The two men stood back and watched as the wild war raged and wrecked.

‘Are you writing?’ Clarke asked Howard. Howard fought a blush. He hated it when this no-nonsense northerner fixed upon him and asked this particular question, which he did regularly.

‘No,’ he admitted. He’d thought as an artist he might salvage something, some understanding or insight, but he remained blocked. The horror of it was too immense.

‘Yesterday I heard of a jeweller who buried his stock in the sand dunes.’

‘Did he really? To prevent it being looted by the Germans if they take the city, I presume.’

‘Quite so.’ Clarke paused, measuring how closely Howard was following. ‘You know, I talked to an officer friend of mine today. He sought me out.’

‘And said?’

‘He offered me a place on a boat that is to leave if the Germans break through. You and me both. He made it clear that it would be unpleasant for us if we were caught here.’ Clarke paused, gulped back the red wine and then leaned in close to Howard. ‘He said if Fritz arrives tonight, we should slip down to the dock and get aboard pronto.’

‘He’s never mentioned this boat before?’

‘No.’

‘Things must be getting tight.’

‘They are.’ Clarke gave a grim nod, whispering in his ear now. ‘Just this morning, a friend in the Belgian Flying Corps told me that the Germans had got through the line at one, maybe even two points.’

Howard swallowed hard. ‘So then it’s a question of whether the Allies can cut them off or whether we will be overrun.’

‘Yes.’ Clarke nodded over to where the young soldier who had been charged with delivering the copy was standing. He was laughing a little too loudly at some joke or other. The men were often shrill and giddy; it was camouflage for fear. ‘You could catch the five o’clock boat with our soldier friend. I’m sure we could hitch you a ride.’ He slipped the suggestion on to the table casually; it seemed to seep into the wood along with the rings of red wine. Howard felt momentarily untethered, almost dizzy. Did he want to leave? Yes, yes, more than anything. Could he?

‘I don’t imagine you are planning on going?’

‘No. I’ll stay until they tell me I have to leave, while there are stories to tell.’

‘Ever the newspaperman.’

‘Quite so.’

‘I don’t feel in any personal danger,’ commented Howard truthfully.

‘Don’t be fooled, you are.’

‘Then maybe I don’t mind it if I am.’

Clarke winced. ‘War can do that to a man. I saw the same in the Boer Wars.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It blinds one to the value of one’s own life.’

Howard wondered whether that was what had happened to him. He wasn’t sure. It was true that he didn’t feel quite himself. His role as a constant observer had rendered him not just an outsider, but almost invisible. His inability to write had left him feeling futile.