‘And I’m supposed to be flattered? I haven’t the faintest clue what this is all about. Has Ginnie left you?’ Visions of that pink marshmallow wedding dress and the fat cheque floating away over the horizon flashed before her eyes.

‘No such luck! Ginnie sticks to me like a plaster. Dear beautiful Ginnie, not a flicker of conscience in her diamond heart to trouble her. She can’t help me on this one but you might…’

‘I see,’ sniffed Netta as she put the kettle on the hob. He was going to need sobering up before she got any sense out of him. ‘Have you eaten?’ Drew shook his hair like a puppy, scattering drops in all directions. ‘Take off your wet things, dry your socks on the fender rail. Warm up and tell Auntie Netta what on earth’s been going on? Bacon and egg, I think. One rasher’s all that’s left of my ration but there’s plenty of fried bread. Go on, I’m all ears.’

Drew told her the bare bones of his story, his hands shaking. ‘I could do with a fag. It’s all my fault. I might as well have handed him the rope when I didn’t answer his call. If only…’

‘You were unlucky. He called you so he must have thought something of you. It was unfortunate. You must have faced suicide before?’

‘Yes, but they were just names to me, people I didn’t know or much care about. Arthur was a good chap. He deserved better. There must be thousands of war veterans, suffering silently, surviving with guilt, pushing down their panic and memories, trying to live normal lives. I should know. Even I saw enough on my fighting patch to turn the stomach. Battle is torture. Arthur’s right, it’s a rotten world if you are weak and vulnerable. Only the tough and uncaring survive.’

‘That’s not true and you know it.’

‘How can I face the other men and tell them about Arthur? Did all our talking stir it all up and make it worse for him? Talking about stuff is dangerous. You never know where it’ll end. Look at you and me: I talk to you. Ginnie and I don’t talk – we just pass the time of day, swap anecdotes, crack jokes. You and I, we bare our souls. We’re best pals. What shall I do, Netta?’

‘Don’t ask me. At least you chose to tell me about it, not drown your sorrows again. Surely that proves something? It’s a start. Go and tell the group the truth and see if there are any others who are as desperate as Arthur was. Use what has happened to help someone else and then his death won’t have been in vain. That’s all you can do.