‘We can but hope,’ Marta said, reading quickly through her letter. ‘I see what Archie meant by the company being dull, though. The Reverend Richard and Mrs Angela Hartley, Colonel Arthur Penhaligon and Miss Barbara Penhaligon …’

‘Daughter, presumably.’

‘Or sister. Either way, God and the military round the dinner table doesn’t sound like my idea of fun.’

‘No, nor mine.’ Josephine scanned the list, trying to find some common ground in the names. ‘Mr and Mrs Gerald Lancaster—’

‘I’ve never liked anyone called Gerald,’ Marta interrupted, ‘but there’s an Alex Fielding from The Times. He might be interesting.’

‘Yes, if a little intrusive. I’m not sure I like the idea of a journalist hovering round all weekend.’

‘I wouldn’t worry. He won’t be remotely interested in us once Archie arrives with his “guest”. Have we missed anyone?’

‘Only Mrs Carmichael. No other information supplied.’

Marta smiled. ‘Thirteen at dinner, then, if you include our hostess. That bodes well. I hope nobody’s superstitious.’ She took off her coat as the train pulled slowly out of the station, glad to be warm at last. ‘You say Archie’s a friend of the family?’ 58

‘That’s right. He and Hilaria are roughly of an age, so they were children together at the same dull, grown-up parties, and they’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s often in London.’

‘Which is how you know her.’

‘I wouldn’t say I know her. Archie had to remind me that we’d met, but I do remember finding her interesting. I think you’ll like her.’

‘The paper said she was connected to a lot of charities. Just how much of a do-gooder is she?’

Josephine laughed at the horror on Marta’s face. ‘I don’t think we’ll be forced onto too many committees, if that’s what you mean. It’s going to take more than a well-intentioned coffee morning to solve this particular problem.’ The early edition of The Times did nothing to curb her pessimism. She flicked through the first few pages, stopping at a photograph of Hitler leaving for Christmas at Berchtesgaden, having just had dinner with the seven thousand workmen building the new Reich Chancellery. ‘Money will decide who wins the war,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I just hope we’re up to it.’

She put the paper down and looked out of the window, tired of news which grew more inevitable and depressing every day. The country seemed divided between frenzy and apathy, between those who argued passionately for or against another war, and those who were resigned to trouble but too weary to do anything about it. She veered unreliably between the two. Today, though, she was happy to join with the rest of the country in using Christmas as an excuse to put her fears to one side, and there was something soothing about letting the countryside slip past as they moved further away from the capital. She watched, entranced, as dense evergreen forests gave way to more typically English stretches of 59woodland: thickets of silver birch, their distinctive feature now lost against the snow, and ancient oak trees whose gnarled branches drew stark, charcoal shapes in the air. The train entered a long cutting, then the banks cut away without warning, revealing a vast, sloping landscape of white, leaving the carriages feeling suddenly exposed.