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Ethel said: “His name’s not on the list of casualties in today’s paper, thank God.”

“I wonder when he’ll get leave.”

“He’s only been gone five months.”

Mildred put down the teapot. “Ethel, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I’m thinking of going out on my own-as a seamstress, I mean.”

Ethel was surprised. Mildred was the supervisor now at Mannie Litov’s, so she was earning a better wage.

Mildred went on: “I’ve got a friend who can get me work trimming hats-putting on the veils, ribbons, feathers, and beads. It’s skilled work and it pays a lot better than sewing uniforms.”

“Sounds great.”

“Only thing is, I’d have to work at home, at least at first. Long-term, I’d like to employ other girls and get a small place.”

“You’re really looking ahead!”

“Got to, haven’t you? When the war’s over they won’t want no more uniforms.”

“True.”

“So you wouldn’t mind me using upstairs as my workshop, for a while?”

“Of course not. Good luck to you!”

“Thanks.” Impulsively she kissed Ethel’s cheek, then she picked up the teapot and went out.

Lloyd yawned and rubbed his eyes. Ethel lifted him up and put him to bed in the front room. She watched him fondly for a minute or two as he drifted into sleep. As always, his helplessness tugged at her heart. It will be a better world when you grow up, Lloyd, she promised silently. We’ll make sure of that.

When she returned to the kitchen, she tried to draw Bernie out of his mood. “There should be more books for children,” she said.

He nodded. “I’d like every library to have a little section of children’s books.” He spoke without looking up from the paper.

“Perhaps if you librarians do that it will encourage the publishers to bring out more.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

Ethel put more coal on the fire and poured cocoa for them both. It was unusual for Bernie to be withdrawn. Normally she enjoyed these cozy evenings. They were two outsiders, a Welsh girl and a Jew, not that there was any scarcity of Welsh people or Jews in London. Whatever the reason, in the two years she had been living in London he had become a close friend, along with Mildred and Maud.

She had an idea what was on his mind. Last night a bright young speaker from the Fabian Society had addressed the local Labour Party on the subject of “postwar socialism.” Ethel had argued with him and he had obviously been rather taken with her. After the meeting he had flirted with her, even though everyone knew he was married, and she had enjoyed the attention, not taking it at all seriously. But perhaps Bernie was jealous.

She decided to leave him to be quiet if that was what he wanted. She sat at the kitchen table and opened a large envelope full of letters written by men on the front line. Readers of The Soldier’s Wife sent their husbands’ letters to the paper, which paid a shilling for each one published. They gave a truer picture of life at the front than anything in the mainstream press. Most of The Soldier’s Wife was written by Maud, but the letters had been Ethel’s idea and she edited that page, which had become the paper’s most popular feature.

She had been offered a better-paid job, as a full-time organizer for the National Union of Garment Workers, but she had turned it down, wanting to stay with Maud and continue campaigning.

She read half a dozen letters, then sighed and looked at Bernie. “You would think people would turn against the war,” she said.

“But they haven’t,” he replied. “Look at the results of that election.”

Last month in Ayrshire there had been a by-election-a ballot in a single constituency, caused by the death of the sitting member of Parliament. The Conservative, Lieutenant-General Hunter-Weston, who had fought at the Somme, had been opposed by a Peace candidate, Reverend Chalmers. The army officer had won overwhelmingly, 7,149 votes to 1,300.

“It’s the newspapers,” Ethel said with frustration. “What can our little publication do to promote peace, against the propaganda put out by the bloody Northcliffe press?” Lord Northcliffe, a gung-ho militarist, owned The Times and the Daily Mail.

“It’s not just the newspapers,” Bernie said. “It’s the money.”

Bernie paid a lot of attention to government finance, which was odd in a man who had never had more than a few shillings. Ethel saw an opportunity to bring him out of his mood, and said: “What do you mean?”

“Before the war, our government used to spend about half a million pounds a day on everything-the army, courts and prisons, education, pensions, running the colonies, everything.”

“So much!” She smiled at him affectionately. “That’s the kind of statistic my father always knew.”

He drank his cocoa, then said: “Guess how much we spend now.”

“Double that? A million a day? It sounds impossible.”

“You’re nowhere near. The war costs five million pounds a day. That’s ten times the normal cost of running the country.”

Ethel was shocked. “Where does the money come from?”

“That’s the problem. We borrow it.”