He put his arm out toward her. “If I cling on to you, will you help me not to bounce back down?”

THERE WAS A crowd out on the back steps in hospital blues and dressing gowns, with newspapers and novels and the ears of the family’s dog requiring attention. They smiled into the sun and passed cigarettes. It was only the lean of crutches and the white of bandages that compromised the idyll. The men moved apart as Edie linked him down the steps.

“When you’ve perambulated Blythe, will you do me, miss?”

“How did he manage that?”

“Would you like to polish my medals, miss? I’ve a Victoria Cross in my trouser pocket.”

Edie laughed as they walked toward the lake. “Good God. Is that the plucky Tommy’s saucy badinage?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

They sat on a bench and looked out over the water. Edie plucked a daisy and pulled its petals away. The reflection of the house shivered in the lake. He skimmed a stone toward it.

“Loves me or loves me not?”

“I didn’t count.” Her chin tilted as she smiled. “You do look a bit peaky in the daylight. Am I not meant to put a blanket over you, or some such?”

“Never ever think of training as a nurse.”

She wrinkled her nose as she passed him a bag of sweets. “Licorice rock. See, I’m good for something. They told me that you’re doing well—that you’re making excellent progress.”

“I am. It’s not nearly as bad as it looks.”

“Trust you to make an almighty fuss over a bit of a cut. Do you think you’ll be here for long?”

“No. Not at all. The major told me this morning that they’ll have me back in France before September is out. I honestly think that he expected me to give a cheer.”

She pointed at the fleeting glimmer of a dragonfly. Sitting here, with just the noise of the ducks and the pleasant chatter behind, it was difficult to believe that France existed.

“Maybe you should stop making such excellent progress?” she suggested.

He looked at her. Backlit by the sun, she had a bright silhouette.

“What?”

“You’re all fiery around the edges. You look like a star shell.”

“You do talk nonsense, Harry.”

Coleman had brought the gramophone out onto the steps again and Italian arias were crackling across the garden. Caruso was singing something about dying despairingly. Pickering was miming along with the music, making exaggerated arm gestures. “Oh, dear me,” said Edie.

“Have you heard from Francis?” he asked. Not speaking his brother’s name extended the spell, but eventually he had to say it. “I sent him a postcard but I’ve had no reply.”

“Yes. They’ve made him a lance corporal. Would you believe it? Apparently he covered himself in glory in this little show of yours.”