# Goodbye for Now: A breathtaking historical debut

M.J. Hollows

Two brothers, only one survives. As Europe is torn apart by war, two brothers fight very different battles, and both could lose everything… While George has always been the brother to rush towards the action, fast becoming a boy-soldier when war breaks out, Joe thinks differently. Refusing to fight, Joe stays behind as a conscientious objector battling against the propaganda.On the Western front, George soon discovers that war is not the great adventure he was led to believe. Surrounded by mud, blood and horror his mindset begins to shift as he questions everything he was once sure of.At home in Liverpool, Joe has his own war to win. Judged and imprisoned for his cowardice, he is determined to stand by his convictions, no matter the cost.By the end of The Great War only one brother will survive, but which?This breathtaking novel is perfect for fans of Jenny Ashcroft, Kate Furnival and Louisa Young.

## About M J Hollows

M J HOLLOWS was born in London in 1986, and moved to Liverpool in 2010 to lecture in Audio Engineering. With a keen interest in history, music, and science, he has told stories since he was little. Goodbye for Now is his first novel, which he started as part of his MA in Writing from Liverpool John Moores University, graduating in 2015. He is now researching towards a PhD in Creative Writing, and working on his next novel. Find out more about Michael at his website: www.michaelhollows.com.

## Goodbye for Now. M J HOLLOWS


HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © M J Hollows 2018

M J Hollows asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008287962

Version: 2018-10-25

For everyone who fought and died in war,

and everyone who fought and died for peace.

Table of Contents

Cover

About M J Hollows

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

[1923]

[1914]

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

[1915]

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

[1916]

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

[1917]

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

[1923]

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

Dear Reader

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

[1923]

They all stood in silence, with hats and caps doffed under arms, focusing their vision on their shoes. Meanwhile the bishop droned on in his fashion, extolling the virtues of sacrifice.

He stared with them, trying not to dredge up the memories of the past. I have lived through hell, but in that I am not alone, he thought. Bile stuck in his throat and he desperately tried to swallow it away. No one noticed, or if they did they attributed it to his grief.

Everyone had suffered and sacrificed, not just the soldiers. He wondered how his brother might be now. How much he would have been changed by the war. They had both endured their own private hells, and as the dead would keep their solace, so would the living. No one would ever truly understand their plight and those that had experienced it didn’t need the others to remind them. That was what the nightmares were for.

So he stood there, in silence, with their neighbours and people from the nearby streets, waiting for the bishop to finish his sermon, for the memorial to be revealed.

Somewhere in the distance a baby cried. No one reacted, empathising with the child, who was probably too young to know what was going on but was joining in nonetheless.

The bishop stopped and was replaced by a Major young enough to have been a junior Lieutenant at the outbreak of war. His voice broke as he began reading out the names of the lost, Morgan, Norris, Oliver, the endless torrent of the dead. They were just names now. Their legacy, the brass plaque that was being unveiled.

He patted his coat pocket, remembering the bundle of letters that he kept there. That’s where they would stay, sealed, but not forgotten.

The Major continued reading out the names of the fallen, some of whom he knew, others he had never met.

When he could bear to think of him, he had spent most of the war angry with his brother. Not angry, that wasn’t strictly the right emotion. They had never really understood each other. They were very different people, with different stories. He had had high hopes for his brother, they all had, yet he threw it all away. He chose his path. When he should have turned to his family he turned away. It was hard now to remember him as they were when they were children. Too much had happened. His name had not been spoken aloud since. They all missed him, but it was too painful a memory.

The Major had finished now and had disappeared. There was a cough from someone amongst the crowd. The only sound apart from that was the occasional sniffle of a nose or the sound of stifled weeping. Heads were still bowed and would remain that way for some time, some years perhaps.

At first he hadn’t understood his brother’s decision; they stood on opposite sides. But as the war dragged on and on, past its first Christmas and into a new year, year after year, he had started to understand his brother a lot more. He begun to understand the need to fight for something, to believe in something and to not give up. No matter what life would throw at you. That was a sentiment he could agree on, and he guessed it was something their father had managed to instil in them both, despite their differing opinions. It had been a clear dividing line at first, but things were less clear now. The world had changed for all of them. The horror of the war had left no family unaffected. They couldn’t change their decisions, but they could make sure that they counted for something. That things hadn’t just changed for the worse but would be allowed to change for the better too.

He just wished his brother was still around to say this to, but he would never have the chance now. Their paths drifted apart, on what was to be a fateful day for millions of people…

[1914]

## Chapter 1

‘It’s war!’

George Abbott would never forget where he was that day, when those very words were spoken. He was sat at the family kitchen table, a roughly cut dark wooden frame, with an off-white cloth draped across it to hide its wear and tear. He leaned over a bowl of oats, playing them around with his tarnished spoon. Beside it was an enamel plate with some bread and milk.

His sisters, Catherine and Elisabeth, sat either side of him. Catherine was looking over at George to see if he would eat his bread, or if she could take it. Her hair was a deep black mess of curls, the same as their mother’s, framing a pale, chubby face, whereas little Elisabeth’s hair was a distinct copper colour, more like their father’s. At the other end of the table, across the other side was George’s brother Joe, gaunt and long like their father, although with a growth of unkempt curly black hair. He wore the deep brown suit that he always wore to work, even at the breakfast table. He was careful not to get any food on it.

The back door had burst open and their father limped in clutching the Daily Post to his chest and calling to the family. If George were to look him in the eye, it would be like looking in a mirror, except his father was older and thinner. Their faces were exactly alike and the resemblance was uncanny. It was only his father’s eyes that looked different, like they had seen a thousand things, and crow’s feet pulled at the edge of his face.

‘It’s war!’ he said. ‘We’ve declared war.’ He carried on as if unheard. ‘Britain has declared war on Germany.’

Everyone stared, not knowing quite what to say. War had been brewing for some time, so they weren’t surprised.

‘Pass your father the kedgeree,’ their mother said to Catherine and she did as bid, passing the dish of flaked fish and rice that everyone but their father despised. He must have picked up his taste for it in India.

‘I thought we were allies with Germany?’ Their mother was ever the practical woman. She carried on eating while the rest of the family grew excited and agitated. George pushed his plate of bread towards Catherine to distract her, but she just stared at it, then at him.

Their father finally found his seat, hanging his cheap coat behind him as he wrestled his body onto the chair.

‘No, no, love. Belgium. They’re the ones. They invaded there, so ol’ squiffy told ’em where to go.’

‘Belgium invaded Germany?’

‘No. The other way round!’

She didn’t appear to be listening and smiled conspiratorially in her husband’s direction, before collecting up more plates.

Joe stared across the room at the news their father had brought with him, wringing his hands in front of his face. Joe was older than George, but in this moment he looked even older, worry lining his face. His hair threatened to grow too long on his head and his feeble attempts to grow a beard in patches on his chin was a constant source of ridicule. The object of Joe’s gaze was a faded photograph of their dad dressed in his uniform, beaming with pride at the South Africa medal pinned to his breast. He still often wore his medal, stroking the silver disc absent-mindedly. Father turned to Joe, putting the paper down.

‘D’you know what this means, son?’ Joe didn’t respond and their father looked around the room, at the rest of them, testing everyone’s reaction. ‘The papers say they’re going to issue a call. They’re gonna need more men.’

George carried on playing with his oats, knowing that this was between Joe and their dad. Joe looked into the middle distance, the edges of his mouth moving as if about to form words but thinking better of it.

After a tense pause, Joe spoke. ‘I won’t do it,’ he muttered under his breath, so quietly that George almost didn’t hear.

Their father banged a fist on the table, and cutlery jingled as it was disturbed.

‘What do you mean you won’t do it?’ he shouted at Joe. He kept his fist firmly on the table, flexing his fingers, but managing to keep it balled. His other hand gripped the arm of his chair and George could see the blood draining away as his flesh turned a pale pink. ‘Every generation of this family has served. As far back as I know, the Abbotts have fought for our country. What makes you so different?’

‘Dad…?’ By simply calling out to him Catherine brought him out of his tirade. His hands relaxed and the blood flowed back into them. She had a way of calming him that none of the others could manage.

The legs of Joe’s chair screeched on the tiled kitchen floor as he pushed it back and stood up. Without taking a step he turned to face their father. His voice was calm despite the speed with which he had risen.

‘I’m not different. That’s not the point. I won’t, I don’t have to, so I won’t. You know exactly what I think about war, and I mean no disrespect to you or our ancestors, but I won’t fight. Not ever.’

He rushed across the kitchen, opened the door and, without looking back, left. The door clicked shut behind him. The room was silent.

The action was completely out of character; Joe was never angry. He never had any reason to be angry, he was always quiet and kind when he needed to be.

His sisters appeared as shocked as George surely did, trying to cover it by intently focusing on their food, and stuffing their faces with whatever was left.

Their father looked over at their mother and shook his head. ‘I told you that teacher had put funny ideas in his head,’ he grumbled.

‘Eat, love.’ She pushed a plate of breakfast in front of him, stroking his shoulder before going back to the worktop.

He ate in silence, as the rest of the family finished their breakfast. He occasionally looked up at them, his eyes resting on George, before he carried on eating. When he had finished he left the room himself, hobbling in his usual manner towards the front room. George waited a few seconds for him to be gone, before getting his mother’s attention.

‘What was all that about, Ma?’ Elisabeth said, before he could phrase the question himself, her six-year-old inquisitiveness winning out.

Their mother continued her meticulous dish washing. Her voice had to compete with the scrape of crockery and the splash of water as she poured more into the sink from the jug she had got in from outside, but she knew well enough how to project. A skill that he expected came from having four children.

‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said quickly, but not without care.

‘But why were they arguing?’ he asked, interrupting his younger sister’s reply. He had always felt close to his mother, she cared for them all well, but she had always been honest with him and spoken to him like an equal.

Another stack of plates clattered onto the draining board. ‘They’ll be looking for young men to volunteer, I don’t doubt. Your father wants our Joe to go and give his name, join the regiment. It’s the family tradition after all.’ She paused as a blackbird flew past the window. ‘But your brother has no interest in your father’s traditions. He has other plans for his life, what with all the things that he’s learnt.’

‘I’ve never seen our dad so angry before,’ Catherine said, finally eating George’s unwanted bread and pushing the words out between mouthfuls.

Mother finished her washing up and returned to the table, taking a look at the sisters then at George where her gaze lingered for a moment.

‘You’re too young, George, or your father would be having the same conversation with you too, love,’ she said as she took a dishcloth to his cheek to wipe away whatever leftover food was lodged there. That would explain why his father had kept looking at him.

‘Now get on with you and get yourselves ready. I need to go speak to your father and try to calm him down. Up the stairs now.’ She ushered the family out of the kitchen with a wet dishcloth, and a smile.

*

Upstairs, the house was a cramped affair, with the rooms close together, leading off from a shared landing. Four children was common for a family around Liverpool, and they all had to fit into what space their parents could afford. George and Joe brought what money they could into the house, but they still slept in a shared bedroom.

George walked into the room that had been his and Joe’s for as long as he could remember, to find his clothes for work. There were three other rooms leading from the landing: their parents’, their sisters’, and a small room that they used for cleaning and getting changed. Having one changing room between six people was never easy, but they made do. There was a kind of unspoken agreement about the order of who got to go in first. Their mother was always first. Their father would shout at them and push them away if they tried to get in before her. The rest was a hierarchy of age within the family. Catherine would usually have to go downstairs and boil a tub of water then bring it up for cleaning. They would often share the same water and rub as much soap as they could afford on their bodies. They had a tin bath that they kept next to the outhouse, but that was only for special occasions.

He sat down on the thin mattress of his wire bed to wait, and the frame creaked as it took his weight. Across from him was Joe’s side of the room. Both sides were marked out as separate, and neither of them ventured to the other’s. He couldn’t help but think just how different Joe’s personal space was compared to his own. Though only a couple of feet apart, an outside observer could easily see the two different personalities in the room.

Above his bed, Joe had a couple of cluttered shelves, so full that often things fell off whenever someone opened or shut the door to their room. He had put them up himself, forever keen on being self-reliant, even when George had offered to help. The bottom shelf contained a number of books, a few were great dusty tomes. Every time George looked he suspected there were more books. Joe would smuggle them in from somewhere, George didn’t know where.

Sometimes, in the evenings he often caught Joe pulling them off the shelf one at a time and running a finger along the words while softly mumbling to himself. He thought that George didn’t notice, but he did. He often wondered what Joe was thinking, while he read the words under his breath. He seemed so separate, so distant, as if he were born to another family and had been given to the wrong parents at the hospital. There were times when George was about to ask him what he was reading, but then Joe would start another book or go to sleep.

To say he wasn’t interested in things would be untrue. However, when it came to Joe’s interests George just didn’t understand. There was a difference between them that was more than age. Unlike a lot of his peers George could read, but he found more fun in other things.

He looked back over his own bed and at his own possessions. In pride of place was his favourite landscape, and various other pictures. They were all prints that he had managed to find for very little expense or trade for with what little he had. Some were cutouts from newspapers or magazines, of particularly interesting scenes. Some were postcards. Some were larger copies of paintings of places that he had no hope of visiting. Underneath them, if you looked carefully, were some of his own sketches. They were poor in comparison, but he practised whenever he could snatch a moment. With work at the dock, time was scarce.

The changing room door opened and Catherine walked back out. She smiled at George. ‘Your turn,’ she said, shutting the door behind her. George didn’t follow into the now empty room, there was no point in him washing when he was due to go to work, he would only end up dirty again in a matter of minutes. The dirt didn’t bother him, he was used to it, but the sweat always wound him up, as it ran down his temples and pooled on his chin. Instead, he got ready for work, throwing on a pair of overalls and making sure that his boots were securely tied to his feet. A loose lace could cause a serious injury in a hurry.

*

Less than half an hour later, he was out of the front door and facing down the road. Egerton Street was a quiet street hidden just off the main road. Terraced, brick houses lined the road without break, built for the workers in the city. The Abbotts weren’t completely poor, but they weren’t wealthy either. The army gave their father a meagre pension and he had found work at the docks bookkeeping, thanks to a friend. The others brought in what they could.

Most of the houses that George could see were occupied by the families of other dockworkers. The red brick buildings trailed off down the hill, meeting at a point in the direction of the Mersey which was still covered in a grey sea-mist at this time of day.

As George stepped out of the yard, closing the wooden gate behind him and making sure the steel latch stuck, a group of young children pushed past him, their leather soles clattering on the pavement as they chattered in excitement, on their way to the local school. They played soldiers running around with their arms outstretched in mockery of a rifle. One mimed shooting at him and George pretended to be hit, falling to his knees and clutching his chest. The child laughed and ran off, and George shouted a friendly warning after them as they disappeared down the road.

Mrs Adams from next door waved as she saw George on his knees in the street.

‘Mornin’, George,’ she said, smiling. ‘Get up now, you’ll get dirt all over you.’ She carried on tending to the small trough of plants she kept in her front garden, with a pair of secateurs.

‘Good morning, Mrs Adams.’ He pretended to wipe himself down. ‘D’you know where Tom is?’

‘Oh, he’s on his way to work, not long gone. You only just missed him. But knowing him, he’s probably off scrumping for apples.’ She smiled knowingly. Mrs Adams always smiled, no matter what happened. It made George feel happy to see it, knowing what she had been through. He smiled back despite the feeling of embarrassment that washed over him. The Adams’ smile was infectious.

She referred to the time that George had first met her son. Before then, they had never had so much as a conversation. After school one day, George had been walking home, and came across Tom, Harry and Patrick loitering at the end of a road. They were trying to climb over the brick wall of the corner house, to get to its orchard, but couldn’t make it over.

Being taller, George was asked to help, but there was a shout from over the other side of the road. The local copper had spotted them and was crossing towards them. They ran, the policeman giving chase. They turned a corner and hid in a hedgerow.

George’s lasting memory of that time was of laughing uncontrollably. The boys had been friends ever since.

George chuckled to himself as he carried on walking. A lady walking up the road glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and took a step around him. ‘Morning,’ he said, still smiling.

He hoped to catch up with Tom, but he had no idea how far ahead he was. He could feel the excitement of all those around him, from the running children, to the busy adults.

He crossed the tramway that ran along Catharine Street, careful not to trip on the rail that was indented into the stones of the road. He always preferred to walk to work, but Tom would most likely be waiting at the stop, hoping to jump on if George was too late.

George turned the corner and there he was, leaning against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette in his usual, cocky manner. Tom didn’t look up as George approached him. ‘Morning, George,’ he said, without looking. ‘You’re later than usual. I was just about to leave without you.’ He dropped his finished cigarette on the floor and stamped on it. ‘Lovely day for it.’ He smiled wryly, and shifted his coat, knowing that the heat would only make him sweat more. ‘Let’s be getting on.’

George carried on walking past the tram stop. Tom sighed, before rushing to catch up with him. ‘Walking it is then.’ Tom smiled wryly whenever he spoke, it was what was so endearing about him. ‘I always enjoy a good walk. Hey, perhaps there will even be some work left for us when we get there too?’ They walked on together down the hill towards the Mersey and the docks.

‘Walking is better, you know the tram takes just as long by the time it’s stopped at every station,’ George said. ‘If we’re lucky we might get there first.’

Both boys had found work down at the docks, like most young men from these parts. George had left school three years before, at the age of thirteen, and he was glad to see the back of it. The old bastard of a teacher still haunted his dreams, his idea of drill was the worst, and you would get a cane if you couldn’t stand up straight afterwards.

It was hard work, unloading ships and carrying box crates of tea, or tobacco, and bales of cotton to another part of the dock. There were hydraulic cranes, but the boys were needed to move the goods into storage, or transport, and as George was large for his age, he easily found work.

‘So, you’ve no doubt heard the news then?’ Tom said as they crossed the dock road, dodging a horse and cart that clattered along without a warning. The coachman shouted back over his shoulder, telling them to watch out. You could easily get killed by a horse and cart if you weren’t on your watch.

‘Who hasn’t?’ George replied. ‘Our dad brought the paper in this morning. It’s why I was late.’

There had been talk of war for a while now, ever since that Austrian got shot. People had been talking excitedly about Britain going to war and he had felt excited with them, eager to join in. The talk was of going to show Fritz that they couldn’t do what they liked. It was hard not to join in with the sentiment, but then there was also talk of not having enough troops to deal with Germany’s warmongering. Talking about the war was fine, but George didn’t really want to talk about why he was late, nor about his brother.

‘My dad reckons they’ll be after more troops before long,’ he continued. Tom hadn’t asked.

Tom paused for a moment, then grinned again in his usual, contagious manner. ‘We should go and sign up,’ he said. ‘We’d be like our dads. Make them proud.’

Tom was always joking around.

‘Aye, it will be like South Africa.’

‘Perhaps, not as hot though. Sounds like they had a great time. It’s what our dads would want. Well, I know my dad would have encouraged me to sign up if he was still here. I bet your brother has already gone to enlist.’

George hesitated. He hadn’t really wanted to talk about it.

‘No,’ he said. ‘He stormed off at the very mention of it. He has his own ideas.’

Tom shut up and stared ahead, not saying anything for the rest of their journey.

The walk took them past the Custom House, that magnificent building glittering in the morning sun, and into the dockyard, through the wrought-iron fences. The smells of salt water and the cargo were strong. Everyone here was too busy working hard to think about any prospect of war. George waved to a few dock hands and they nodded as they carried on their jobs. For now it was time to work, the war could wait.

## Chapter 2

Joe let the door click shut behind him. He wanted so much to slam it, but in the end he backed down. What point would he make if he crashed about the place like some bull? He liked peace and the quiet protest of knowing wholeheartedly that he was right, no matter what anyone else said. It kept him going.

He had known what this morning’s breakfast conversation was going to hold, he had expected it. They had been edging ever closer to war, and every day he felt nearer to the time his father would ask him what he was going to do. This morning had been the breaking point.

He took a deep breath before opening the front door and walking out of the house. It was earlier than usual to leave for work, but he could always find something to do at the newspaper. It may be early for him, but the bakers on the end of the road were just finishing their morning cycle. The smell of warm bread was somehow comforting.

A horse and flatbed cart went past carrying large steel milk churns. Its wheels rattled on the cobbled road. Workmen were on their way to the factories, wearing heavy, protective clothing.

He forced a smile to them as he passed. Some of them were people he knew well, people he had grown up with, friends and relatives. They lived in such close confines that it was impossible not to know each other.

Already, people were running about and calling to each other, with a cheer that didn’t reach Joe. He was trying to push his father’s words out of his head, but he couldn’t forget how badly the conversation had gone. He had always known that he would refuse to join the army, but that wasn’t how he had wanted it to happen.

He turned the corner away from their little street and on to the main road. Upper Parliament Street glowed in the summer morning sunshine. The further he went the easier it might be to forget. Children in scruffy brown clothes with dirty white collars ran down the road, some waving Union flags and others pretending to attack their friends. The boys ran into a couple of regulars dressed in khaki coming out of a house. One of them smiled at a child and the other grabbed one and put him on his shoulders before joining in the chase of the other boys, laughing.

It was a fine morning and the walk would do him good. The air was light and clear, feeling good in his lungs as he walked. A motorcar went past, its engine chugging out fumes, easily overtaking the lumbering horse carts. The roads rose up as they moved away from the city, giving a view of the River Mersey, houses built onto the hills to the south of the city. The Mersey reflected sunlight as the tide came in, a faint mist beginning to grow.

In the distance he could just about make out the recently opened Liver Building, its two domes each housing a stylised Liver Bird. He remembered the opening that the newspaper staff had been invited to. At the time one of the workers had told him a story about the two birds on top of the building. ‘The female bird, ya see, is looking out to sea for the returning ships, right? And the male bird is looking into the city to see, to see if the pubs are still open.’ The man’s laugh had been deep and booming, and the memory made Joe smile.

He ended up on Wood Street, one of the small roads that intersected the city centre, housing the many offices and shops. The Liverpool Daily Post building was one of the largest on the street, rising above the horizon in an edifice of brick and glass. The other buildings along the road had grown up to it, but none matched. At this time of the morning the low sun was hidden behind the building, which cast a shadow on the road. The Daily Post sign looked down on all those in the street, ready to proclaim its news.

Joe walked in and nodded to the clerk at the front desk. Stephen nodded back and carried on with whatever he was reading. It was a ritual, but today Stephen paused, putting his magazine down, and looked on the verge of saying something. Joe climbed up the wrought iron stairs that turned back on themselves, avoiding the conversation, and into the main offices on the first floor.

He hooked his hat on the hat stand that always stood by the door. The large post room had rows of metal desks across the middle, machine-built in a large quantity by the same smith that had built the press. It always made him proud to see the amount of work they put into the newspaper, and proud to be involved.

The journalists and copywriters hadn’t all arrived yet. Those that were already in the building were looking through the other morning papers, the Manchester Guardian, and The Times all the way up from London on the morning train. They were too busy pretending to work and talking amongst themselves. They didn’t look up as he sat down at his desk.

Two other workers came into the room at that moment and called to the ones that had already arrived whilst putting their hats and coats on the stand at the doorway.

‘Good morning!’ they both shouted, almost in harmony.

‘I guess you’ve heard the news then, Frank?’ Charlie called back.

‘Stop shouting, Ed will hear you, and you know what he’s like about noise,’ Frank said as he walked past the desk, giving Joe a quick wink.

He could still hear the conversation once they had passed; despite telling each other to be quiet they were talking in loud voices as they sat together, any pretence of work forgotten. The customary snap of a match signalled that they were smoking, before the smoke filled the room.

‘…Not before time,’ one said in the kind of voice that suggested he thought he knew everything there was to know about everything. ‘Them Austro-Hungarians were just spoiling for a fight. Can’t have ’em taking over Europe.’

Even though Joe couldn’t see the speaker from where he was, he knew Charlie would be looking smug with himself, whilst trying to pretend he wasn’t. He could hear it in his overconfident voice.

‘Ahh whaddya know, Charlie Mason? You’d make an awful soldier. Look at you.’

‘What rot, I’d be great. Just you wait and see.’

There was an almighty laugh as the other men had fun at Charlie’s expense.

The boisterous camaraderie of the office and the type room was not for Joe. Idly, he pulled a sheaf of papers towards him and took out a fountain pen from its slot in the desk. He couldn’t concentrate and instead sat, holding the pen, and looking out over the office, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

‘Abbott.’

The hard, croaky voice of Edward Harlow made Joe look up at the slightly fat man, whose bald head shined in the electric lights of the office. The editor let a puff of smoke drift around Joe as he stood above him. He was always smoking; it was as if he had decided that it was something that an editor should do. As a result, it made his voice somewhat distinctive, along with the heavy breathing that accompanied his walking. It sounded like he was trying to talk through the reed of a woodwind instrument. It was a sound that the other men in the office had found especially useful when trying to avoid working. They always knew when he was coming, even if they didn’t smell his cigar first.

‘Good morning, Mr Harlow. How do you do?’ Joe made the pleasantry without wanting an answer. It was just what one did.

‘I take it you’ve heard the news then? You can hardly avoid it round here, what with all the noise and excitement.’ With that he looked over at the other men and then at the still empty desks of the office. They were once again pretending to read the newspapers. Research, they would call it, if pressed.

Joe nodded, not knowing what to say. The news had been coming, but he wasn’t a war reporter, so it wasn’t his responsibility.

‘I’m sorry, Abbott,’ Mr Harlow coughed. ‘The news came through last night, almost immediately after you left. I had to give the article an edit myself when it came through. Priority you see, when it comes to declarations of war. We had to get it ready for this morning, see. The typesetters were about ready to go. “You know how much it costs to stop once we’ve started,” they said, but I had to. If it didn’t go out this morning, the owner would have my neck.’ The apology was unnecessary, given Joe’s position, but characteristic of the man. He wanted to be every one’s best friend.

‘But forget that. It’s happened now, and no doubt we’ll pay the price for it sooner or later.’ Mr Harlow wagged a finger at Joe as if telling him off then paused, thinking about his own words and taking a puff of his cigar.

‘I’ve got this here for you. Something to work on, and I need it pretty sharpish. Forget that other rubbish.’

He pushed the piece of paper under Joe’s nose. ‘Enlist to-day. The Germans pillage Belgium!’ the headline read. If that was how the headline started, then he daren’t read the rest.

Why was Mr Harlow giving him this piece to edit? Could it be because he felt bad about working without him last night? Joe doubted that. It made a change from his usual job of looking through the local pieces for any mistakes or spelling errors, but it wasn’t what he wanted to be involved in. It wasn’t like he had shouted it from the rooftops, but surely Mr Harlow must know of his opinions.

‘When you’re done with that and it goes out, the office will empty.’ Mr Harlow sighed. ‘Seems that some of the lads have already deserted us. That or they’re just bloody well late!’

So that explained the empty desks. He only swore when he was angry and he was giving Joe this piece because there was no one else around to do it. So much for taking his mind off the pressure of the war, instead he had to edit this abhorrent article. Albert Barnes had written it to encourage other young men like him to sign up, whatever the cost.

‘I’m not sure this is my thing, Mr Harlow,’ he said with hesitation. When he looked up, the editor had already gone, the waft of cigar smoke following in his wake.

He looked back at the article, pushing aside his other work. The headline was no worse than the rest. Crammed into the tiny article were all the atrocities that the German army had already engaged in during their short time marching into Belgium. He had no idea where the information had come from; he knew for sure that Barnes had never left the city, he wasn’t the kind of man to go off in search of a story. How could he possibly know that any of this was true?

Joe couldn’t bring himself to endorse it.

Allegedly, men were already leaving their jobs to sign up for the war they had been anticipating for months. To see off the invading Germans and send them home with their tails between their legs. They didn’t need the help of this propaganda and supposition to encourage them, many had already made that decision on their own.

‘Wondering what it’d be like to be in uniform, Joe lad?’

Frank Gallagher liked the sound of his own voice and, seeing as he occupied the next desk, Joe was often on the receiving end of it. Joe hadn’t noticed him come over, but now Frank was sat side-saddle on his chair and smirking. His face was pockmarked with the remnant signs of acne.

‘I fancy me in a bit of khaki, like. Reckon the girls will lap it up.’

He smiled stupidly, enjoying himself, and Joe reluctantly smiled back. He had to admit that even though Gallagher could be annoying at times, he did have a certain charm. He made you want to laugh and join in with his japes.

Joe didn’t say anything and just shook his head in a playful manner. For once he could imagine why people might sign up, with the honest camaraderie of people like Gallagher, but it was still war.

‘Come on, lad. Ya never know, you might find yourself a sweet lass too.’ With that he laughed and punched Joe lightly on the shoulder. ‘But then we’d have to drag you away from your work.’

What would it be like once the war started proper, if everyone went off to fight? Would it be him and Mr Harlow left all on their own to run the paper? How on earth was the country going to cope? He didn’t like the thought, and once again tried to push thoughts of the war out of his mind and press on with work.

‘Is that where Barnes and Swanley are, Frank?’ He nodded over at their empty desks.

‘What? Them two? Lost if I know where they are. They live by their own rules them two. Even the territorials would give them a wide berth.’ He scoffed and shook his head. ‘They’d look rubbish in a uniform. And they already get all the girls anyway. Leave some for old Frank, that’s what I say.’

Joe laughed despite himself.

‘I just saw Mr Harlow, and he gave me one of Barnes’s articles.’ He held up the sheet of paper he was supposed to edit.

‘Aye, I saw him on the way in too, muttering to himself. He didn’t even notice me. Thought it were best to leave him to it.’

‘I don’t suppose you could take it off my hands, Frank? I’m a bit busy you see.’ He pulled the pile of local articles and adverts closer and smiled at Gallagher. There was no point in telling Frank that he didn’t want to work on it himself. He wouldn’t understand.

‘Oh no! You’re not getting me in trouble that easily.’ The big smile lit up his face. ‘I’ve only got a few more days’ work to get through before I can get out of here. Last thing I want is old Ed Harlow coming down on me for doing your work for you. He’s given that to you. I’ve got other stuff to do.’ He shuffled a pile of papers on his own desk. ‘Gotta make this lot respectable. Half them journalists can’t write for toffee. I’d swear on me old gran that they make up some of this stuff. Some of these words I ain’t even heard before.’

Joe didn’t doubt it; Frank was a nice guy, but he wasn’t the most intelligent. Joe suspected the questioned words were in fact real words, but he was better off leaving Frank to it – he had his style, which was popular with the readers.

‘You’ll have to find someone else to pass the boring ones to.’

‘This one isn’t exactly boring, Frank.’

‘I know, just glancing at it has already made me want to sign up.’ He gave Joe a thump on the arm in jest, and Joe resisted to urge to say ‘ow’. ‘But, well, that’s not the point. I’ve already decided I’m going. Perhaps reading what Fritz is up to might give you that kick you need to join in the fun too.’

‘But, how do we know any of this is true, Frank?’

‘What do you mean, true? Of course it’s true. We’re newspaper men, if we don’t know what true is then who does? True…’ He shook his head.

‘But all these horrible things, I can’t believe that they would do that. We have no proof, other than hearsay.’

‘Of course they’re up to no good. They started a war, Joe. That’s not a particularly friendly thing to do now is it?’

‘I suppose not.’ He put the sheet down. ‘Really though, we should be staying neutral, Frank. It’s not our war.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Joe. That’s not like you. Of course it’s our war.’ For once Frank was serious, his usually bright eyes surveyed Joe in a way he hadn’t seen before.

‘Them Germans want Europe for themselves. All this stuff that’s happened leading up to this was just rot, designed as an excuse. They’ve been spoiling for a war for ages now, and it’s been left to us to stop them. We’ll see that we do. Our Tommies are the only ones that’ll stand up to ’em.’

It was no use. Frank was just like all the rest: well meaning, but misguided. Joe wouldn’t get anywhere by trying to make him see reason, and to question what he was told. Everyone was determined that the only way to stop the – alleged – despicable acts of the Germans was to counter them with yet more despicable acts. He would have to try another tactic.

With that thought, he pulled out the copy of the Labour Leader from the top drawer of his desk and flicked through the pages for the article he sought. With a pen he began crossing out lines and rewriting them with added argument, inspired by the words of Fenner Brockway and the other socialist writers. It wasn’t much, he didn’t know how many people would read the article now that he had crossed out the headline, but he could dissuade some men from fighting. He hoped he could make a difference. He had to do something.

## Chapter 3

‘There’s a ship mooring at the Duke’s dock,’ someone shouted. The men picked up kit, off to find some maintenance work, but George had none. He got a running head start on them, with Tom by his side. They pounded along the cobbled streets, the soles of their boots clicking on the surface with each footfall. At first his boots had rubbed his feet to tatters, but now they were so worn in that it felt like he was running barefoot. Sweat caused by the glaring sun dripped down from his temples and ran round the curve of his neck, under his clothes. It was almost unbearable, but he kept running, otherwise he wouldn’t get there in time.

War had almost been forgotten in the last few days, as work had taken over. They crossed Gower Street and ducked around a carriage, the coachman swearing at them, before running into the Duke’s dock underneath the brick arch of the dock house. The dock smelled strongly of salt water and that ever present stench of fish that got into the nostrils and never left. There was a ship mooring at the dock. George craned his neck to see around the men in front of him. It was a small ship. Its sails were furled and it was being guided in by a small motor. Rope was already being pulled over one of the mooring posts. A man assisting in the mooring saw them coming and blocked their way. ‘Easy now,’ he said, raising the palms of his hands. The men almost didn’t stop. ‘Easy,’ he said again, louder.

This time the men stopped in front of the dock master. ‘I need ten able-bodied men to unload this cargo,’ he said. ‘No more.’ There was a collective groan from the group, about fifty, most of them in tatty clothes. ‘She also needs some caulking, if you can do it.’

A man towards the back of the group with a heavy tin toolbox put a hand up and pushed forward past the dock master. The master started assigning men tasks. ‘You, you, and you,’ he said to three men a couple of rows in front of George. The rest of the men jostled to get noticed, but the master just scowled, picked the rest of the men from elsewhere.

Tom cursed. ‘I thought we had got lucky there, George,’ he said with a shake of his head.

‘Back to the custom house?’ George said. ‘We can look in on the arrivals there.’ Work was scarce on the dock, and down to luck.

The dock master came back over to the group. ‘There’s a big haul coming in, lads. If you’re quick.’ There were calls from the crowd, asking where.

‘…King’s dock’ were the only words George heard, as he dragged Tom after him. The two of them spent most of their days running from one place to another. He didn’t mind the running, but it was the sweat that he couldn’t cope with. In winter it was fine, the running kept you warm, but in the summer it was unbearable. He tried to wear as few layers as possible, but the clothes were for protection. If a piece of cargo slipped it could cut a hole, he’d seen it happen. The boys crossed to the King’s dock. It was a good distance to get to King’s dock. Some part of George suspected that it wouldn’t be worth the effort, but they had to try. Their families depended on the income. Even if it was only a few pence.

As they turned the corner the expanse opened up to a much greater view. King’s dock was much larger than Duke’s. Here the buildings were spaced back, allowing the cargo to be offloaded and moved to better locations. There was indeed a ship entering the dock, larger than the last. It was crawling into the moorings, carefully using the rudder to make sure that it didn’t hit the dockside. It let off its horn, blaring across the dock, almost deafening, and some of the men following George and Tom cheered, feeling their luck was in.

This time the dock master agitatedly waved them into a queue at the side of the dock without saying anything. If the men pushed their luck they would be dismissed without a chance to earn any pay. So they waited, eager, but cautious.

He started assigning them off into queues, and only a few minutes later George and Tom were busy rolling heavy wooden barrels of brandy away from the dockside to a horse-cart that would take them away to a holding area. It took two men to roll each barrel, one guiding while the other put all their weight behind it and gave it a great shove. George and Tom had plenty of experience and idly chatted amongst themselves while they worked. They stopped for a moment to catch their breath, having just loaded the last barrel that would fit onto the cart, rolling it up the wooden chocks that formed a slope to the hold. The coachman put up the tail board with help from Tom to seal the other side.

‘You were right,’ Tom said, holding up a paper he had taken off a bench. The headline indicated that the war was in the morning paper again. It had been all that people had talked about since the ultimatum had expired.

George wondered what Tom was talking about. Staring at him, he urged him to continue.

‘About them wanting more troops,’ he said. ‘You were talking about it the other day, remember? It says right here that Lord Kitchener has asked for another hundred thousand men.’

There was a loud crack, accompanied by the snap of breaking wood, which seemed to drag the sound out from its initial burst.

He turned to see a shape rushing towards them. He called out to Tom but it was too late. He just had time to reach for Tom and push him out of the way before an escaped barrel knocked into his back with force.

Tom fell to the ground with a cry as the metal-clad wood knocked into him. It carried on rolling past, and George was just about able to get out of its way, before it crashed against the brick wall of the dock house and burst open, spilling its contents all over the cobbles.

The coachman rushed to the back of his cart. The back plank had come undone, allowing the barrel to slip off the cart and run free. With the help of a few others, he managed to stop any more barrels falling off the cart and lashed them to the decking with some spare rope.

George ran over to Tom, sprawled on the cobble floor. Tom had been hit in the back and was lying face down. He feared the worst, but Tom just groaned and tried to roll over.

‘Don’t move, Tom. I’ll get help.’

Tom just smiled back at George as he always did and he pushed George away as he tried to check him for wounds.

‘Ah, don’t worry, George.’ He groaned as he sat up and put a hand to his back. ‘I’m all right, I’m all right.’

He finally accepted help but shook his head. George helped him up with a hand under his armpit and then dusted him down. There was a bit of blood on his forehead, but nothing on the rest of his body except for a bruise that would blacken over the next few days. George wet his handkerchief and handed it to Tom as he motioned for him to wipe his forehead. Seeing that George was taking care of Tom, the coachman got back up on his cart and led the horse away – any delay would cost him money.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ George asked.

‘Yeah. It was lucky you shouted,’ Tom said as he wiped the crusting blood from his forehead and winced at the pain. ‘I would have been stood stock still if you hadn’t. That shove helped too. I avoided most of the barrel.’ He stretched his back. ‘Still gave me a bloody great thump though. I’ll feel that one in the morning, no doubt. Let’s see what else they need us to do.’

He turned to walk away, but George grabbed him by the arm.

‘We should call it a day. You’ve had a nasty bump. That could be a head injury too,’ he said, gesturing towards Tom’s forehead again.

Tom shook his head and tried to hide another wince. The smile was back again. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my head,’ he said. ‘If we’re quitting work, do you think we should volunteer?’

George let go of his arm. ‘Come on, let’s go home. I’ve had enough for one day.’

‘I’m serious.’

George wiped the smile from his face, knowing it was doing him no favours in this situation.

‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. No matter what else I do, I keep coming back to the same thought.’

George tried to show compassion and lighten the mood. ‘I know, you haven’t shut up about it since the other day.’

At that moment the dock master ran over to them and started shouting. He was an overweight man, his belly threatening to escape his waistcoat, and his hair was balding, leaving a sweaty pate of pink flesh.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ he shouted when he had got his breath back from the run. A frown crossed his face.

‘You.’ He pointed at Tom, who was still stretching his back, visibly uncomfortable at the pain. ‘What did you do? Why are you slacking?’

Tom shrugged. ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘The cart’s full, and we’re going back for more.’

The dock master wasn’t appeased.

‘Don’t lie to me. I heard a commotion, what’s going on? If you’ve caused any damage…’

It was at that moment that he noticed the destroyed brandy barrel. It was a wonder he hadn’t seen it sooner, the stench of brandy was strong in George’s nostrils. The dock master’s eyes widened as he took in the broken wood and the precious cargo draining away through the cobbles.

‘You damaged the cargo,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘What?’

The dock master grabbed Tom by the collar, even though Tom was a good foot taller than him.

‘Do you have any idea how much that barrel was worth? More money than you’ll ever have.’

‘What?’ Tom said again, unsure. ‘I didn’t do anything. You’re mad.’

‘Damn right I’m mad. How are you going to pay for that?’

George moved to help Tom, but couldn’t see how without angering the dock master further. Instead he tried to calm him down.

‘Tom didn’t do anything, sir. The tail board on the cart broke and the barrel rolled off. If you ask the coachman he will vouch for us.’ The coachman wouldn’t be back for a while, but at least it might buy them some time.

The dock master turned to George, still holding Tom by the collar.

‘Who asked you? As far as I know you’re just as much to blame as this idiot is.’

Tom used that moment to break free of the dock master’s grasp. With a lurch, he pushed the smaller man away with both hands. He moved backwards and tripped over a cobble, but thanks to his low centre of gravity, managed not to fall.

‘I didn’t break the barrel, sir. In fact, it almost broke me.’ As a gesture of goodwill, Tom checked the man over to make sure he wasn’t hurt. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, my friend and I would like to get back to work. There are plenty more barrels like that that need moving and if that doesn’t get done, then I guess you’ll lose even more money.’

The dock master trembled, in shock from Tom’s shove, then nodded.

‘Fine. I’ll chase that coachman for this. But if either of you lads does anything like this again, if you put one finger where it shouldn’t be, then I will make sure that you never work anywhere on these docks again.’

He walked away, his pace slightly quicker than a walk like someone trying to escape a confrontation with an enemy without drawing attention to himself.

‘Now get back to work,’ he called over his shoulder, as if it was his idea and not Tom’s.

‘That was close,’ Tom said, grabbing George by the arm and leading him away. ‘Come on, let’s get this over and done with.’

They went back to work, but before long the conversation had returned to the war.

‘Well now, I think they’ll take me,’ Tom said out of the blue, and George rolled his eyes at him, even though Tom wasn’t paying attention. ‘They need more men, they’ll take anyone that can hold a rifle at the moment. Besides, what have I got to lose? I’ve not got much here except my old mum. It’s gotta be better than this. Anything is better than this.’ He stopped and gestured at the barrel he had been rolling towards the new cart. The previous coachman hadn’t come back.

He stretched his back and groaned at the pain. Injuries were common around the dock, and Tom was lucky it hadn’t been worse. Every week one or more of the lads working on the dock ended up in a ward, or sometimes worse: a mortuary.

George grunted. It wasn’t so much that he agreed with Tom – he resented the fact that he had only thought about his mother and not his friends – but Tom had that way of getting you to see his point of view.

George thought about Tom leaving, and about working on the dock alone. It didn’t appeal to him. They made a good team.

‘If you go, Tom, I can’t go with you,’ he said.

‘Sure you can, if that’s what you want. Why not?’

‘For a start, I’m not old enough. You have to be nineteen before they’ll send you abroad, eighteen if you just want to stay at home doing something boring.’

He saw the dock master prowling along the path and gestured to Tom to resume their work. ‘At least, that’s what my dad always told us. He’s been counting down the days.’

‘Ah, come on now, George.’ Tom shook his head as he always did when he thought George was being unreasonable. ‘If you want to sign up, they’ll take you. By the sounds of it they’ll take anyone. That old dock master over there might even be in khaki soon. You’ll see.’

They both laughed at the thought. It was a welcome relief to the melancholy that had settled on them during the day, and finally Tom was smiling again.

‘You don’t want to wait till eighteen or nineteen to go down the recruitment office. You’ll be sat twiddling your thumbs, hearing about all the heroic deeds we’ve been up to out there. It’ll all be over by the time your eighteenth birthday comes, then what’ll you do? Start another war, just so you can fight in it?’

He was poking fun at George, but the smile was so warm it was difficult not to get dragged along in his wake.

‘Perhaps I will. It’d show you.’ George thought for a moment. ‘They’ll know I’m not old enough and I’ll get turned away from the office. It’ll be humiliating watching you and the rest of them get your khaki and being told to come back when I’m a man.’

‘Ah, that won’t happen, trust me. You’re bigger than any eighteen-year-old I know. You even look older than me and don’t forget, I’m two years older than you. Besides, you’ll be with me. That’ll be enough to help you out. They won’t want to turn away any of the famous Tom Adams’ army.’

George laughed as he pushed the final barrel onto the cart and fastened the rear hatch, eyeing it suspiciously. Tom gave it a big thump and was satisfied that it wasn’t going to come loose. ‘Ready,’ he shouted to the coachman. He then stood with his hands on his hips, like George’s mother often did when he was in trouble. ‘If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t believe you were any less than nineteen,’ he said.

George pushed Tom away and they went to find some more work.

Tom was right. George was unlike his father and brother, who were both thin and gaunt. His broad shoulders and chest may have come from his mother’s side. Uncle Stephen was a much larger man. George had more in common with him than his father. His uncle was like a giant when stood next to his father, even if his father didn’t have a crooked leg. His father always stood as tall as he could when Stephen was around. His mother always argued that George looked just like his father had done in the army, and pushed old, brown photographs in his direction to prove it. Back then he was a stronger, prouder man.

The rest of the day continued largely without incident. They moved more barrels, and their backs became sore from the effort. George suspected that Tom was in a lot more pain than he let on, but he didn’t complain, except for stopping occasionally to stretch with a wince. Once the cargo ship was emptied and the other dock hands were on board, fixing and caulking, the two boys left. There was little extra work to be found, but they had managed to earn some money.

‘So then, George,’ Tom said, as if unsure how to broach a difficult subject. Tom was seldom lost for words, but this time he seemed unable to speak. He kept biting his lip.

‘What’s wrong?’ George asked, trying to force the conversation.

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Tom stopped speaking again and then shook his head. ‘Well, except for all this,’ he said, waving an arm behind him to indicate the dock. ‘This… this isn’t what I wanted from life, George. When we were back in school I thought so much more of life. All the things the teachers talked about. Every time I thought… “I could do that.” I should have tried harder. Perhaps I wasn’t intelligent enough. Who knows?’

George just nodded along.

‘I didn’t think I would end up down here in the docks. My ma was happy when I got a job. So was I for that matter, but now look at me.’ He waved an arm up and down his body and at his back. ‘Covered in muck and sweat. Just look at this bruise, George. That’s really going to hurt in the morning. Ouch.’ He had touched it with a finger. ‘It hurts now!’

‘Be careful, Tom.’ He wasn’t used to his friend being so glum.

‘We can be much better than this, George. Both of us. We’re not as daft as some of those idiots down that dock, so why not? Everything we’ve done, we’ve done well, right?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Right, so it’s settled then. When I get a chance, I’m putting on my Sunday suit, I’m going down the recruitment office and telling them I want to fight the Germans.’ Red threatened to break out on Tom’s cheeks, but then he held his head high, pushing his chest out at his decision.

George wasn’t surprised. He had felt that it was coming since he had spoken to Tom that morning. Tom had mentioned the war at every opportunity. George preferred to keep his thoughts to himself, but Tom appeared excited. The mood of the city was of excitement, Tom wasn’t the only one. The way George’s father often talked about his time in the army, it sounded like an adventure, like a way of life to be proud of. His father had served in the King’s Liverpool regiment and his uncle too. It was the only thing he ever remembered his father talking about with happiness in his voice. The troubles of recent times seemed forgotten, everyone was pulling together in the same direction, as his dad would have said. George reflected as they climbed the hill.

‘I think you should do it,’ he said to Tom, after a silence. Tom let out a deep breath as if he’d been holding it. ‘If it’s what you want to do, then why not? You’d make a good soldier, I don’t doubt.’

‘It’s my ma I’m worried about. After my old man… Ah, I can’t talk about it. She will understand, and your folks will look after her, won’t they?’

‘Sure.’ Their mothers were close. ‘Say, why don’t we go to the pub tomorrow night? It’s been an age. See what the other lads are up to. You can run your idea by them too. Let’s go to the Grapes.’

Tom’s grin returned. He always loved a drink.

‘Great idea!’ was the only reply George needed.

## Chapter 4

Joe was walking through Chinatown the next day when he saw George and Tom Adams across the road. The signs on the shops and even the street signs were in Chinese. The Chinese seemed to be the largest of the sailor communities, huddling around the area of Nelson Street and integrating with the Liverpudlians in the area.

Joe couldn’t imagine settling in another country, especially one so far away from his home. But perhaps it had been easier for them than returning home. Who knew what kind of prospects they had back in China? At least here they had families and work.

His brother and Tom were walking along the road in the opposite direction to him. Of course, he saw them first, and as of yet they hadn’t noticed him. It was always the same way. He had a habit of disappearing into crowds, and he was so far outside their world they didn’t have any reason for acknowledging his presence. They must have been on their way home from the dock, chatting together in their usual way. Unusually, they didn’t look as happy as they normally did. Often when Joe saw the pair of them, they were too happily tied up in some inane conversation to notice him go by. Most of the time he didn’t mind, happy to meld into the background and avoid an awkward conversation with them. Today, however, he walked closer to the side of the road to make himself more noticeable. He wanted them to see him, he wanted to speak to his brother, if only in passing.

With luck, Tom crossed the road, George shortly behind him. They weaved between a couple of carts, before making their way across the cobbles.

‘Afternoon, Joe,’ Tom said, upon seeing him. He was always the more friendly of the two, with a smile for anyone he passed – though Joe suspected he wasn’t always the best influence on George. Recognition dawned on George’s face as he came closer, but he simply nodded. ‘On the way to work?’ Tom asked, before Joe had a chance to say hello.

‘Err, well, I have a few things to do first,’ he said, put off by the unexpected conversation. George had his hands in his pockets and looked around the road, seeming disinterested in any conversation. ‘George, could you tell Mum that I will be late this evening and not to worry about food?’

‘Sure,’ he said, nodding slightly. ‘We’re on our way home now. She probably won’t be surprised.’ This was the most they had said to each other in weeks. Sharing a bedroom was one thing, but working different hours meant they seldom saw each other.

‘No, I suppose not.’ The atmosphere was awkward, and Joe felt uncomfortable standing still on the pavement, but he so much wanted to talk to George, to reach out and feel something between them. He never could say the rights words, and it hurt him. He felt as if George believed that he had nothing to say to him, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. ‘The war’s creating a lot of work for us at the paper.’ He scratched at his collar, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. ‘A lot of the men at the paper have already left to sign up, and we’re having to do extra work to make up. I shouldn’t complain. You two possibly have it a lot worse.’

‘Yeah, there’s not much work on the dock at the moment. It could pick up with the war, but who knows?’ Again, Tom was the one to speak. George nodded at his words, as if thinking of something else. How had they grown so far apart? Joe was only a few years older than his kid brother, but the divide was a gulf. ‘We’ve been considering the war ourselves. Everybody is talking about it. We’ve been wondering what’s going on out there, what our lads have been up to. We should read your paper.’

George gave Tom a dig in the ribs with his elbow, and Tom yelped with mock pain. ‘We’d best leave you to it, Joe. Come on, Tom,’ George said, finally finding his voice.

‘Yes. There’s some stuff I need to do before work,’ he said, feeling the newspaper in his jacket’s inside pocket. ‘See you at home?’

George nodded with a slight hesitation as the pair of them walked away from Joe.

‘Goodbye, Joe,’ Tom called after him.

‘Goodbye, George,’ Joe muttered under his breath, ignoring Tom.