The driver appeared to read her mind. ‘There’s plumbing in the house, ma’am,’ he intoned, his comment somehow seeming to rebuke, as though he knew she was thinking about her own ease. She shivered and stupidly thought of witches being ducked and peasants held in the stocks. Of course, primitive medieval punishments, torture and such, had been carried out with horrible regularity in London, but somehow being in the countryside seemed so much more primal; she felt closer to history and she didn’t like it. She’d always been a modern girl.

The house was screened from the road by tall trees, and even as they got closer a laurel hedge contrived to taunt her by blocking her view. The wheels turned on the gravel; the place was not as impressive as she’d hoped nor as disappointing as she’d feared. Glimpses of a high slate roof and spacious windows suggested it was at least tall, a reasonable size. The coloured panes of glass in the porch suggested an element of taste. She did not want to leave the car. In here she felt she was somehow still a part of the London scene, but if she stepped out she was a landowner’s wife. Nothing more. Unequivocally. Not even a terribly affluent landowner at that, because Aubrey’s family did not own the thousands of acres Nathaniel’s family did. Their farmstead was humble by comparison.

The heavy wooden door had warped with rainfall and the driver had to shove it with his shoulder to get it to open. She stepped over the threshold. Ghosts greeted her, the furniture covered with dust sheets. The house smelt earthy, damp. They needed to open windows. She feared the servants must be slackers.

17

HOWARD AND CLARKE were effectively outlaws and fear of arrest weighed heavily upon them at first. However, it became clear that the French officials had far more to worry about than a couple of rogue journalists. As the days went by, many an officer, soldier and citizen went out of their way to befriend them. It seemed people had a need to tell their stories, knowing that Clarke might tell the world. Howard was passed off as a junior journo; no one enquired too closely, and when they did, Clarke always implied that he too was filing copy for the Daily Mail. Howard didn’t know what to say. He was here for the truth, but after only days in France, the word became meaningless. Truth? Did anyone want it? Really? In the back of his mind he’d thought that he might be inspired to write a new play, something significant and important. He was sure that he’d go home with some fresh material. What had Warrington insisted he wanted? He wanted Howard to create and inspire. But it was not possible. The things he saw. It was too much to contain in the space of three acts.

Even before they’d reached the front line, Howard’s understanding of truth had been obliterated. That first day they’d woken to the crunch of boots thumping on the gravel roads, left, right, left, right. Some of the regiments sang or whistled. The Scots went out to the distinctive sound of bagpipes and wearing kilts, which the other regiments liked to call skirts. The Scots didn’t care; comfortable, assured in their manhood and courage, they countered that the English were soft for needing trousers to fight in. It was banter; brave, almost joyful. They kissed the pretty French girls and accepted a swift cognac from friendly landlords as they marched. These men were trained soldiers, not wet-behind-the-ears volunteers. These were the men who had decided to make a career out of war. They knew their duty. They were fearless, doubtless, sure. They knew what to expect.