Howard felt something inside him harden, tense up. He could imagine how this conversation would play out: the man would be overbearing and imperious because he was off to war, or he’d be scared sick but desperate not to show as much. Either way he wouldn’t make good company. Yet Warrington wanted him on side. Howard dredged up an expression of interest, forced himself to ask, ‘You’ve joined up?’

‘Don’t be a damn fool. I have a glass eye.’

‘Have you really?’

‘Yes. Since I was a child.’ Clarke stared at Howard, challenging.

‘It’s very good.’

‘Thank you.’ Clarke nodded curtly as though Howard had passed some sort of test. ‘So you see, they won’t be wanting me.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘For having a glass eye?’

‘Well, yes.’ Howard felt a fool but believed it was a piece of luck.

‘I’ve never thought it was so.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you have.’ Howard sipped his whisky, imagining Basil Clarke as a small boy enduring the agony of having a glass eye fitted, dealing with the inevitable teasing and taunting of tactless kids. He knew it would be bad form to pass any comment that hinted at sympathy or understanding; instead he returned to the original line. ‘So if not to fight, what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going out to report. Got my orders today. I’ve to try and reach Ostend in Belgium before . . . well, you know.’

‘Before it falls.’

‘Quite.’

Howard felt an overwhelming sense of relief; he hadn’t wanted to hear another man’s story of bravery and sacrifice. However, reporting? Well, that was interesting.

Basil opened a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Howard. ‘Have to set off at the crack of dawn to try to catch a boat from Dover. Probably should stop drinking since I have such an early start.’

‘Oh yes, probably,’ Howard agreed, then waved his empty glass at the barman, securing refills for them both. Basil grinned.

‘One for the road can’t hurt, I suppose.’

Furnished with drinks, the men sat back and prepared to enjoy each other’s company. ‘What do you expect to see?’ Howard asked.

‘All there is.’

‘We’re not being told much. The papers are full of flag-waving and rallying calls, not much else.’

‘That’s Kitchener’s clench. He’s strangling reporters. Doesn’t like them. We exposed too many of the army’s errors in the Boer campaigns.’

‘I see.’

‘He certainly doesn’t want our lads to know what they are rushing at.’ It was the first time anyone had expressed a viewpoint that was vaguely in line with Howard’s; it was a respite from the endless enthusiastic march towards war.

‘Have you met Kitchener?’ Howard probed.

‘Yes. I have had that dubious pleasure.’

‘What did you make of him?’

‘Inane and fatuous. I thought him rather stupid.’ This view of the Secretary of War distinctly opposed that held by every soul in the street. Howard almost spat out his drink in shock. He appreciated the intimacy and trust implied in the controversial disclosure. Clarke continued, ‘As soon as war broke out, I was sent to work at the Press Bureau, met him on my first day.’