‘You write for the Daily Mail?’

‘Quite so. Spend most of my day negotiating with censors rather than writing the news at the moment, though. Amongst ourselves we call it the Suppress Bureau. Terrible place.’ He shook his head with impatience. ‘Chaos reigns. There can be up to thirty reporters crammed inside its tiny offices at any one time. The entrance is perpetually crowded with messengers waiting to take news back to Fleet Street. I promise you the quality of the news rarely justifies the disagreeable working conditions. But do you know what Kitchener said when he saw the place?’

‘No.’

‘He pronounced it “very nice indeed”. Damned silly comment. Freddie Smith . . . you know?’

‘F. E. Smith, the MP?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. He introduced us.’ Howard couldn’t help but be a little impressed that Clarke referred to the politician by his first name, suggesting they were intimate; trusted peers. ‘Damned strangest thing. Kitchener held his hand out for me to shake, and then, before I could clasp it, he withdrew.’

‘Were you going to clasp it?’

‘I think that was the question he was asking himself.’ Basil grinned and wouldn’t say either way. ‘In my opinion the amount of news issued to the press about this war is the smallest, its value the poorest.’

‘I too have had the sense that reading the papers amounts to little more than reading a government press release,’ admitted Howard.

‘Quite so!’ Clarke smiled broadly. ‘I can’t wait to find out what is really going on.’

‘I envy you.’

‘Want to see a bit of action, do you, like the rest of them?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Medical grounds, is it? Have you been turned down and you’re feeling the sting?’ Clarke took a drag on his cigarette and his eyes flicked around the room. He thought he had Howard pegged.

‘I haven’t volunteered.’

‘Really?’ Clarke’s eyes returned to Howard’s face and searched him, but the comment was made without censure or shock.

‘I’m not sure of the value of this war. Of any war,’ Howard explained, then let an exasperated sigh fall. ‘But I don’t know. Maybe they are all right and I’m wrong.’ Was it the drink that was causing him to waver? Or the thought of Warrington’s hurt and disgust? The threat of possible unemployment? He stubbed out his cigarette, irritated with himself. ‘Of course I can’t know for sure what it’s all about unless I’m out there, and that seems quite a risk. I could go to war and find that I’ve been right all along, that it is a travesty. However, I would love to know one way or the other. That’s why I say I envy you. You’ll get to find out all about it.’ Of course he was curious; more than that, he was fascinated.

‘Come with me.’

Howard did not comprehend the invitation for a moment; the offer made little sense. ‘To Ostend?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I’m not a soldier. I told you I haven’t attested. I have no intention of joining up.’