Warrington sighed. ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know yet, I’d have to think about it. Something with fewer male roles, obviously.’

‘And that’s your solution?’

‘Or I could set about recruiting some old fellows to help with the scene changes and what have you.’

Warrington flashed Howard a glare that could not be misinterpreted; it was one of loathing and disgust. ‘That’s you doing your bit for the war effort, is it?’

Howard flushed. It wasn’t embarrassment, it was irritation. This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked what his contribution was to be. The question had been asked in a hopeful tone back in August and early September; now it was hateful and hounding. Shopkeepers, landlords, women on the bus all felt it was their business. His own brother had just signed up and asked when, not if, Howard planned to attest.

The playwright was not a coward. He believed himself to be as brave and as afraid as the next man. He simply had not been hit by the wave of buoyant patriotism that was sweeping the land; he thought the lads who were signing up were doing so without due thought or understanding. Over and over again he wrestled with the illogical call to arms. If the war was to be over by Christmas as they said, then why was such an enormous disruption thought to be necessary? If it wasn’t to be over by Christmas, then what were they all heading into? Did people really want war? Of course he could see the attraction of travelling to the Continent, seeing a bit of the world, but what about when they got there? What then? They’d have to kill, put bullets in men they didn’t know and didn’t hate. He couldn’t imagine it. He wasn’t a soldier; his pen was his weapon. He could not say all or any of this to the shopkeepers, landlords or women on the bus. He had started to develop some resilience, an outward show of a thick skin, or at least poor hearing.

‘Maybe we could do a stage adaptation of Little Women.’ Howard didn’t much care for the book himself – he found it preachy and obvious – but he thought the mood of the people might mean a stage version would be a big success. It was about devotion, endurance and sacrifice; perhaps people would find it comforting. It would also be easy to cast. He thought Warrington would be enamoured by the idea.

‘I don’t pay you to rehash. I pay you to create and inspire,’ snapped Warrington. ‘It’s not good enough. You’re not good enough.’ The thought was spat out in heat and frustration but Howard knew it was all the more genuine for that. Warrington wasn’t referring to Howard’s work; it was more personal than even that. The manager bit down on his lip and let out air through his nose. ‘I just don’t understand your position.’ Howard didn’t insult his boss by pretending to mistake what he was talking about. They were no longer discussing his writing. ‘The French are picking up arms in their thousands, and the Belgians.’ Howard thought this was inevitable; it was their countries that were being threatened. Fear, quite probably, made it easier to hurt. Warrington added, ‘We have to do our bit.’