“So you see a future for yourself working in the fields then?”

“I am not thinking beyond one day at a time, Mummy.” Emily got to her feet. “I think I’ll go up to my room and see which of my clothes I might want to take with me.”

“Take with you? For what occasion? Do they have a fieldworkers’ ball? Or tea dance?” And she gave a brittle laugh.

“I am heartily sick of the uniform, that’s all,” Emily said. “It is stiff and heavy and not that warm on cold days. I’d welcome wearing something different on a day off.”

She left the room before her mother could ask her anything more. Once up in her room, she stood, taking deep breaths to calm herself, letting the tranquillity of the soft colours wash over her. It would never work, would it? If she came back here, she would have to live with her mother’s scorn every day. She’d be told what a scoundrel Robbie had been to take advantage of her. “Now do you see why we tried to protect you?” her mother would say triumphantly. Could she endure it? She gave a big sigh. There might be no other choice.

She opened her wardrobe and ran her hands over the delicate silks and soft woollens. How many of them would she ever wear again? She went across to her writing desk and stared out of her window. There, in the bushes—that was where Robbie had first come into the garden. She pictured it clearly, his strawberry blond hair in rakish curls, the way his eyes lit up when he saw her. It seemed impossible to believe that he’d never smile at her again. A stiff breeze blew up, sending leaves flying from the trees and leaving behind dead and bare branches.

When she came downstairs again, her father had returned home. He had already been told that she was in the house. He was sitting in his armchair in the drawing room, the Times open on his knee. His face had that stern but just look on it that Emily was sure he practised for addressing people in his court.

“So the penitent has returned, tail between her legs, eh?” he said. “I told your mother you’d be back soon enough. She’s been quite upset these last months, you know. Extremely upset. And now you want to carry on as if nothing has happened—all water under the bridge, is that it?”

“No, Daddy,” Emily said. “I only came home because I have two days’ leave and I thought you might want to know how I’ve been faring.”

“I see. Then you are not home for good?”

“Not at the moment, no.” She took a deep breath. “We have not been discharged yet.”

“Well, you will be soon enough.” He wagged a finger in her direction. “That devil the Kaiser is on the run, and we’re going to make him pay for what he’s put us through. It will all be over in a month or so, you mark my words. And then I suppose I can see if there might be a job for you with one of our acquaintances. I can quite understand that a bright girl like you doesn’t want to spend her life at home waiting for a husband who might never show up these days.”

Emily didn’t know what to say. Her father took her silence to be submission. “I expect your mother will be glad to have you home again. Dashed lonely for her. Only her charity work to keep her going.”

The gong summoned them to the dining room, where they were served a clear beef broth with croutons, followed by steamed plaice with a parsley sauce. After months of stews, it tasted heavenly. But the atmosphere at the table was still decidedly frosty. Her father slurped his soup, getting a disapproving glance from his wife. Otherwise, there was silence.

“So what news from your friends and acquaintances, Mummy?” Emily asked eventually, finding the silence overwhelming. “Any good news?”

“I can’t say that there is,” Mrs Bryce said. “Well, the Thomas boy has been invalided out and he’s home, so that’s a relief to Myrna Thomas. But he might have shell shock, which will be worrying.”

“Shell shock,” her father said in a disgusted tone. “I don’t believe in this shell shock. It’s just an excuse to get out of fighting. Something no doctor can detect during an examination.”

“I heard from a nurse that some of the patients cry at night at the convalescent home,” Emily said. “There must be something wrong with them.”

“Weaklings, that’s what. Brought up too soft. Pampered by doting parents. Your brother would never have given in to shell shock, I can tell you that.”

There was another awkward pause. “And what about the Morrisons? Do you see them these days?”

She detected a hesitation, an awkwardness. Mr Bryce cleared his throat. “I suppose you’ll hear about it eventually, so I might as well tell you. Mildred Morrison has been a very stupid girl. She’s going to have a baby, can you imagine. No husband, I have to tell you.”

“Phoebe Morrison is dying of shame,” Mrs Bryce chimed in, “but I always said the girl had a flighty look to her, didn’t I? They should never have sent her to that progressive school. All that interpretive dance and those play readings. It’s not good to fill a girl’s head with too much of that stuff. But I never thought she’d go completely off the rails like that.”

“What’s going to happen to her?” Emily found it hard to say the words.

Mrs Bryce shrugged. “They’ve sent her away, naturally. To one of those homes, one gathers. I mean, the scandal would ruin them. No one would ever want to do business with her father again. And if they are lucky, she can return to the fold, and her parents can claim she was off doing war work.”