But Mrs Frost was dead now. And with her death, some wire that had bound him to Howe Farm and the Frosts had been cut. They were still there but he wasn’t part of them any more. So much was obvious from the awful tea embarrassment. He guessed they were having a tea in her memory but no one had invited him – neither Peter nor Verity. He understood. A grocer’s son – and a Jew – it just wouldn’t do. He was fine as a childhood playmate but Mr Frost had made it quite clear that Arthur could no more consider himself a suitor to Verity than a fisherman could. Since Mrs Frost’s death, no one at Howe Farm considered him family. It had been immediately apparent at the excruciating wake in the aftermath of her drowning. None of them knew what to do about him without her there.

He set the kitchen table for tea, in silence. From the wireless came the irritating rum-de-dum of a big band. His mother cut the bread, humming along to the music. He felt her lack of comment, waited for the judgement to come. Each morsel of bread, a mere scraping of margarine and jam to wet it, was dry in his mouth.

‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she said finally.

His shoulders felt heavy with the weight of her need. It was a miracle, the way she’d uprooted herself to this rural backwater after living her entire life in the East End of London. When she’d stepped off the train in Wells during the war, her face was open in wonder. She hadn’t come with him when he was evacuated. Couldn’t leave the tailor’s, she said, but she’d visited, just that one time. He remembered the telephone call from his mother telling him his father was MIA, shot down over Germany. Mr Frost’s large hand on his shoulder and Mrs Frost, gasping, rushing to him, crying, ‘Poor boy!’ He never went back to London. It had been his mother’s idea to come to Norfolk herself. A fresh start, she said. But he hadn’t foreseen how much she would rely on him, how much her expectations for him were a load on his back.

‘Now you’re here, you can help me with the shop. It’s been hard without you. I had to get a young lad from the prefabs to do the deliveries. I’ll let him go now. He’s been filching I’m sure.’

His eyes ached. ‘I said I’d see Peter tomorrow, Mother. A round of golf.’

‘Golf? I see.’ There was a pause. ‘How’s that poor boy? After the terrible way his mother passed away. They were lucky to get the vicar’s blessing for a Christian funeral.’

Arthur creased his forehead in pain. How could she be so cruel? ‘Why wouldn’t they? It was just gossip.’