It was a familiar refrain. For a few months after the armistice, with almost every visit to the Barton house, a newspaper cutting would be produced: photographs of men who had miraculously returned, skeletal but alive, having escaped from prisoner-of-war camps and walked hundreds of miles back from Germany, or who had hidden out in the woods of Flanders for months and even years, afraid to show themselves as deserters. She would be invited to speculate on what might have happened to Bertie – that he might have been taken prisoner, or just been injured and helped by a Belgian family who were keeping him safe – and on the possibility that he might just turn up one day.

Even though she knew it was infinitesimally unlikely, after these conversations she sometimes dreamed of it: a man walking out of the smoke of battle towards her, his face blackened with dirt, his uniform torn and his cap missing. And then that face would break into his beloved smile and she would gasp, unbelieving, running towards him.

She would wake, crying, watching the dawn rise through the curtains, hearing the birds tuning up for the morning chorus: a few tentative tweets at first, followed by a single territorial blackbird and then the rest, joining the full-throated refrain. The cruel world was still out there, she was still here, alone, and he was dead. The only way to survive was to harden her heart.

As 1919 drew on, reports of miraculous returns became fewer and fewer until, almost to Ruby’s relief, they seemed to dry up entirely. At least now, she’d hoped, perhaps Ivy would begin to accept that he wasn’t coming home.

But no. Bertie’s aunt Flo had been to a séance a few months ago and asked about him. The medium had spoken some platitudes – Ruby’s interpretation, not Flo’s – about how he would always be with them, and this had been understood – distorted, in Ruby’s view – as an indication that he was somehow still on this earth. He’d been injured, apparently, but was now recovering in hospital. Ruby didn’t believe a word of it. If he was in hospital, they’d have heard by now.

‘We thought perhaps you might be able to find him,’ Ivy now murmured, leaning forward and taking Ruby’s hand. ‘It would mean so much to me, my dearest. I don’t think I have the strength to go on living without knowing whether he is still alive, somewhere. Or at least to know where he rests.’

It was a ridiculous idea and there was no way that Ruby was going to agree to go to Flanders on her own. She had to find some way of refusing, gently, so as not to cause them further distress. But for now, just to seem willing, she flicked through the brochure.

‘It’s on page fourteen, the itinerary we thought would be about right,’ Albert said, leaning over to help her turn the pages. ‘Not too expensive, but time to get a feel for the place, and visit the places you need to see.’