‘For the war?’ Howard asked.

‘Well not the Girl Guides. Of course for the war. They’re at the town hall right now.’

‘Keen.’

‘Why wouldn’t they be? We need to teach the Hun a lesson. A short, sharp shock is what’s required.’

Howard couldn’t help but think that if a short shock was all that was required, it seemed unnecessary for them to be recruiting civilians; didn’t the King already have an army? Yet they were recruiting. Enthusiastically. It didn’t add up.

The rehearsal was not a particularly successful one; no one was thinking about the job in hand. The sound of brass bands could be heard drifting in from the streets; they’d been playing ever since war was declared. Crowds were still cheering and people were prone to burst into song. The strains of ‘It’s A Long Way To Tipperary’ lingered around every street corner, and the air seemed to spark. Everyone was straddled between indignation and excitement, fear and exhilaration. They twitched, putting Howard in mind of the packs of bloodhounds that he had seen tear through the countryside when he was a boy, frenzied and tumultuous.

Warrington understood and dismissed the cast early, telling them that they could go and watch the soldiers march through the streets but they should not get drunk in the public houses. ‘Curtain up at seven, war or no war,’ he reminded them. Giddy at the thought of time off, the cast scampered out of the theatre without having to be told twice.

‘Are you coming?’ Beryl asked Howard. She already had her arm linked through those of two other chorus girls, and she threw the request back over her shoulder.

‘You go ahead. I have some things to do.’ He waved his hand vaguely towards the stage. She shrugged and dashed off, giggling. Howard had the feeling his relationship with Beryl might fizzle out soon, now she had her line. And there was a war. He didn’t know exactly how or why a war should affect them, but it was affecting everything and everyone so he was sure their insignificant romance, little more than a flirtation of convenience, would not be immune. He imagined something new would attract Beryl’s attention – or, more accurately, someone new: a man in a uniform. As he’d expected, he found he did not mind too much.

Howard listened to the girls’ chatter and giggles fade. The festive mood hadn’t licked him. As he began to pack up his script into his leather satchel, Warrington sat down on the edge of the stage and then eased himself to ground level. He looked older than Howard generally thought him.

‘So, what will you do with yourself this afternoon?’

‘I’m not sure,’ replied Howard.

‘Will you go down to the recruiting station?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Will you be taking the pledge in the town hall?’ The question was challenging, almost insolent, as though Warrington already knew the answer, even before Howard did himself.

‘Why would I want to do that?’ Howard asked slowly. Shafts of sunlight exposed dust dancing in the air between them. It seemed to Howard that the dust was disrespectfully jolly; he’d thought the same about just about everyone and everything since the news broke. Birds still sang, dogs continued to bark, children laughed. Shouldn’t it all be significantly different now they were at war?