Lane ringing his bicycle bell. I’d never seen Father cry before. The silent tears that trickled down his face were more painful than my mother’s wailing as he pulled her tighter into his arms.

Sissy came home for a week.

In the misery that followed, we received a formal letter from the battalion adjutant which Father read to us all. Our darling Arthur was part of a thrust forward on the front line. We were told that his group of brave soldiers had become separated from the main drive and came under fierce shelling. The men had fought bravely.

Remembering the things Arthur told us when Mother fell asleep, I wanted to yell that it was all make believe. I was crying with anger to think he had died for me! My poor brother had been mortally wounded in the squalor of trenches that he himself told us swarmed with flesh flies and rats!

The letter went on in its polite, remorseful way to say that Corporal Smith suffered a severe head wound and was taken by hospital ship to Lemnos. Despite every effort to revive him, Corporal Smith passed away.

In the aftershock, I wondered if it was an error, perhaps our Arthur was still alive. ‘It’s a mistake,’ I whispered. ‘Father, surely he can’t be dead; the army must have made a mistake! So many people dying . . . such a common name, Smith.’