Lizzie popped her head in through the Scriptorium door. “Why are you still here?” she said. “It’s gone seven.”

“I’m just checking the entry for twilight. Dr. Murray wants to see the end of T by the end of the month. It’s impossible, but we’re trying.”

“I don’t think that’s why you’re here,” Lizzie said.

“Do you know what I do when I get home, Lizzie? I knit. Socks for the soldiers. The first pair took me three weeks, and when Gareth tried them on he said they were so tight that he’d be sent home with gangrene within a week. He accused me of doing it on purpose.”

“Did you?”

“Funny. No, I just hate knitting and knitting hates me. I’ve made five pairs now and they seem to be getting worse. But I need to do something or I begin to fret about Gareth being sent abroad,” I said. “How I wish I could fall into bed exhausted each night and sleep without a single thought.”

“That’s not a wish you want to come true, Essymay. Have you thought any more about volunteering?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit among the wounded. When I imagine it, they all have Gareth’s face.”

“They always need women to roll bandages and such,” Lizzie said. “And I’ve heard the men like to chat when the company has a pretty face. If you keep your ears open, you might pick up a word or two.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Have you been talking to Lizzie?” I asked Gareth.

He had the afternoon off from Cowley, and we were eating sandwiches by Walton Bridge. He avoided my question.

“Sam’s from the Press,” he said. “But he’s from up north originally. He could use a visitor.”

“Does he have no friends from the Press?”

“He has me, but I barely even have time to visit you. And the others…well, they’re still in France.”

Still in France, I thought. Alive or dead?

“He remembers you,” continued Gareth. “Says I’m a lucky man. I said I’d ask.”

The Radcliffe Infirmary had changed very little since Da was there, except that the wards were filled with young men instead of old. They were enlisted men. Some had all their limbs and all their humour; some were missing both. Those who were able smiled and teased as I walked by. None of them had Gareth’s face. I was relieved, and ashamed I’d stayed away.

A nurse pointed to Sam’s bed at the far end of the ward. As I walked towards it, I scanned the charts of twenty-five young men. Their names and ranks were written large and clear, their injuries obscured by medical terms and crisp white sheets. It was one ward in one hospital. There were now ten hospitals in Oxfordshire.