This part of the service had a strange effect upon Lily. The reading of the names, so crudely recorded, alphabetically, without any preface or title, seemed ugly and brutal to her. She had been similarly struck, though not so strongly, by a call-over she had heard on a Speech Day at Eric’s school. It had seemed to her that this was a glimpse of the real man’s world, so hard and formal and cold. She had hardly thought of Richard, as one had to think of him, of course, turned forth over there, on the Other Side, with Frank Prewitt, Harold Stanley Peck, George Henry Swindells—all so naked and lost, clinging together, learning the new rules and ways, dazed and unfamiliar.

“Ernest Trapp,” read the Vicar.

“Richard John Vernon.”

“Timothy Dennis Watts.”

His name had sounded quite strange to her. She thought: I don’t care—I don’t see why it should be different from over here. Why couldn’t they have read out the officers’ names first? She’d heard that the names on the Memorial were put in the same way. That was really disgraceful, because, in fifty years’ time, nobody would know who anybody was.

The organ began to play, and the choir sang “Onward, Christian Soldiers” as the congregation filed out into the churchyard for the dedication. Mary appeared at the door and touched Lily’s elbow. They smiled faintly at each other. Anne was with Mary. And behind them was Edward Blake.

The Memorial Cross had been erected on the spur of land at the back of the church, overlooking the valley. The dark edge of the hill rose behind it, and everybody agreed that the site could not have been better chosen, although it was unfortunately not visible from the road. Kent, who had been waiting in the porch, came forward and gruffly whispered to Lily that the boy had brought up the wreath from Dobson’s. Apparently it was hidden away in one of the sheds at the back of the vestry, where the sexton kept his wheelbarrow and spades. Was it to be brought now, or later?