‘I do think you were thoughtless to let him roam the streets with that girl, Netta. I’m disappointed in you. You know he has work to go to in the morning.’ They were finishing off the last fitting for Edna’s wedding dress in the sewing room at Rosamund Street. Netta sucked on her pins, trying not to swallow them.

‘We all had work to go to. And Arnie had a wonderful time at the jazz club, I’ve never seen him so relaxed. It was his birthday, surely you don’t begrudge him a good time?’

‘He’s been back there again, you know, three times.’

‘Good for him!’

‘But his studies… what about his exams? I don’t know what’s got into him.’

‘Flexing his wings a little. He’s over twenty-one, old enough to do as he pleases.’

‘Well, I don’t like it,’ snapped Vida Bloom, spitting pins.

I don’t suppose you do, thought Netta, burying her head in the hem, out of the crossfire.

*

Netta watched the solemn procession: the silver band, clergy, civic dignitaries carrying poppy wreaths, scouts and cubs carrying their flags and the local territorials and British Legion walking stiffly behind. There was a steady stream of ordinary people following carrying little wooden crosses with names on them. Women with small children, older couples and widows, all in sombre clothing, walking together on that solemn morning when the city streets were silent and still and the bell from the parish church tolled in remembrance of fallen heroes.

Netta took her place with her own small cross of poppies: another sad face in the crowd as they reached the Cenotaph on which were inscribed the newly engraved names of the dead. It had to be done. A public display was the least survivors could offer to Rae and his friends for their sacrifice, but how Netta wished she was holding her own child in her arms for comfort as a token of their love. One day, she vowed, Gus would go with her to find his father’s grave. She would teach him then about sacrifice and duty. It was the least she could do.