Vivian imagined his long-dead grandfather clad in a lavender-grey frock coat and a top hat, the very epitome of the confident patriarch (that much could be gathered simply by the way his waistcoat stretched across his big belly, chased by his watch and chain). His white beard would have always been neatly trimmed, the long sideburns offering adequate compensation for his bald head. She hated him. Just hated him for ever thinking of a country retreat.

15

HOWARD AND CLARKE set off for Dover on the earliest train. It was still dark – even the birds were silent – but when they arrived they were told that no more boats were setting sail for Belgium. They were both momentarily taken aback; the dangers and inconvenience of war suddenly seemed significantly closer than they had done backstage at Warrington’s or in the crowded Press Bureau, when everything was theoretical. Determined, they took a cab to Folkestone to see if they’d have more luck from there. As they waited, boatloads of Belgian refugees docked and descended. Frightened, tired bodies that needed a good bath and were embarrassed by the fact flooded into the country. Basil spoke to some of them and soon learnt that they had come from Ostend and that the Germans had already taken the city. They were too late. A blanket of frustration and depression visibly cloaked Clarke.

‘What shall we do?’ Howard asked. They sat in a tea shop, cigarette smoke and the steam from the huge metal urns drifting around the room like ghosts.

‘Well, my news editor’s instructions are now impossible to complete,’ Clarke stated flatly. This was a disaster.

‘I suppose the obvious course of action is to return to the office.’

‘Yes.’

Neither of them could accept that they might do so. Howard fingered his note book; he’d been jotting down his thoughts and observations all morning. Impetuous and reckless, Howard added, ‘I want to see the war.’

‘Yes, me too.’ Clarke smiled at his co-conspirator.

They took a steamer to Calais. Clarke thought that he might be able to retrospectively justify his decision if he could send news back from the Front; the sort of stories that got to the heat and heart. The sort that the British public needed and were being denied. Neither man had the correct paperwork, and whilst they didn’t articulate the possibility, they were both aware that they might arrive in France and be put straight back on a boat. The bag of sovereigns would come in useful in persuading the doorkeepers to look the other way, but it was a risk.

Once they docked at Calais, they visited the British Consulate even before they took a hotel. It was a large grey building that once might have looked authoritative and austere; in the midst of war it was impossible to ignore the ambience of alarm and dread that had invaded it. The place seemed to quiver uncertainly. Howard and Clarke were categorically refused the necessary permit that would give them access to the Front; they were instructed not to leave the town unless it was to return to England. Howard was impressed that Clarke barely broke his stride; he had expected to draw a blank at the consulate and seemed undaunted. He tipped his hat politely and headed across the road to approach the French officials. They also refused to provide a ‘laissez-passer’; again Howard wondered if his adventure was to be abruptly brought to a halt. He considered how slim his chances of returning to Warrington’s Playhouse were exactly. Less than a sliver. His boss would have found his note of resignation by now. Clarke tutted at him for mooting the thought.