Warrington stared hard and then commented, ‘Well, everyone is.’ It didn’t seem much of a reason to join an army. Howard realised he must look sceptical because Warrington felt compelled to add, ‘War will do you the world of good.’

‘And how do you figure that?’

‘Every girl loves a soldier.’ Warrington winked; he was a little flushed, but it wasn’t the red of excitement or even stress. ‘I’m too old, they won’t take me.’

‘You’ve tried?’

‘I have.’ Warrington hung his head, and Howard understood the rose in his cheek for what it was: he was shamefaced, not an expression Howard had ever expected his jubilant, resilient actor-manager to wear. ‘I envy you.’ Warrington was speaking to his shoes. ‘I envy you your youth and all the opportunities it’s going to bring.’

‘You don’t have to. I shan’t be going.’

Warrington’s head snapped up. He held Howard’s eye. ‘Of course you will. You must.’

‘Oh, I don’t think it’s my sort of thing at all.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘War.’

‘But you have to do your bit.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. You can’t be seen to be slacking.’

Howard shrugged; surely Warrington knew that he didn’t much care for appearances, that he tended to do as he pleased. As he felt right. He lived for his art. He enjoyed his life. Loving women, drinking whisky, exercising his body. He never did anyone any harm, and although he was in what could frequently be a bitchy, ambitious industry, he didn’t cheat, lie or discourage his fellow men. He could not understand why someone might want him to pick up a gun and kill someone else. He simply couldn’t digest the call. It was out of this world. It was not for him.

‘The theatre-going public won’t like it,’ Warrington pointed out. Howard heard something: a thought, a threat. If he didn’t go, he’d never work again. The raging patriotism wouldn’t allow for conscience or feeble artisan viewpoints.

He sighed. ‘I suppose not, but I really don’t fancy killing a man.’

Warrington’s eyes fell to Howard’s soft white hands – as ever, ink was smeared around his fingernails; he never could shift it – a look that Howard was sure was contempt slipped across his face but was swallowed.

Howard put the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, then turned and walked slowly out of the dark theatre. ‘I’ll see you later.’

12

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE not to see the outbreak of war on one’s wedding day as anything other than an inauspicious omen. It could never be the wedding she’d dreamed of but Vivian had gone out of her way to imbue the occasion with as much good fortune as she could. Her actions were motivated by a mix of superstition and desperation. If only she’d married a week sooner, before the affair of war gathered such incredible momentum, but no, Mrs Foster would have the Monday bank holiday; she’d been determined not to give people the excuse of business for non-attendance. They’d chosen a Monday of course, because of the rhyme: Monday for wealth, Tuesday for health, Wednesday the best day of all, Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses and Saturday no luck at all. Vivian had argued for Wednesday but Mrs Foster had been aghast. ‘Who marries midweek?’ Vivian thought about the state of the marriages of her mother’s friends and had been tempted to comment, ‘Far too few,’ but she’d bitten down on her tongue.