sort of loathing horror. ‘Why are you not at the Front? You speak like an educated man. Whether you have come down in the world through drink or wanton fecklessness, I do not know, but surely you can see that the war is your chance to redeem yourself, to put good some of the ravages your path – your manifestly unsatisfactory path – in life has led you down.’ She took a white feather from her bag and brandished it like a weapon. ‘It is my duty to give you this!’
Anthony, his side throbbing from the ferrule of her umbrella, didn’t know whether to laugh or tell her to mind her own business. The White Feather movement had started before he’d left London and hundreds, if not thousands, of women had enthusiastically taken upon themselves the task of handing out white feathers to those whom they considered to be shirkers.
She leaned forward, seized the lapel of his jacket, and made to insert it in his buttonhole. ‘Enlist today! There is still a chance to make good! Be a man amongst men!’
Anthony’s sense of humour won. To be taken for a tramp and an inebriate tramp at that, to be upbraided for cowardice, urged to enlist and to be able to produce a white feather was, properly considered, very funny indeed. Sir Charles would love the joke.
His hand closed over hers. ‘Thank you,’ he said brokenly. ‘You have pointed out the right path to me.’ The women looked at him dubiously, wondering if he was serious. ‘It was gin that brought me to this,’ he said earnestly, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice. ‘I shall reform and—’
‘Star anger.’ It was a clear, high voice, the speaker close at hand. The words cut through the welter of noise surrounding them.
Anthony, the ferocious woman still clinging on to his lapel, whirled. Standing by a taxicab, outside Swan and Edgars, with a commissionaire in attendance, was a well-dressed, middle-aged man in a top hat and a coat with an astrakhan collar. He stood back to allow his companion, a woman in a blue velvet coat and a wisp of a hat, get into the cab. The sight of the man struck a vague chord of memory. The woman looked up at him, smiling as he bent over her. Anthony could have sworn she’d said ‘Star anger’. Then, for a fleeting second, he saw her face.
It was as if he had been drenched with icy water. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and the shock brought him up dead. For a moment – it was like a moment outside time – London seemed to freeze.
The White Feather women, the crowds, the noise, all stopped. Then, with a shock like thunder, the implication of what she’d said crashed in upon him. Star anger. She knew what star anger meant!
Anthony tried to run towards her but the ferocious woman held him back. He ignored her, intent on getting to the woman in blue. ‘Hoy!’ he shouted as loudly as he could. ‘Stop!’
The woman in the blue coat didn’t hear him. She gathered her skirts together and disappeared into the taxi. The man climbed in the cab, the commissionaire closed the door and the taxi pulled away from the kerb.
Anthony unclasped the ferocious woman’s hand from his lapel, took the white feather and, shaking off her clutching hand – she clearly thought he’d gone mad – strode rapidly to the commissionaire. ‘Excuse me,’ he said crisply. ‘Who were those people? The man and woman who just got in the cab?’
The commissionaire blinked. Anthony could see him contrasting his voice and his clothes. ‘What’s it to you?’
Anthony pulled out a sovereign – the only English money he had was a roll of sovereigns – from his pocket and pressed it into the man’s hand.
The commissionaire’s bewilderment increased. ‘I’m sorry, guv, I can’t help you. They were going to Waterloo, if that’s any use.’
The White Feather women joined them. ‘Did you give this man money?’ demanded the ferocious woman.
‘Yes,’ said Anthony desperately. ‘I’m an eccentric millionaire. Now hop it, will you, my good woman.’ He turned to the commissionaire. ‘Call a taxi for me, please.’
‘My good woman!’ repeated the ferocious woman, shrill with indignation. ‘How dare you!’
The commissionaire put his whistle to his lips and blew.
Amidst a stream of recriminations from the women, a taxi drew up. The driver looked doubtfully at the embattled and down-at-heel Anthony.
‘He’s all right,’ said the