I shall be an airman, she scowled. I’ll fly to France. I’ll fly to America. I’ll show you, she said.

You’ll fall in the sea, he said.

Well. Even if I fall in the sea.

That began to annoy him, the absurdity of girls who are also sisters, and her face that grew purple in a rage, her lips became slate blue. Eden had a temper that he had to provoke. It filled him with both contempt and rage. He was a small core of disgust for so much frailty. He was also a little concerned by what he had released.

I’ll do anything I like! she screamed.

You’re only a girl, he said quietly.

He was white with hatred and contempt. Then she threw the paperweight that hit him in the chest, its thud, and the pain that was more surprise.

There, she said, quietening.

They looked at each other across the room. The thought of death that is constantly with us, Mr Macarthy preached. It was immanent, not in the fields of France, which were unimportant, because distant, except in Mrs Delbridge’s eyes, it had found a sudden interpretation in Mrs Macarthy’s sitting-room.

I’ll give you something, he said, with the quietness that follows after surprise.

I hope that bursts your ear drum, he said.

His hand released the scream that almost split the house. The pointed screams that were without respect for walls. He waited for what, in the absence of collapsing brick, would be more personal punishment.

Julia was red and angry when she came.

I’m ashamed, she said. Downright ashamed. You’ll have the stick, my lad. You’ll be sorry, Julia said.

And he was, for a little, in his room, running his finger along the quilt. He felt dry and empty after crying, after the exhaustion of so much passion. He ran his finger over the quilt and picked through past exasperation, Eden in tears, and the absurdity of girls. You could never share things with girls. Or with anyone perhaps. It made the finger pause. You were shut up in a box, in a room, in the sound of roosting birds, and the distant sounds of sea, and farther, soundless, the shells in France. It was darker now, and cold. His cheeks had dried.

Elyot, called Eden. You can come to tea.

He went out into the passage. She looked communicative, but shy.

There’s fish, she said.

He did not answer at first. But he was not resentful. As if she could not help herself. As if she was not aware of the discovery he had made. He walked along, apathetic, in the first stages of renewed contact. He was dignified, but still a little miserable.

Oh, he said. Fish.

Yes, she said. Herrings. And there’s someone else coming tomorrow. A girl called Connie Tiarks. She’s about as old as me.

That made him resentful again. Even if herrings. Connie Tiarks.

Marching with the authority of a Greek messenger, with more than his share of information, Eden launched on the next announcement.