Drain, reserving the stock, and set the head and vegetables to one side. Take the meat out of the head and thinly slice the tongue, putting it to the side. Chop the other meat and brains and blend them with the cooked vegetables, flour, breadcrumbs, and a little salt.

Using a floured board, roll the meat mixture into a long strip. Wrap the slices of tongue around the meat. Keep the shape by either wrapping the roll in baking paper or margarine paper, or by fitting into a large, greased jam jar. Put it into a steamer and cook for 1 hour.

     This can be eaten hot with vegetables and gravy or left to cool, sliced, and served with salad.

Audrey

It seemed absurd to Audrey that this was happening, surreal. What was she doing here, standing outside the church, about to have a memorial service for her husband? His body, she was informed, was buried close to where he fell, in Germany. It was something that she loathed—that his pure, courageous, kind soul would remain not with his own, but with his enemy.

How could that ever be right?

From the very beginning, the first time she laid eyes on him at the garden party at Fenley Hall, she knew it was him and no one else. Was it the kindness in his dark, sloping eyes? Or was it his courteous humor, his gentle manners, the warmth of his smile? Behind his dark, handsome face was a tranquility and depth that seemed to be encapsulated in his every move.

She’d been young, only sixteen. It wasn’t the first grown-up party she had attended, but there hadn’t been many, and she’d made a great effort in refitting one of her mother’s dresses to fit her slender figure. It was a modest cream-colored dress, high-necked and almost down to her ankles, as was the fashion.

Matthew had been introduced to her, along with some other men—the few who had returned from the war. He touched his lips to the back of her hand, his large dark eyes gazing up at her in warm adoration. “There’s to be dancing later, and I’m sure that a girl as beautiful as you would be a wonderful dance partner. Would you do me the honor?”

    “Of course I will.” She felt a laugh in her chest, as if it were silly for him to ask—weren’t they meant for each other?

The dance took eternity to begin, and she tried not to look through the crowds for him, but whenever she did, he was there, looking at her, ready with a smile.

In those days, young women were never allowed to be alone with a man, and her mother was strict and sheltering. The waltz was the closest she ever came to touching a man, and as Matthew led her softly around the ballroom, she felt something inside her unbuckle, as if she was realizing for the very first time what it meant to be human, what it meant to be alive.

“You’re the most wonderful girl I ever met,” he whispered in her ear as they swirled between the other dancers, at once together in both movement and mind.

Audrey didn’t know what to say, except a breathless, “Oh, thank you.”

“Do you like picnics?” It was an odd question for the middle of a waltz, but it was asked with such fervor she could hardly ignore it.

In any case, she loved picnics. “Yes,” she replied.

“That’s good.” And for a dreadful moment, she thought he’d just leave it there. But then he said, “Would you care to join me on one? I’m something of an artist, you see, and I would like to paint you, somewhere beautiful.” Then he smiled so gently. “A beautiful place for a beautiful girl.”

She bit her lip, aware of her footsteps faltering with her nerves. “I’ll have to ask my mother,” she said, praying that she would allow her to go. “I hope you’re a good artist,” she added playfully.

“Not bad. I’m trying to make a profession of it, even though it’s a hard way to make a living.”

This was set to be the subject of her discussion with her mother on the way home.

    “He seems like a nice enough young man, and his family is a good one, but his choice of profession could hardly be worse.”

“I’m sure his family money will keep him going until he makes a name for himself.” Audrey prayed it to be the case.

It was not. As the second youngest son, he had no family money to speak of.

The picnic on Blue Bell Hill, accompanied by her mother and an aggrieved fourteen-year-old Gwendoline, was not an unmitigated success. Yet, although her mother kept bringing the conversation back to artists’ poverty, their meeting only bound them closer.

“I want to capture you now,” he had said as he painted her, his voice so quiet that no one else could hear. “So that I’ll always remember how utterly exquisite you are, even when you aren’t with me.” He looked into her eyes. “To see you every day, to feel you near me, that is all I would ever need.”

The heat inside her heart was almost too much to bear.

He looked to her hopefully. “Do you want to be close to me, too?”

She nodded, breaking her pose, as her fingers shook with the enormity of it all.

All she wanted was to spend the rest of her life in his arms.

Their courtship lasted longer than usual. Even though there couldn’t have been anything more certain than their devotion for each other, Matthew’s career continued to prevent Audrey’s parents from agreeing to the match—and without their consent, by law she could not be married. They banned her from seeing him and introduced her to more eligible young men, hopeful that she would see sense.

But sense was not in her heart.

All she wanted was Matthew.

Their wedding was small and modest, and there was no honeymoon.

“We don’t need one,” she explained to her mother, “when our whole life will be like a honeymoon.”

    And it was. Suddenly all of the restrictions and rules of her youth were gone, and she was queen over her domain, albeit a small flat in London. Together, they lived like small animals, snug in their little burrow, cooking and eating, reading poetry out loud, cuddling and caressing as if they couldn’t get enough of each other. He played the piano, and Satie and Debussy formed the heavenly backdrop of their lives, decadent, poignant, loving.

As she stood on the brink of his memorial, flickers of their life together came to her. The day he came home with the secondhand bicycle, teaching Alexander to ride it, trying to hold it up for him all the way down the lane. Then there was the time he cooked a cake for her birthday, covering it with pink and red rose petals as he knew that was her favorite flower. And the many evenings he’d sit in the garden, his pipe in one hand, silently watching the sunset, as if reliving life itself.

“Come on, Mum.” Alexander appeared beside her at the church door. “We need to go in.”

Audrey peered into the dark, cool interior.

“Yes, I think it’s time, Audrey.” Zelda hovered behind Audrey’s shoulder. She had helped the younger boys get into their best clothes, which frankly weren’t best-looking at all.

Audrey turned to her. “Could you sit with the boys, Zelda? Help them settle down?” She felt so very alone, vulnerable. How could she deal with the boys in this state? They’d be upset, too—it would be too much to bear.

Zelda glanced around, looking for someone else, but there was no one. “Of course,” she said. “There aren’t many people here.”

She was right. A few of the villagers had come, including Nell, but most of Matthew’s friends and colleagues were also at war. His family was in Somerset—too far to come with restrictions on travel. Ambrose was present, of course, a larger-than-life presence in the middle of the church. He looked at the floor, somberly.

“Proper funerals tend to pull a bigger crowd than these memorial services,” the vicar said with impatience. “We live in busy times.”

    Audrey felt a sudden urge to flee, glancing behind her to the lane. Why was she putting herself through this?

Where was Matthew when she needed him most?

A sudden burst of resentment swelled inside her. If Matthew had thought this through before he left, perhaps it would be easier. Maybe he would have changed his mind, decided not to go. He’d been at the cusp of the upper age limit for conscription when the war began—he must have had ways to get out of it. Or he could have taken a reserved job as a manager in a war factory or in engineering. He had good certificates from school, after all.

But he couldn’t help himself.

“I survived the last one, didn’t I?” he had said firmly. “My flight officer will be in need of experienced men like me.” He had put his arms around her, saying softly, “It’s my duty.”

“But you’re an artist, darling,” she’d argued. “Not a fighter.”

He’d placed a kiss on her nose. “Artists of all people understand the need to fight for what is right. Hitler is a demon. He’ll be hard to stop, but we have to try. I don’t want my boys growing up in a world controlled by Nazis.” He’d peeled away from her. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hadn’t done all I could to stop them.”