‘They want us to live a life of clichés, Mrs Owens. They don’t want us to think or feel anything deeply or thoroughly, but it is dreadful not to. I’ve heard it all. It’s all been thrown at me. “Courage of a lion”, “Glory of God”, “Responsibility to the Crown”, “Fall in, Your Country Needs You”. What does it mean? What does any of it mean? Nothing. That’s what.’

‘It all sounds very admirable to me.’

‘I think you’d find it less so if you were knee deep in blood and guts.’

The boy guard coughed. Vivian supposed he’d be going to the Front soon. ‘Pardon me. Frog in me throat,’ he mumbled. She dug around in her handbag and unearthed a packet of butterscotch sweets; the butter had left greasy smudges on the thin white paper bag. It was not a pristine gift but she offered one to the guard all the same. He hesitated.

‘To suck on. Ease your throat,’ she urged.

‘Better not, ma’am. On duty.’

‘I won’t tell.’

‘Nor will I,’ added Mr Henderson laconically.

Unable to resist the small treat, the soldier reached for a sweet. ‘Take the lot. Put them in your pocket. Share them with the others.’ He did, compliant, like a child. She turned back to Enid’s son. Howard R. Henderson. The playwright. A man with big, difficult ideas. There was something about the young soldier’s grateful demeanour that made her feel more intensely infuriated by Mr Henderson, and yet abnormally absorbed by him. ‘Millions have volunteered. Why must you be different?’

‘Yes, millions, yet they still need more. They are powering through our brave young men, aren’t they?’

‘Is that what you are worried about, dying out there? Mr Henderson, I have to ask, what makes you think you are so special that you don’t have to go?’ She paused, glanced over her shoulder at the young man sucking his sweet, then lowered her voice in an inept attempt to shelter the soldier from what he must already know. ‘Go, and yes possibly die out there, like the good men who—’

‘I’m not drawing comparisons. I’m just saying it doesn’t seem to be very effective, this strategy of ours.’

‘Strategy?’

‘You know, simply throwing men at the problem. Cannon fodder.’

‘It’s a sacrifice. No one is arguing that, but this will be the end of it. The war to end all wars.’

‘I seriously doubt it. That’s never been the case. Why would the biggest and bloodiest war turn out to be the one that stops it all? Why isn’t anyone in the least bit logical when it comes to this?’ He sighed. It seemed they were equally dissatisfied with one another.

‘I do realise it must be dreadful.’ Aubrey had twice been back to England since he was sent to France; she could see he was affected, although he never spoke of it. Still, best foot forward. He went back. Of course he did. ‘Other people learn to bear it, you know. Piano tuners and schoolteachers.’