He recalled a conversation he’d had with Philip the year before when they had discussed the possibility of America entering the war. Philip’s summing-up had been spot on. ‘We could do with their help – any help from anywhere if it comes to that – but they’re going to have to pull their finger out if they’re going to make a difference in the short term. They’re unprepared, and all the in-fighting that’s gone on within Congress has meant they’ve procrastinated too long already. Wilson needs to silence the opposition and take control, but he’s a great one for the middle course, which in the end pleases no one.’

Philip . . . Alexander shook his head sadly. His friend’s wife had written to him shortly after he had come home to Highfield before Christmas. She’d told him that Philip had died of blood poisoning in France following injuries received on the battlefield. It seemed fitting to him though, that if Philip had to die, his death mirrored that of his great literary hero, Rupert Brooke. He remembered one night in the trenches when Philip had recited Brooke’s poem entitled ‘The Soldier’ by memory. It had brought a lump to his throat then and it still did when he read it afresh. For the first time in his life he had really understood the power of poetry, and it was all thanks to his friend. And now there was another corner of a foreign field somewhere that was for ever England.

Alexander raised his head and glanced across the church hall. He was sitting at his table in a corner of the room and Rose and the others were standing waiting for the curate to open the door and let the first customers in. It was the middle of May, and at the beginning of the month the King had urged the nation to tighten its belt. At the same time it had been revealed that the royal household had been on strict rations since February.