Howard had never known anything like it.

It was breathtaking. Right there before his eyes, ordinary men became soldiers and kings, lovers and warriors. He knew immediately that theatre was limitless. Possibilities endless.

When he turned fourteen and told his mother he was going to London to find work in the theatre, ultimately to write plays, she did not laugh or discourage or yell with exasperation the way so many parents might have. She insisted it was a grand idea and it was best that she shared him with the world because he was the sort that couldn’t be contained by one woman. If she resented the fact that he wasn’t planning on earning a regular wage and contributing to the household, or staying close by her side to offer her company, she never for a moment let it show.

‘I’m cold. Are we going back to yours or not?’ Beryl tapped her feet on the ground to bring some feeling back to them; she’d wrapped her skinny arms around her body. Her skin was covered with goose bumps. Howard thought of the chickens that ran around his mother’s yard, eventually ending up on the table.

‘Don’t you have a coat?’

‘Of course I do.’ She wasn’t going to admit that she only had a hand-me-down brown overcoat that was just about acceptable in the daytime but not at all glamorous enough for a night out. He took off his own coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

‘My landlady doesn’t allow guests.’

‘You can sneak me in. I can be very quiet.’ Her nose was pink, her eyes glistened. He wondered what her lodgings were like. Grim, he imagined. Foul. Worse than his. And she wanted more lines. She was as keen as mustard. He could probably take her to the park and have her up against a tree, she was that eager, but he wouldn’t. Not tonight. There was something about the anxious fluttering of her hands that warned him off. This starlet was the sort that needed saving from herself. Besides, thinking about his mother had quelled his desire; she’d gifted him good looks, freedom, confidence but also (somewhat inconveniently) a conscience. Subliminally as he’d observed his mother deftly move away from the chubby, pawing hands of various widowers and would-be adulterers who dropped off their washing with her, he’d come to understand that as the world was currently constructed, men had a choice. They could exploit women, use and abuse them, or they might protect them. He knew he had to treat them fairly and honourably, because the law didn’t, and history hadn’t. Might the future?

‘I’m tired, Beryl. I have to be up in the morning at six. Warrington wants me to run through his lines with him.’

‘Why? He knows his lines. He’s very good. You saw the crowd tonight – they are wild for him. Always are. Always will be.’ She was suspicious; she didn’t trust his excuse.

‘Warrington is the sort of man who knows that always is a very long time indeed. He doesn’t want to be good; he wants to be the best.’ Howard kissed her on the forehead and gave her some cash for a cab. ‘I’ll ask him if we can find you a line.’