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.

Chapter 5

George had been looking forward to a drink all afternoon and he didn’t take any time in pushing open the door of the pub and rushing inside. Clinking glasses, laughs and the occasional cheer filtered through the doorway to the Grapes, their local drinking haunt.

From the entranceway two doors led off, one to the private patrons’ bar and one to the public bar, the latter more brightly lit through the frosted glass of the door. Shadows moved inside. The patrons’ bar, by comparison, appeared empty.

George knew which side they would be welcome in and walked straight through the public bar door, taking his hat off, to where the smell of stale ale mixed with sweat, and the heavy fog of smoking hit his nostrils. The noise was louder inside as men tried to talk over each other and make their orders heard at the bar.

‘Let’s find the lads,’ Tom said, from behind him, raising his voice to be heard as they pushed their way into the pub.

The bar was a loose ‘L’ shape and as they moved around the corner George heard Tom’s name being shouted.

‘Tom! Get over here, lad. Pull up a stool and get your lips around a nice bevvy. Don’t waste any time!’ Patrick waved them over as he shouted.

George could just about see them through the cloud of smoke and the press of bodies. He and their other old school mate Harry had already got themselves a table in the corner and sat around it with pints of ale.

‘Evening, lads,’ Tom said as they got through the crowd. ‘Cains again, is it?’ He gestured to the glasses of thick, brown ale.

‘Aye,’ Patrick said. ‘Harry won’t drink anything else, will he?’

Harry tried to say something but had a mouthful of ale.

‘Everyone has their family pride,’ Patrick continued. ‘The only time I ever got him to drink something else was when he lost at Crown and Anchor. And even then he spat most of it up.’ He took a short drag on his cigarette. ‘Say, lads. Why don’t we play another game now?’

Harry lurched forward and ale spat down his front and across the table. The others laughed, and he joined in with them as the remnants of the ale frothed around his lips.

Patrick was always trying to be the life of any gathering and tonight was no exception. His blond hair was ruffled as if he had just dragged himself through a bush, and his thin, wiry frame would definitely aid in that.

Harry, on the other hand, was exactly the opposite; he cut his brown hair close to his head and his short thick frame would easier knock the bush over than slide through it. He was also slightly slower on the uptake than the others, and found himself lagging behind most conversations and, indeed, jokes.

‘Stop being cruel to Harry, O’Brien. He drinks what he wants to drink and no one should tell him otherwise.’

Tom sat down on a stool next to Patrick and pulled one out for George. Harry handed him a cigarette, and he lit it, taking a long drag, letting the cool, blue smoke escape his mouth.

‘So what news, Tom Adams?’ Patrick asked, puffing smoke while waiting for an answer. Tom put the glass to his lips and waited for a long moment, refreshing the taste of his beer, before answering.

‘Not much to say, Paddy. Work, work and more work for us.’

The others nodded in sympathy. Patrick shot him a look.

‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ Harry asked. ‘Like football or something? Is anyone going along to the match at the weekend?’

‘No, Harry, I don’t think so,’ Tom said, humouring him. ‘I think we have other plans.’

‘Come on, Williams. It’s only a friendly, why bother?’ Patrick put his arm around Harry’s shoulders, who deflated at the response.

‘The season doesn’t kick off for another month, Harry,’ George added. ‘Paddy is right. Besides it’s not like you support a proper football team.’ He tried to flick a cheeky smile to show Harry that he was jesting, but Patrick slammed his glass down.

‘You know I don’t like that name, Abbott. Don’t ever call me that again.’

He leaned over the table and raised a fist at George, a little stylised cross on a silver chain dropping out of his shirt. He reached for it with his other hand.

Tom put his hand around Patrick’s fist and slowly pushed him back towards his own seat.

‘There’s nothing wrong with the reds, George,’ said Harry. ‘Just because they’re not as old as Everton, doesn’t mean they’re not a proper club. You take that back.’

As always, Harry seemed to have missed the undertones to the conversation and the others laughed, breaking the uneasy tension that had built up from nowhere.

‘Sorry, Harry. I’m sure they’ll do better this season, but not if we can help it!’ George pushed another pint of ale in Harry’s direction and gave him a wink.

‘So how’s the rice industry, O’Brien?’ Tom broke his silence, then had another drink. He lit another cigarette from the butt of his last one.

‘Work is much the same as always, I guess it’s the same as down at the dock.’

George very much doubted that, but didn’t say anything.

‘Always back-breaking and sweating buckets without any thanks. I’m sure I constantly smell like rice,’ he laughed wryly.

‘Better than smelling like brandy,’ Tom interjected. ‘My old mum thinks I always come home drunk from work. She won’t listen that it’s thanks to those barrels.’ He sniffed his armpit in mock theatricality. ‘Brandy and sweat, a fine combination, fit for the middle classes.’

George chuckled. ‘Well, at least she’ll be right tonight, when you go home flat drunk,’ he said as he passed his mate another pint from the dwindling row of full glasses on the table.

‘That’s right!’ Harry shouted, and the others roared with laughter.

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Adams.’ Patrick leaned over conspiratorially and covered one side of his face with a hand, as if he was going to whisper into Tom’s ear and he didn’t want anyone else to overhear.

‘Things have not been going well at the millers.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Tom feigned interest, but Patrick didn’t seem to notice.

‘Yeah. The supervisors are getting jumpy. Things have been going badly for a while. We’ve kept on working, doing our thing, but they’ve been getting worried nonetheless. The unions are urging us to strike, and winding up the owners, but we don’t know what’s best.’ He leaned closer. ‘I think Bailey’s going to call a picket any day now, you wait.’ He sighed. ‘There’s too much trouble at the moment.’

‘You’re right, O’Brien, there is. I don’t know what you should do, but you should try listening to the union man. Surely they’ve got your best interest at heart?’

George took another sip of his beer, listening to the conversation between the other two. Patrick was hardly being quiet, despite what his body language suggested.

‘And to add to that, my da is worried about his family. I thought we were his family? But no, he wants to go home, to help out with all the trouble there. He says he’s gotta help ’em.’

‘What’s he going to do in Ulster? What can he possibly do to help them?’

‘I don’t know, but he’s got to try, hasn’t he?’

‘I guess so. Your father’s an honest man, O’Brien. And don’t worry, he loves it here almost as much as he loves Ireland. This is home now.’ Tom patted Patrick on the back in a friendly gesture and stood up. ‘Time to get some more in.’

He pushed his way to the bar, and the conversation died out. Patrick studied the bottom of his empty pint and George averted his attention. The pub was busier now, and there was a group of men by the bar having a heated discussion.

Tom came back, precariously carrying four pints of ale. He plopped them down and beer spilt over the rims.

‘Easy, Adams,’ Patrick said.

‘Well, give me a hand next time then, won’t you?’

He made sure that the fullest pint was sat in front of Patrick.

‘Listen, there’s a group of lads over there getting quite rowdy. Keep an eye out for them. There might be some trouble.’

A glass shattered and Tom cringed. A tall, thin man, with yellow hair came flying through the crowd and almost fell over in front of their table. He was being pushed in the chest by a stockier, balding man.

‘What do you mean you don’t think we should fight, Smith?’ The smaller man was shouting in the other’s face, prodding his front with a finger. ‘Or should I call you “Schmidt”? That was your family name before you came over here, wasn’t it? Taking good, British jobs from good, British workers.’ He punctuated each word with a jab.

The two men were nearly at their table now. A hush had descended across the bar.

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Saying that they shouldn’t be defending their right to work. What gives you the right, you Prussian bastard?’

‘Actually I was… well, I was born here. And our King is cousins wi—’

‘I don’t care,’ the other man said. A great shove propelled the other man into Tom’s back, almost spilling the pint he was holding.

‘Sorry,’ the thinner man said from the floor, but Tom had had enough. He turned to the two men, standing taller.

‘That’s enough,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no need for that in here. Good and honest British workers are trying to enjoy their downtime. You hear me?’

The stocky man looked up at him.

‘Now go and have another pint or go home. Either way, leave us in peace.’

The other man glared at Tom, before he grumbled and pushed his way through the crowd. George didn’t realise that he and the others had stood up to help Tom, and he sat down again, feeling embarrassed.

Tom helped the thin man to his feet, brushing him down.

‘Be careful what you say in here, lad. This is a workers’ pub.’

‘Thank you, I’m sorry. All I said was that it seemed odd that our King had gone to war with his cousin, and that our soldiers should have to fight for it.’

Tom frowned.

‘Well, even still, be careful.’

The other man nodded and walked away, eyeing the customers as he left the pub.

‘See what I mean, lads? Too much trouble,’ Patrick said as Tom sat down.

‘Well, I think the Germans are a much bigger problem than anything else, O’Brien,’ Harry replied, wiping the beer’s head from his lips with the back of his hand, while Tom remained silent.

‘I mean, how dare they try to start a war? Over what, some pompous Duke’s death? What’s that gotta do with Belgium and France?’

‘Archduke,’ George said.

‘I mean,’ Harry continued, ignoring George, ‘I thought their problem was with the other side? Not with the French.’

‘I think they have a problem with everyone in Europe, Harry. Most of the Royal Houses are at war with each other now. What next?’ Tom had calmed down enough to rejoin the conversation and he lit another cigarette.

‘Well, our boys will show ’em where to get stuffed!’ Harry took a large swig of beer.

‘Dad says that their army is much bigger than ours.’ George finally managed to get a word in now that Harry’s mouth was full. However, he was met with scoffs of derision and chuckles.

‘Don’t worry, Georgie,’ Patrick said, with a big grin from ear to ear. ‘The Kaiser may have a bigger army but he doesn’t know how to use it!’

George spat beer across the table, and they burst out laughing.

Tom put his hand on George’s shoulder and smiled before saying, ‘Lad, George’s right. That Kitchener is building a new army, to counter the Germans.’

He paused for breath, weighing his next words, then plunged straight ahead. ‘Listen, I’m going down the office tomorrow, lads. To sign up.’

‘What? You?!’ Patrick and Harry replied almost at the same time.

‘Yes, me. I’ve had enough of trying to scrape something together. I think you lads should join me, but I’ll understand if you don’t.’

‘But you’re a cad.’ Patrick was smiling despite the insult. ‘They’ll never take you.’

‘Then they’ll be losing out.’ Tom grinned back, and slapped Patrick on the arm. ‘I’m not worried, Paddy. Just wait and see, they’ll be begging me to enlist. I bet they’ll sign me up as an officer right away. They’ll give me my own battalion. I’m sure that they’ll let you join it. You can be my servants, lads.’ He held up his arm with his palm outstretched. ‘They’ll even call it Tom Adams’ Army.’ He punctuated each word with his hand as if imagining a hoarding.

‘What about your job, Tom, lad?’ Harry sounded concerned. ‘What’ll you do when the war is over?’

Tom shook his head.

‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, Harry. There’s no use in worrying what might be. Plus, I hear the army pays better.’ George caught the hesitation in Tom, but he carried on, apparently hoping the others wouldn’t notice. ‘It’ll be an adventure.’

‘Besides, he’ll be back soon when it all blows over.’ Patrick was clearly warming to the idea. ‘He might not even get a chance to go over there before our boys have sent them Germans packing.’

‘Aye,’ Tom said. ‘But I might stay on after the war. See where it takes me. I could go all over the world.’

‘When he served in the King’s, my dad was out in South Africa,’ George added. ‘Not to mention Afghanistan and India. Who knows where they might go after this war?’

‘It’s gotta be better than good old Toxteth,’ Patrick laughed.

‘My dad has always said he misses it, ever since he got injured. Though I was too young to remember much about it.’

‘So, that’s why your old man’s so grumpy,’ Harry said, trying to elicit a laugh, but bringing the conversation to a halt. The colour drained from George’s face, his anger swelling. He wasn’t quick to anger, but he couldn’t let someone insult his dad.

‘Come on, Harry, there’s no need for that!’ Tom came to George’s rescue. ‘George’s dad served our country proudly for years. You should show him more respect.’

Patrick drank his beer as if he hadn’t noticed the awkwardness.

‘Sorry, uh, George… lad. I was, er, ah… out of line,’ Harry apologised.

George could only nod, not wanting to open his mouth for fear of what he might say.

‘You can’t go alone, lad,’ Patrick said, returning to what he thought was a more interesting topic, leaving George still fuming.

‘I won’t be alone, the rumours of war have been going for weeks. I’ve heard whispers all over the city about signing up.’ Tom was grinning wider with every word, engaging his audience with enthusiasm in every breath.

George quickly forgot about the insult to his father, and envisioned a great British soldier rallying his troops and leading them into a glorious battle against the despicable enemy. He could see Tom doing that sort of thing, pulling every other soldier along with him in his wake and winning the day, with a big grin on his face. Men would follow Tom into anything. He would, too.

‘Besides, that’s why our George is coming with me.’

That one sentence ripped George out of his daydreaming and back into the present. He tried to hide his surprise by grabbing his ale and taking a swig. He hadn’t told Tom that he would be signing up with him, but as usual Tom had assumed he would follow. They had talked about it, yes, but he hadn’t said that he wanted to sign up. It had all been Tom.

Although, now it had been said, he liked the idea. He couldn’t imagine working down at the dock without Tom to keep him company and get him through a hard day.

‘Oh, you too eh, Georgie?’ Patrick obviously wasn’t willing to let the matter lie. ‘Going to follow in the footsteps of your father? Keep it in the family? Make him proud?’

Without thinking George replied. ‘Yes,’ he said. He very much wanted that, to make his father proud. George’s father was a hard, uncompromising man, but he had always done everything he could to do right by his family. George knew that his father loved both his sons, even if he never showed it, but he desperately wanted to see that sense of pride on his father’s face. His mother always said that the reason he was so sullen and withdrawn was because he was forced out of the army by injury. George wanted to do anything possible to give him some of his pride back. His father couldn’t fight, so he would.

He had tried to make a living, urged by his mother to do something honest and constructive, but it wasn’t working. The dock was its own special kind of hell. Heavy, hard work, and if he was truthful, he hated it as much as Tom did.

‘So, what about the football then?’ Harry urged again.

The others continued talking without George. He didn’t care what they thought. ‘I’m going to enlist,’ he said, more for himself than for any of the others, testing the words out on his lips, to say it out loud. Tom was the only one to take any notice and smiled at him, before turning back to the others, deep in conversation. They were too drunk now to talk about anything serious. George had another drink.

Chapter 6

‘It’s a dacks-hound, one of them German ones, lad,’ said one of the group of small boys with dusty brown hair, as Joe walked nearer. They were surrounding a small, whimpering dog. Another boy taunted it with a stick.

‘It’s the enemy, get it,’ shouted another, lost in the crowd.

The boy, a gaunt thing with scruffy clothes and thick curly black hair, whacked the dog with his stick. It fell on its side and elicited a great wail. Its pain didn’t deter the boys, and as the boy raised his stick again Joe grabbed it from behind. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, and yanked the stick out of the boy’s hand.

‘Hey, that’s mine,’ the boy complained. He must have been about eight or nine years old, his face covered in the muck and grime accumulated from playing in the street. The dog used this distraction to limp off and disappear from sight around a corner.

‘Not anymore,’ Joe said, calmly, making sure not to talk down to the boy. ‘There’s no need to abuse that poor dog. What has it done to you?’

‘Hey,’ someone shouted from behind Joe, and he turned. ‘What are you doing to my son?’ A slightly plump woman wearing a pinafore rushed across to road to confront Joe. He thought of the stick in his hand and dropped it.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘They were having a go at a poor dog, saying it was German. Hitting it with a stick.’

‘And you think it’s right to tell them what to do, do you?’ Her big cheeks were flush with anger. ‘They’re just showing their patriotism. Are you some kind of pacifist or something?’

‘Well actually—’

‘You’re all the same, your lot. Go on, leave my boy alone, or I’ll give you a good hiding like your mother should have done.’

‘I was just helping the dog,’ he said, the sound struggling to get past his throat.

Her anger didn’t abate, but she focused on her son and Joe walked away as fast as his legs would allow. Behind, he could still make out her voice, yelling at the boy.

He crossed the road past the horse carts, as a lone motorcar trundled past. Outside the greengrocer’s boxes of fruit and vegetables shone in the late morning sun. He picked up a couple of apples. One was thick, ripe, and juicy, the other was thinning and clearly older, bruised in parts. He put the ageing apple back on top, feeling sorry for it. Perhaps a customer might see it first and buy it.

He entered the newsagent’s next door, which opened with the jingle of a bell. Posters lined the walls, showing various headlines from different newspapers. Light filtered in through the window panes casting long shadows across the stands. It smelled of musty paper and ink, a smell Joe was well used to. At the far end of the shop the shopkeeper was having an argument with another man. Their voices were rising and falling. The shopkeeper, a bulky man wearing an apron, and with silver hair around his ears, was moving bundles of papers away from the counter. A smaller man followed him. They hadn’t heard the entry bell. Joe couldn’t make out what was being said.

He read the first newspaper on the stand, waiting for them to finish. The terrible ‘Hun’ was plastered in a headline across the first page. He shook his head and put the paper back, sliding it behind another, then picked up the copy of the Labour Leader that he had come in for, folded it under one arm and walked to the counter.

‘Don’t expect me to do your work for you,’ said the shopkeeper to a smaller man as he moved another bundle of newspapers aside, dropping them with a bang.

Joe coughed into his fist.

Both men jumped in shock. ‘Sorry, sir,’ the shopkeeper said, letting go of another bundle and rushing around the counter to serve Joe. The small man’s cold blue eyes stared.

‘Joe?’ he said. ‘Joe Abbott?’

Joe didn’t reply. He put the paper down in front of the frowning shopkeeper.

‘Joe, it is you. It is.’ The other man moved to shake Joe’s hand. He was a head shorter than Joe, with, short brown, bushy hair. His cheeks were gaunt, and his jaw pronounced. There was evidence of a moustache and beard that was only just showing through on his pale skin and gave him an unshaven appearance. Recognition dawned.

‘Oh my,’ Joe said. The words came out in a hurry. He stared at the other man’s outstretched hand and wondered if it was now too late to shake it.

‘You know this idiot?’ the shopkeeper joined in, putting his hand out to be paid.

Joe handed over a ha’penny without looking at the man or answering his question. The shopkeeper cashed up. ‘So, do you?’ he said again, before returning to his work when Joe gave a shallow nod.

‘Little Jimmy.’ Joe paused for a second, thinking. ‘Little Jimmy Sutcliffe, isn’t it? I remember you.’

The blue eyes brightened as Joe recognised him. ‘Yes, though less of the little now. No one calls me Little Jimmy any more. James will do.’ He smiled. It seemed forced, the corners of his mouth were still downturned. ‘You do remember how we were always at the front of the class back at school, and you pretended never to understand me?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ Joe wasn’t sure he had been pretending, but didn’t want to say so.

‘You do remember, don’t you? Old Fenning, used to put us next to each other in his classroom. His two brightest students he used to say, remember?’

‘Yes.’ Joe remembered, but rather differently. He had been one of Fenning’s brightest students, but Little Jimmy Sutcliffe was not. His old teacher was always recommending further reading and philosophy to Joe. He had grown particularly fond of the old man. As a boy Jimmy always seemed entitled, from a rich family on the hill that looked down on them all. He expected to be one of Fenning’s brightest and best, but really, he wasn’t.

‘I remember it, Jimmy… James.’ He caught himself. ‘We had some good years at that school. Before I had to leave.’

‘I never really did understand why you had to leave.’

Joe nodded. He hadn’t had time to tell anyone why he was leaving or where he was going to. He had only been there by the kindness of his Uncle Stephen who, because he had no children of his own, had decided to pay for Joe’s education. That was until his younger siblings had needed schooling. His uncle simply couldn’t pay for them all and so Joe had had to leave. After all, he had learnt all he needed to know, hadn’t he? The local school would be fine for the rest of his education. ‘We couldn’t afford it, James.’

‘Oh, that is rum.’ He pushed his lips out and dropped his head. Joe wasn’t sure if Jimmy was genuinely upset, or just humouring him.

‘Don’t frown, James,’ Joe said, mimicking old Fenning. ‘I did all right.’

Jimmy smiled again. Joe missed old Fenning. The man was a bright spark in a dark, cruel world and had always given Joe so much to think about. The master at his next school had been unkind and unfair. Joe had withdrawn and found solace in books. He would have rather been at home, reading. Perhaps Jimmy had become Fenning’s best student after Joe had left.

Jimmy shuffled, as the shopkeeper gave an occasional huff, making it clear that he wanted them gone. ‘What brings you here in particular, Joe?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Oh,’ he continued before Joe answered. He pointed to the newspaper that Joe was holding. ‘I found a few old issues of that in Fenning’s room once.’

‘This?’ He held up the paper. ‘Fenning encouraged me to read it when I was at school, to learn about all walks of life he used to say. It’s also interesting research for my newspaper work. I had no idea Fenning read it at the school.’ Reading the newspaper would have been quite dangerous at such a school. He had only ever mentioned it in hushed tones.

‘Oh yes, we found all sorts of things after you left. Best not to dishonour his memory with that sort of discussion though, may he rest in peace.’ Jimmy sighed.

He didn’t hear what Jimmy said next. He had never found out what had happened to Fenning after Joe had left the school. It had seemed like a different life. He wiped his eye with a handkerchief, passing it off as if he were wiping his nose. He didn’t want to think of the old, kind teacher passing away. He wondered how it had happened, but he didn’t dare ask.

‘We could discuss our old school days and old Fenning sometime while having a drink,’ Jimmy said, beaming at him.

Joe hesitated. ‘I don’t know, Jimmy. Sorry… James.’

Jimmy’s eyes dropped to the floor. ‘It would be fine to catch up. If you are busy, we could arrange a better time.’

‘You’re right. Why don’t you give me your address, and when I’ve time, I’ll be in touch.’

‘Excellent. Just one second.’ He patted his pockets. ‘Here, do you have a pencil and some paper I could borrow?’ The shopkeeper scowled as handed him a small notepad and a worn pencil. A few seconds later, Jimmy handed Joe a piece of paper. An address in Woolton. Joe could only imagine the large houses with their own estates, a good distance from their nearest neighbours.

‘You know the area?’ Jimmy asked.

Joe nodded.

‘Good! Do pop by whenever you get a moment, won’t you?’

‘I’ll try,’ Joe said, cramming the piece of paper into his coat pocket.

‘Whenever you get a spare second, we would love to see you up at the house. Just knock on the door and the man will let you in. That is whenever – the newspaper, was it? – whenever they let you free for socialising.’

Joe nodded again. He wasn’t really listening. Jimmy brought back painful memories of a life he didn’t really care for. Although he wanted to make more of himself, he didn’t agree with how families like the Sutcliffes lived.

‘What newspaper was it that you said you worked for?’

Joe mentally cursed for having mentioned it. ‘Did I say newspaper?’ It was a poor dodge and he knew.

‘Yes, I’m sure you did.’ Jimmy’s smile didn’t falter.

‘That’s right. Well, I er—’

At that moment, the welcome-bell jingled as the door opened and an older man, dressed in a tweed jacket, came into the shop. ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ the shopkeeper said. Joe thought he had been saved by the distraction, but Jimmy was still waiting.

‘I’m a sub-editor for the Daily Post, James,’ he finally conceded. Jimmy moved a fraction closer. ‘It’s not much, but it can be interesting, and it gives me a chance to write from time to time.’

‘Fascinating,’ Jimmy agreed, biting his lip in a thoughtful expression. ‘I wonder—’

‘I always enjoyed writing, I suppose.’ If he could keep talking, he hoped Jimmy would get bored and have to leave. ‘There were no jobs available when I started, I had to work my way up from the bottom. I’ll work my way up to a top journalist one day. I’ve already talked to the editor about it.’

Jimmy was biting his lip, while scratching his head. Joe tried to gauge Jimmy’s thoughts, but he hadn’t seen Jimmy in so long, he didn’t really know the man. The shopkeeper moved past them, tidying the shelves. He stopped in between newspapers to give the two men a very pointed stare, which he held for a few seconds, before returning to his work. He reorganised some magazines that the newcomer had disturbed. ‘We should leave,’ Joe said.

‘I think that you would be interested in these.’ Jimmy pulled out a wad of paper from his jacket and pushed them at Joe. They were a number of identical pamphlets, printed on a light, expensive brown paper. At the top of the page were the words ‘Stop the War To-Day!’ in block capitals. Joe sighed. Why would Jimmy be pushing these pamphlets on people? What was the war to him?

‘You don’t like them?’ Jimmy asked. ‘They are just the beginning, I asked for some larger prints to post on walls.’

‘Why?’ was all Joe could manage.

‘Why?’ A frown crossed Jimmy’s brow. ‘Because the war needs to be stopped before it even starts. It’s not right. Britain should have nothing to do with it.’

‘Right, that’s enough of this. I told you I don’t want nothing to do with this rubbish.’ The shopkeeper stormed over to them and opened the door, politeness giving way to frustration. ‘Out with you. Go on.’ The door slammed behind them. A young woman was examining the vegetables on the greengrocer’s stand. The doctor left the newsagent’s and walked away. A horse cart rattled past, a cacophony of hooves and metal-clad wheels on the cobbles.

‘You have to be careful, James. Protesting the war could see you in prison.’

‘Yes I know, but—’

‘It doesn’t matter. You won’t stop the war with these.’ He shoved the pamphlets back into Jimmy’s unresisting hands. ‘People aren’t going to listen to these. They’ll either ignore them or be so disgusted with the sentiment that they will cause you trouble.’

‘I thought you might understand…’ Jimmy’s voice was childlike, a squeak. His face puffed under that tuft of a moustache.

‘I don’t understand. These leaflets will not help, and I don’t understand why you of all people would care. You will get arrested, or at best fined.’ He couldn’t help raising his voice.

‘Old Fenning…’

‘He wouldn’t have wanted this,’ Joe said. ‘This is an incitement to riot. You’re going to find yourself in a lot of trouble if you carry on.

‘Fenning would have advised caution. He would say educate people about the war. Not to go all out on some kind of crusade. People are mad at Germany, and they’ll be mad at you too. What good would you be able to do from a prison cell?’

‘Th… that’s…’ Jimmy had developed a stammer from nowhere, and Joe felt sorry for him. ‘That’s w-why I w-wanted to talk to you, Joe. I r-r-read an article p-published by your p-p-paper. I w-wanted to ask if you could p-p-put me in touch w-with—’ he took a deep breath ‘—Albert Barnes.’

Joe’s heart sunk. This nervous man was trying to make a difference. He had read an article that asked questions about the war, and he wanted to speak to its author. All the time he had no idea that the person he was speaking to was that man. Joe felt ashamed at his anger, but he couldn’t shift the feeling that Jimmy was wrong for this. It was as if he was searching for a place to exist, something to be part of, rather than having any real conviction. The army itself would have given Jimmy a sense of purpose. He had always gone from one idea to the next, without following it through.

Joe sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have got angry with you. Albert Barnes is no longer in Liverpool. He enlisted. He’ll be in France by now.’

‘But why did he write the article, only to sign up?’

‘Because he didn’t, Jimmy. I did.’ He didn’t trust Jimmy, and he knew it was probably a mistake to tell him, but he hated lying. ‘Don’t you dare tell anyone, or I’ll lose my job.’

‘You?’ Jimmy’s eyes widened. ‘Perhaps you can help me then.’

‘Listen, Jimmy.’ Joe gestured roughly at the pamphlets again. ‘I could lose my job over this if anyone found out. We could all lose our jobs, or worse if we’re not careful.’

‘So you won’t help me then?’

‘I can’t, Jimmy. I want to, but I can’t. I disagree with the war too. We can both make a difference but turning people against you won’t help.’ He checked to see if anyone had overheard, while Jimmy examined his shoes. ‘We shouldn’t even discuss this here.’ He put some distance between the two of them. The police could get funny ideas about two men talking closely on the streets. ‘We’ll talk again. But you must promise me something.’

‘What?’ Jimmy’s voice was a whisper.

‘You must not come by the newspaper.’

Jimmy nodded. A spark of light had returned to his eyes.

‘If you do, Jimmy, people will ask questions. They will want to know why you’re there, and that wouldn’t end well for either of us.’

‘How shall I c-c-contact you? If not at the newspaper?’

Joe didn’t want Jimmy coming by his home either. That was another conversation with the family that he wanted to avoid, even if he could pass Jimmy off as a mad old school pal. He had never mentioned Jimmy to any of them. ‘I don’t think that you should contact me, Jimmy. I’ve too much to lose. Some of us aren’t as well off.’ It was cruel, but he wanted to make a point. ‘I will contact you. I have your address.’ He pulled the crumpled piece of paper out of his coat pocket and straightened it. ‘I will keep this safe… until I need it.’

Jimmy was still as tense as he had been when they left the shop. A couple of gentlemen wearing long coats walked towards them, talking and swiping their walking canes with each step. They visibly perspired in the summer heat, their long moustaches keeping the sweat out of their mouths. They tutted at the pair of them, bemused that their way was blocked.

‘Excuse us,’ Joe said as he doffed his cap and dragged Jimmy to the side. He waited till they were out of earshot before talking again. ‘You should go now,’ he said, realising that he still held Jimmy by the collar of his jacket. He let go and brushed the other man’s collar. ‘We’ve been here too long, and I’m late for work.’

Jimmy finally put the leaflets away, carefully folding them in his pocket. ‘Yes, you are right. Of course. I have things to do.’ He took a big breath and reached out to shake Joe’s hand. ‘I will await your convenience, Joe. We shall look forward to having you up at the house, whenever you are free. No notice needed.’

Joe returned the gesture this time. It was a strong handshake, full of emotion. It was unexpected. Joe watched Jimmy walk away and felt a fool. He didn’t think he would see the man again. They were from different worlds. From behind he could just imagine Jimmy having one of those long, tapered moustaches, and swinging a cane. Even if Joe did go to the Sutcliffes’ house, he would feel entirely out of place, and his presence would serve no purpose, but to make him more anxious. Joe wanted Jimmy to succeed, to stop the war before any more needless deaths, but he would do things his own way. He would help to change public opinion. People could be made to see the war was wrong. He was sure of that.

Chapter 7

George was in a hurry, and he had left before breakfast. He would tell everyone later, of course, but he couldn’t face their questions now. They might harm his already fragile confidence. He wore his best Sunday suit, which was reserved for special occasions. Today was definitely one of those. Tom had tried to convince him it would be all right, but he was sure that he would have trouble convincing the recruiting officer he was old enough. He hoped that they would think the two of them the same age.

Tom’s eyes widened as he saw George. He was also in his Sunday best.

‘Woo, look at you,’ he said. ‘Off to charm the girls in Belgium, are we?’

George wasn’t in the mood for Tom’s jokes, the butterflies in his stomach made him feel like being sick. It took all his effort to even speak.

‘We’ll be in uniform by the time we get out there, Tom.’

Tom chuckled heartily and patted George on the back with a couple of thumps. ‘Don’t be so matter-of-fact,’ he said.

It was a ten-minute walk to Gwent Street, where they would find the local recruitment office.

‘Did you tell your ma?’ George asked Tom.

‘Nah, she’d only worry about me, and what’s the use in worrying her? I’m gonna do it anyway. What other option have I got?’ An odd darkness crossed his face in contrast to his usually jovial attitude. ‘Besides, you’re with me, and she likes you. You’ll look after me, won’t you, George?’ He laughed that familiar laugh, as George scowled at him. ‘Did you?’

‘No,’ George replied. ‘I left early to avoid it. I hope they’ll think I just went to work.’

‘Why not? I mean, ya old fella was in the army. Surely he’ll be backing you?’

‘I hope so, but I didn’t want to find out. It’s my decision, not theirs. A part of me was worried what they might say. I am under-age after all. I should wait, but I want to go now. I want to do my bit before I’m no longer needed.’

Tom gave George another pat on the back. ‘Me too.’

On Gwent Street they met a group of men, chatting in excitement. Everyone was dressed smartly, in various brown suits, waistcoats and caps.

‘What’s all this then?’ asked Tom, speaking to no one in particular.

A short man turned. ‘We’re queuing up, lad. Tha’s the recruitment office.’ His Lancashire accent was stronger and more rural than theirs. He had the look of a farm hand, with dried mud around his face and in the corners of his nails. ‘Here’s back, if you’re looking to join.’

George heard the shout of a more familiar voice.

‘Hello, lads!’ Patrick smiled as he walked towards them, pushing through the crowd. ‘What time do you call this? We’ve been queuing for a good while now.’

‘We?’ Tom asked, with a frown.

‘Yeah. You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you? The other lads are up front, waiting to go in. I saw you come round the corner and thought I’d come say hullo. Henry’s keeping my place. He’ll start worrying if I don’t get back soon.’

‘I didn’t think you were signing up?’ said George.

‘What made you think that?’ Patrick flashed his smile again. ‘We couldn’t leave Tom and you on your own, could we?’

‘If you’re about to be called in you had better go back,’ Tom said, his usual good humour missing.

‘Not gonna join us, lads?’

‘Well now, cutting the queue wouldn’t be a very good start to military life now, would it?’

‘See you on the other side then, lads,’ Patrick said, as he jogged back to the front, disappearing into the crowd. ‘Don’t want to be the last one in,’ he called over his shoulder.

The queue took quite a while. As time went on George and Tom edged closer and closer to the recruitment office, and the single open door that would admit them to their new world. The queue twisted up the front stairs like a snake hunting its prey. Every now and then some unlucky men came back out and disappeared down the road in a hurry. Two of them passed George and Tom, muttering, ‘… ’king doctor. What’s ’is problem anyway? There’s nothing wrong with me. Who’s ’e calling short anyway? I was looking ’im right in the face. Could have nutted ’im. Bastard.’ They disappeared the same way as the others.

It didn’t help George feel any less nervous. The sweat caused by the late summer sun was building up on his brow, and he wanted ever so much to scratch at it, but he knew it would only make him sweat more. Everyone else appeared happy to be there, excited, but he could only worry. Why were men being turned away? Would he have to walk in shame past the assembled men, hanging his head and trying not to notice the looks of pity? He lifted his cap and wiped a hand across his brow.

‘Are you all right, George?’ Tom asked.

‘Yeah. I just keep thinking, what if they reject me?’

‘Stop worrying. That’ll only make them more suspicious.’ Tom flashed his teeth.

‘That’s easier said than done.’

‘I know. Just put it out of your mind. Remember what we agreed yesterday? Tell them you’re almost nineteen. They’ll fret that you’re not old enough to go overseas and that’ll make them forget you’re not old enough at all.’

Tom had it all worked out, but George wasn’t so sure. The army didn’t send eighteen-year-olds overseas. George would have to train for a month, but so would everyone else. By the time they were ready to be shipped out it would be his birthday. They didn’t have to know it was his seventeenth birthday. ‘Shush,’ George said. ‘I don’t want anyone to overhear you.’

‘It’s all right, George. It’ll all work out. Just do as I said.’

Tom made George go first so he could back him up if anything went awry. They got in just in time to see another nervously walk through a different door at the back of the room.

‘Next!’ called a commanding voice.

Tom gave George a nudge in the back and he stepped forwards. The recruiting officer was sitting behind a table, wearing an army dress uniform. His cap lay on the table, facing the potential recruits, showing off its badge. The table was a simple temporary affair, placed there for the purposes of enlistment, draped with a white cloth, and paper piled up on top.

‘Name?’ the officer asked, without looking up from the forms. His accent was not local, but rather that of an educated, wealthy man. His manner made George even more nervous. George took off his own cheap woollen cap, folding it in his hands.

‘George Abbott, sir.’ George stared at the back wall of the room and tucked his feet together; his father had taught him the standard army way to be presented when he was a small boy.

The recruiting officer finally regarded him. ‘Abbott, a good name, and you address me well.’ He wrote a few notes on the form and looked up again. ‘Do you know what arm and which regiment you are joining, son?’

‘Army, sir. The King’s Liverpool.’ George beamed with pride at the name of his father’s regiment.

‘Good man,’ the officer said. ‘Let me sort out a few other things.’ He stood and came around the desk to have a closer inspection. George kept his feet together and pushed out his chest, resisting the urge to salute. Somehow, he thought, that would be pushing it too far.

‘How old are you, son?’ The officer raised an eyebrow.

‘Eighteen, sir. Nineteen next month,’ he replied, as he had been practising internally since leaving the house. He was really two years younger, but they would never accept a sixteen-year-old into the army no matter how big and strong he was. He was still sweating and the questioning gaze of the recruiting officer made it worse. Neither of the men said anything for a few awkward moments. George hoped the sweat didn’t show on his brow. It took all his mental strength not to reach up and brush it away.

The officer picked up the form and pen from the table and made a couple of fresh notes in black ink. ‘Date of birth?’ he asked.

George breathed for a second before replying, not realising that he had been holding his breath. He scrunched up his cap further in his hands. He would probably never be able to get the wrinkles out. ‘Fourth of September 1895, sir.’

‘Are you sure?’

He tried not to panic and ran a hand over his hair to help keep his breathing steady and give him time to calm down. ‘Absolutely, sir,’ he said.

‘Very well, so be it,’ the officer said as he ticked a box on the form and laid it back on the table, then grabbed his cap, placing it under one arm. ‘Wait here.’ He went out of the door at the back of the room. The sweat now dripped off George’s brow and ran down into his eyes. He finally gave himself a chance to wipe it clear with his sleeve. He relaxed, but the stance felt forced. Why had the officer left? He turned to Tom for an explanation, but his friend just grinned back. Sometimes it was a welcome gesture, at other times it was infuriating. He was trying to help calm George’s nerves, but it wasn’t helping. He wanted Tom to say something reassuring, but he just stayed silent. The other men in the queue didn’t appear to notice his distress, and were quietly talking amongst themselves. ‘What do I do now?’ he said to Tom, losing his calm. The beat of his heart was thundering in his ears.

Tom shushed him with a wave of his hand. ‘Don’t worry, lad, He’ll be back.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Probably gone for his tea. Keep on as you were, nice and confident like.’

As soon as Tom finished speaking the officer popped his head back around the doorframe. ‘This way, Abbott,’ he said, beckoning George. George gave Tom one last long meaningful look, which was returned as a smile, and walked into the other room.

This room was slightly smaller than the first. A metal-framed bed was set to one side with cleanly pressed white sheets and various instruments laid out beside it. The officer handed him over to a male doctor wearing a white coat over his khaki and holding a notepad.

‘The doctor here will perform some tests, to clear you for service,’ the officer said before he left the room. George wondered if the officer was humouring him. He couldn’t have believed that George was eighteen. Now the doctor would scare him off and they would have a good laugh. George would see this through, whatever may come.

‘Good morning, son.’ The doctor’s tone was a lot friendlier than the officer’s. ‘Undo your shirt.’ He was busy at the other side of the room. ‘All the way down to the waist please.’

George quickly took off his jacket, laid it on the unused gurney and undid the buttons of his shirt. When it was down, it fell to the sides of his waist, held into his trousers by its tails.

Without warning, the doctor reached around and pressed the cold pad of a stethoscope to his back. ‘Breathe in deeply, please,’ he said. ‘And out. Again, please… and again.’

He was polite, but he stood too close and there was a stench of stale alcohol on his breath as he too breathed in and out. As George tried to put some more space between them, the doctor tutted and shoved him back. ‘Stay still, son. This won’t take much longer if you don’t fidget.’ He finished checking George’s heart. ‘If you could stand with your back to this, please,’ With his hand he indicated a wooden standard against the wall with increments of height painted along one side and a wooden joist that came down to rest on the patient’s head. He placed his notepad on the bed and examined George. ‘Stand with your feet together, placing your weight on your heels. There we are.’

George did as he was bid and once again stared ahead, avoiding the gaze of the doctor who proceeded to gently bring the joist down to the top of his head.

‘Now just take a deep breath and push your chest out, while still keeping your weight on your heels.’ He picked up the notepad and pen again, making some notes. ‘Hmmm,’ he said after a moment. He crossed to the other side of the room, leaving George with the joist laying on his ever more sweat-sodden head, and pulled down a chart from the wall. It rolled down with a clatter and hooked on a spike that jutted from the wall. Various letters of differing sizes were printed on it, becoming smaller further down the page. There was a mirror next to the chart. George’s reflection, distressed by the irregular surface, was not of a face he immediately recognised. It was tanned from hours working under the blaring sun. The reflection looked like him, but older, somehow more confident.

‘Do you need eyeglasses?’ the doctor asked.

George replied with a quick negative.

‘Then could you please read the first line of the chart for me.’

George had no trouble reading the chart. The doctor nodded as George read each line, marking it on his notepad. It was the most confident George had felt in minutes. Although, he still felt as if the officer and doctor were waiting for him to crack.

‘Very good,’ the doctor said, bringing George out of his introspection. ‘Just one final thing.’ He then proceeded to push one of George’s arms up so that it was perpendicular to his body and run a tailor’s tape around his chest. George almost resisted being manhandled by the overly friendly doctor, but was determined to show that he could follow orders and stand his ground. No matter what, he would stand proud. If they didn’t accept him, he would keep trying until they had no choice.

‘Good,’ the doctor said folding up the tape and putting it in the pocket of his overcoat. He then took George roughly by the jaw and opened his mouth. He moved George’s head around so he could look at his teeth, as if George were a horse. Satisfied, he let go of George’s jaw and returned to his paperwork. ‘Now you just need to go through to the next room and hand the officer this form.’ He pushed a piece of paper into George’s willing hand and turned his back. ‘Good day,’ he said, finally.

George hadn’t known what to expect; his father hadn’t talked about army life much, except for drilling routine into his boys. Recruitment was nothing like what he may have dreamt; there was a lack of organisation that he, based on his home life, presumed all military life would have had.

Gripping the form, he went through to another room at the back of the house. This room was as bare as the first, like a village hall. A larger wooden desk sat at the right-hand side and another officer stood behind it. The man who had preceded George was busily signing a form. ‘Good, now stand with the other men and await the oath,’ the officer said, and the man joined a line of others waiting on the other side.

George handed the form to the officer who introduced himself as a magistrate. ‘Confirm these details are correct and sign the attestation,’ he said. ‘Once you have taken the oath with these other men you will be given the King’s shilling and will officially be a member of His Majesty’s army. If you wish to change your mind, now is the time. Once the oath has been taken and the King’s shilling received you will be bound to a minimum of three years’ service or for the duration of the war.

‘Next!’ he shouted over George’s shoulder.

George signed the attestation, while Tom walked into the room clutching his own paperwork. ‘All good, George, as they say.’

The magistrate ordered them to line up. Patrick and their friends were nowhere to be seen. They must have already given their oath of allegiance to the Crown. He and Tom were so close to joining them.

‘I told you it would be fine,’ Tom whispered.

‘Shh. It’s not sealed yet. It was nerve-wracking back there. I thought that officer had found me out and decided to play a game with me. The doctor treated me like a prize horse. If I wasn’t standing here with you, I’d think they were still having me on.’

‘Odd. The doctor barely touched me. Took one look, made me read the letters, and shoved me through that door. Hold up, here we go.’

The magistrate had shut the door to the room.

‘Where’re Patrick and Harry?’ George said in a hush. He hoped that the officer didn’t notice his lack of discipline.

‘I don’t know. They must’ve gone, ended up in a different section. At least it means we won’t have to put up with them out there.’ Tom’s voice was slightly louder than George’s and earned a disapproving glance from the magistrate.

‘Right, men. Raise your right hand like this.’ He raised his hand to shoulder height with his palm facing outwards. ‘Repeat after me, inserting your name one at a time in the correct place.’ He picked up a piece of paper from the desk and began reading aloud, ‘I…’ He nodded to the first man in the line, who after a second’s hesitation barked out his name in a hurry, and it stuck in his throat as if he hadn’t spoken yet that day, ‘Johnny Smith.’ Then the magistrate nodded at the second man who was ready. ‘Albert Jones,’ he said. Every man along the line announced their name.

‘George Abbott.’

‘Thomas Adams.’

It took a few minutes for the assembled men to speak their names for the oath, and the magistrate carried on where he left off as soon as the last man spoke.

‘Swear by Almighty God.’

‘Swear by Almighty God,’ the men replied in chorus.

The call and repeat carried on until every man had all said the final line, ‘so help me God.’

The magistrate went down the line of men handing each the King’s shilling and dismissing them. He got to George and said, ‘This is the King’s shilling. Take it and you are a member of the regiment.’ He pushed a shilling into George’s palm. ‘Take this.’ He then gave him a sheet of paper with his name and the name of the regiment on it. ‘We will tell you when to report for mobilisation. In the meantime, you will attend training drill starting from Monday. Dismissed.’

George and Tom were now members of the King’s Liverpool regiment. The enlistment felt like it had taken hours, stretching George’s confidence to his wits’ end, but in reality it had only been a few minutes. He had expected a sense of something new but he didn’t feel any different. Tom grinned that grin at him and, taking George around the shoulders, said, ‘That’s that then, we’re men now.’ He laughed. ‘Now to go home and wait, lad. I should probably tell my ma too.’

It was done.

Chapter 8

Joe had just woken up. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but the sun glared in through the window. Last night at the newspaper had been a late night, editing more and more news about the war, and trying to get his anti-war message in wherever he could without Ed noticing. When he had got home, he was out as soon as his head hit the thin pillow. He hadn’t even heard George leave in the morning. His brother had left before Joe had woken, which was unusual, as Joe was often disturbed by George. They didn’t socialise or talk much – they hadn’t since they were small children. One day, Joe would own his own home and bedroom.

Getting up early and reading was his usual morning pattern, but today he just got dressed. He tripped over George’s boots on his way downstairs. He had done enough reading last night for a few days, and his head was still sore from the concentration.

Halfway down the staircase he heard raised voices coming from the kitchen and stopped.

‘How dare you?’ his mother shouted, just loud enough to be heard through the walls. Joe didn’t hear the reply, mumbled as it was. ‘How dare you?’ his mother shouted again, loud enough to wake the house if anyone had still been sleeping.

There was silence for a few seconds, and Joe tried to relax. He daren’t go further down the stairs, should anyone realise he was there.

‘No, George. Not this time. You shouldn’t have done this.’ The anger in his mother’s voice had more control this time. Then he heard an unexpected voice, that of his Uncle Stephen; a voice he hadn’t heard in some time. He didn’t visit their home often. His uncle was how his parents had met. He and Joe’s father had served together and at a regimental dinner George’s mother and father had been introduced. He had heard the story many times. Joe’s heart raced as he thought of all the possibilities of what they were arguing about. He kept coming back to the same conclusion, and the thought made him sick. He hesitated, one foot on the bottom step and a hand on the banister. He dearly wanted to go upstairs and avoid the conversation, but his curiosity and his concern pulled at him. One day he would have to start confronting things.

‘You’re too young.’

The beating of his heart grew louder in his ears, and he still didn’t hear George’s response. Joe put his other foot on the stair, praying they wouldn’t creak.

‘Hello, Joe. What are you doing?’ enquired a young voice, followed by the click of a closing door. She made him start. He had been so engrossed he hadn’t heard his little sister creep up on him.

‘Shush, Lizzie. Not so loud!’ He waved his hands, but she only smiled in return and came closer. ‘I’m just thinking. Why don’t you run upstairs? And don’t tell anyone you saw me!’

He was getting in the habit of lying recently, and he hated himself for it. If he told her what was happening then she would no doubt tell her parents at some point. She was too young to understand. By now, he could no longer make out much of the conversation in the kitchen. His mother was no longer shouting, but he could feel the tension as she moved around the kitchen. Still, his sister stood and smiled at him, craning her neck to see what he was doing, mimicking him.

‘What are you thinking about? Is it to do with stairs?’

‘It’s not important, Lizzie. Now come along with you, up the stairs. Mum will be calling you down soon, and if you’re not ready she will be upset.’ Again he bent the truth to suit his needs, but Lizzie didn’t need to know what was up – not knowing was better at her age. She would find out soon enough. She stopped smiling and stomped up the stairs, her curls bouncing with each step.

‘Shush,’ he said again, in a whisper up the stairs. He would rather not know himself for now. Once again, he was running away from things. If George had signed up for the army, it would rip the family apart. His sixteen-year-old brother was far too young to be going to war. The thought made Joe sick, and he rested his head against the banister, closing his eyes. No one was old enough to go to war. It didn’t matter who they were. No one should have to kill another or be killed for their country. George was brave, not stupid, but Joe couldn’t help but feel he had made the wrong decision. He felt guilty. Guilty that he had never reached out to his brother, and now it could be too late.

He went back upstairs, leaving the conversation behind. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. As he walked past one door he could hear Lizzie singing softly to herself and the sound brought a warmth to his heart. She had a sweet voice, the voice of innocence. He re-entered the room that he and his brother shared, the two iron framed beds on each long wall, like a school dormitory. Kicking his shoes off, he fell backwards onto his bed with a creak of springs. A wave of tiredness hit him. He was tired with the world, with the constant conflict. He turned to the bookshelf that ran alongside his bed. His eyes fell on Tolstoy, amongst others. His collection was meagre, gathered from a second-hand bookshop in the city centre with what money he could spare, but the books were his. One day he would have his own library, full of books on any number of subjects. These took pride of place on the shelf, their battered covers only serving to highlight the quality of names presented on them. A couple had been given to him by his teacher, Fenning. They were both philosophy texts, to encourage him to higher thinking. Not today, he thought. Today wasn’t the time to reach such works. He wasn’t in the mood for opening his mind to possibilities and ideology. He was already weary of thought.

His spotted a copy of the Labour Leader. The same issue that he had used to help edit Barnes’s article. He didn’t usually leave the paper out, the writings of Brockway and the rest would not be welcome in this house. His father wouldn’t appreciate them. Even his books were a risk. The newspaper was incriminating evidence when Barnes returned, and if he accused Joe of tampering with his article. Joe didn’t want to think about the possibility now.

It was proving to be a bad kind of day, and it hadn’t even really started yet. He was exhausted from work at the Daily Post, where others were leaving to join the war effort and everyone else had to gather round and work harder. Now he suspected that there was going to be some consequence of his editing of Albert Barnes’s piece. Worst of all, was the news that his brother had signed up to go and fight – the very thing he was trying to convince other boys not to do. There was nothing he could do to stop that now. He could help others, but what good would that do if he couldn’t even help his family? The least he could do was support his brother, give him confidence. He couldn’t stop him going to fight – he would never listen to Joe, he never had – but, short of signing up himself, he could do everything possible to make sure George would come home.

He pulled out his notepad from the drawer next to the bed and began writing.

Dear George.

A door slammed downstairs, the kitchen door. With nothing short of instinct he jumped up from his bed and rushed to the top of the stairs. He was only just in time to see his mother’s back. ‘Come on, Lizzie,’ she said and walked out the front door. His sister had gone back to listening at the bottom of the stairs, and now followed their mother from the house.

He rushed down the stairs to see what was happening, and peered out the front door. His mother and little sister were nowhere to be seen. Wherever they had gone, they had gone in a hurry. He decided not to follow. His mother had done this a couple of times before, but she would return later as if nothing had happened. He guessed that she just needed to calm down, and that Lizzie’s presence would help her.

He turned back into the house and clicked the front door shut behind him. A moment later the kitchen door opened and Uncle Stephen walked out into the hallway. Stephen was a tall man, half a head taller than Joe, and always wore his uniform. Joe was fond of his uncle, but he wouldn’t exactly call them close. He was a warm and friendly man, but the two of them had nothing in common. Joe had never been boisterous, or particularly adventurous, and his uncle was a classic example of what a military officer should be.

‘Ahh, Joseph. Good to see you,’ he said, in his clipped, proper accent. The sound of his voice reminded Joe of everyone at his first school, the sound of the upper classes. Uncle Stephen stood to attention, even in the Abbotts’ small hallway. He always smelt of cigars and faintly of wool from his uniform. The smell that Joe always associated with the army. ‘I don’t suppose that you saw my dear sister on your way in, did you?’

‘Only on her way out.’ Joe almost stammered, feeling like a school child again, afraid of that new world. ‘She didn’t say where she was going.’

‘Ah, yes. Well, I will find her. I can put all that expensive army training to the test and track her.’ He winked, and moved to the doorway, easily gliding past Joe who was rooted to the spot. ‘I’d best go and calm my dear sister down. She does tend to get upset so easily. I’m sure she will be all right, but I’d best go.’

He patted Joe, who had still said nothing, on the shoulder and said, ‘Be seeing you.’ With that he left, and Joe was alone again. Without the presence of his mother, sister, and uncle the house felt incredibly silent. He could hear his heartbeat thumping in his ears. Of course, the only other person left in the house was his brother, sitting in the kitchen for whatever reason. Joe decided that it really was time he knew whether his brother had done what he suspected. He wouldn’t be able to put it off forever, and it was about time he had some courage himself. He finally had an opportunity to catch his brother on his own and have a decent conversation with him. To tell him how he felt. He would still write the letter he had started but for now that could wait.

With a deep breath he placed his hand on the door handle and walked into the kitchen.

Chapter 9

The conversation hadn’t gone exactly as he had planned, but he hadn’t expected his ma to storm out quite like that. It was good of Uncle Stephen to stay behind and give him some encouragement, but then he had left too. He hoped he would see him again before shipping out. He loved his uncle dearly. George put his face in his hands, elbows on the desk. He felt like crying, but a soldier didn’t cry. A man didn’t cry. He would remain strong for his mother’s sake, but it was so difficult.

He heard the door click open again and looked up. He had expected his mother or Uncle Stephen, but it was his brother. He hadn’t realised Joe was home. How much had he heard? Joe didn’t say anything, but stood in the doorway looking sad. He always looked that way, some might say he had a sad face. George couldn’t remember if he had ever seen his brother smile. At least, he never had with George in the room. Now, though, he looked as if he were about to break out in tears. It was a sentiment George shared, but how could he tell his brother that?

Joe opened his mouth, about to say something, but then was interrupted by the sound of their father’s cane on the hallway tiles. ‘What are you two doing moping around here?’ he said, joining them in the kitchen. He was dressed in his work clothes, a woollen suit and bow tie. George knew that he so much wanted to be wearing his uniform, but his father would only ever get to wear it on special occasions. He wouldn’t be joining George in France. ‘Why aren’t you down the dock getting work, and why aren’t you at that paper of yours?’ He limped to the table and lowered himself into a chair. ‘Where’s that mother of yours? She’s normally here when I get home from work.’

George wasn’t sure what to say. His father wasn’t unused to his wife’s bouts of sadness, but it wouldn’t make him particularly happy to hear about another. Besides, George had something important to tell him, and he didn’t want to put him in a worse mood. He was sure that his dad would be proud of him, and he would have to tell him sooner, or later. ‘D—’

‘She’s just gone for a walk with Lizzie,’ Joe interrupted, giving George a pointed look. He wasn’t sure why Joe had interrupted. He always had to get in the way of things, ever since they were little he had been trying to get in George’s way. But this wasn’t the time; he was a soldier now and that gave him a certain sense of power.

‘I’ve got something I need to tell you, Dad.’ He took a gulp of air, remembering how his mother had reacted. He found it difficult to say what he wanted to. It should have been easier to tell his father, but he felt a strange sense of reluctance. Perhaps it was because of Joe’s presence as well. He plunged ahead. ‘I went to the recruitment office, up on Gwent Street. I went with Tom.’

His father didn’t look up. He was flicking through the newspaper on the kitchen table, grumbling to himself with the turn of each page. George wasn’t sure that he was even listening.

‘He and I…’ George paused again, trying to read his father’s expression. ‘He and I… well, we signed up. We signed up to the regiment, Dad. We wanted to go out to Europe, to France. We wanted to stop the Hun.’ The words came out in a torrent, as if a floodgate had been opened. George thought what he had been trying to say was obvious, but the silence in the room had made him spurt it out. Joe sighed and sat down in another chair with a thump. He didn’t say anything, but shook his head, then put his head in his hands. Their father carried on reading the newspaper. Nothing could change George’s mind now.

‘Dad?’ George said, unsettled by his father’s silence. He knew that when his father was silent, something was brewing. George thought that his father was going to cry out as his mother had done and felt guilty again. She had made him second guess his decision, but all along he had thought that his father would support him. Had he made a mistake? No, he couldn’t have. He thought of returning to work on the dock and it made him shudder. He couldn’t go through that again. His father’s stories of the army sounded much better. It had made his father a man and given him so much pride. After all, that’s how his parents had met. George wanted the same sense of belonging, to make something of himself. The dock had no prospect of advancement. Most of the men that worked there were twice his age and would never be anything more.

‘Right,’ his father said at last, in a low voice that always signalled he had made his mind up about something. He pushed the now closed newspaper to one side and looked at both of them, before settling on George. ‘That’s that then.’

Joe leaned forward on his elbows. ‘If I had known—’

‘You keep out of this.’ Their dad didn’t even look at Joe, but stared at George. The gaze was piercing, as if his father was trying to see into his very soul and guess his inner thoughts. His father had often told them off, but George hadn’t seen his father look like this before. It made him shudder. ‘You’ve made your decision then. I had expected you to wait a few years, but what’s done is done.’

He couldn’t have sat around and waited. What if the war was over before he got his chance? He couldn’t live with the guilt of knowing he was here doing nothing and others were out there defending their country. He had always felt older than his years, which was perhaps something to do with being a younger brother and everyone he knew being older than him. Most of them treated him like an adult, except his brother.

‘We could tell the recruiting office that they’ve made a mistake?’

‘Don’t you dare, Joseph. If he’s taken the King’s shilling then he’s one of us now. He’s a soldier, and there’s nothing that can be done to change that. Besides, it’s what you want, isn’t it, George?’

George nodded. He thought about all the answers he could possibly give, all the different reasons. What would be the best thing to say? What did his dad want to hear?

‘Of course, I always wanted to,’ he said, and hesitated again. Why was it so difficult to talk to his dad? He felt like a child again. ‘Now felt like the right time. When we got there, to the recruiting office, there was a whole line of other men signing up, including some I knew from school. I couldn’t let them go without me. How would I feel sat here waiting? It wouldn’t be right not to do my bit too.’

‘Good, honourable reasons.’ His father stood up and limped towards him. The click of the cane was deafening in the kitchen. He then put a hand on George’s shoulder. It took all his willpower not to flinch. ‘If it helps, I think you’ve done the right thing, son.’

‘But he’s too young.’ Joe stood up and George thought that he was going to storm out again. Why was he getting involved? What was it to him if George enlisted? At least it would take the attention off him. ‘How could they let him enlist? It’s clear he’s not old enough.’

‘He’s a grown man now, bigger than me or you, Joe,’ their father said. ‘He’s an intelligent chap, that’s what they’ve seen. They’ll make him an officer in no time. And every man should do his bit. You know, I wish I was coming with you.’

‘You’re both mad.’ Joe was pacing now, every bit as angry as he had been the other morning. He looked as if steam was about to burst out of his head, which had gone red.

‘Don’t talk to me like that, Joseph. I’m your father. Don’t forget that you should be doing your bit too. If you weren’t so selfish… What gives you the right to judge, Joseph? You, who won’t lift his finger to help another.’ Joe was frowning, furious, but he didn’t storm out as he had last time. Still, their father didn’t look at Joe, as if he didn’t want to see him. Only George glanced between the two of them, oddly noticing how alike they appeared at this moment.

‘No, Dad. People die in wars. Look at your leg! Do you want the same for George?’

‘How dare you?’ Their father raised his voice only enough to make Joe be quiet. It was a commanding voice he had practised for years. ‘I was just one of the unlucky ones. Our George won’t be. He’s got a smart head on his shoulders. He’s smarter than I ever was.’

‘I have to go to work.’ Joe moved to the kitchen door, but waited on the threshold. He gave George another sad look, slightly too long so that it became awkward, then with a sigh he left. George heard the front door close a few seconds later.

‘When do you go?’ his father asked, sitting again.

George didn’t know the answer to that question. They would start training soon, he had been told, but technically he wasn’t eligible to go out to Belgium yet.

‘I don’t know. The regulars have been mobilised, but I joined the territorials, the reservists. They haven’t told us when we will be shipped out yet. I don’t even have any kit.’

He handed over the form that he had been given after enlisting, along with the shilling that he had taken as part of the ritual of signing up. ‘This is what they gave me. We’ll have drill training and then when they need us we’ll get our mobilisation orders. I’m not even old enough to go yet. They might decide to keep me back.’

‘They won’t. What did you tell them about your age?’

‘I told them that I was eighteen, almost nineteen.’

‘You gave them your actual day of birth, son?’

‘Not the full date, no. I just changed the year by two and so to them I’m eighteen.’

‘Very clever, half a lie rather than a full one.’ His father’s face became a brief smirk. ‘Speaking of clever, or not, have you seen this rubbish they printed in the paper? All about the cost of war and encouraging lads to think about their decision before signing up. It’s cowardice, rank cowardice if you ask me. Typical of the kind of nonsense that your brother gets up to at that paper. This Albert Barnes should be ashamed of himself. How could they let him write such a thing, let alone publish it?’

‘It wasn’t him, Dad. I overheard him say it wasn’t. He’s even signed up for the regiment. I saw him at the recruitment office.’

‘Odd.’ His father was back flicking through the newspaper.

George had a thought and rummaged in his pocket. He pushed the shilling across the table. His confidence was rising by the second, secure in the knowledge that his father was on his side. He could do anything with his father on side. ‘It’s not much, but there will be more where that’s come from and I’ll make sure it is sent here while I’m out in France, for you and Ma.’

‘We don’t care about the money, George. We get along all right. This isn’t about money.’ He shoved the paper aside again and looked at George. This time his eyes were full of warmth. Gone was the stare that made George feel tiny. ‘This is about doing something right; doing something bigger than yourself. The money is yours if you want it, we’ve no right to claim it. You’ve done the right thing.’

Chapter 10

Frank leaned over and dropped a newspaper in front of him, as Joe was crossing out some lines on a piece of paper. It was that morning’s copy of The Times.

‘What’s this, Frank?’

‘You know what it is. It’s The Times. What else could it be? Have you gone blind all of a sudden?’ He cackled and Joe struggled not to give him a stern look that a school teacher might give an unruly pupil.

‘You know what I mean, Frank. Why have you thrown it on my desk? I was busy working.’

‘When are you not busy working, Joe? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you stop. You’re always in here before me, and still here after I’ve gone home for the night.’

That much was true, but often he was just reading, or trying his hand at writing. Every morning he would come back in and go over what he had written, then throw it away in disgust. The only way he would get better was to keep trying.

‘It’s a report on the British Army, Joe,’ Frank said, bringing Joe out of his reverie by prodding the paper with his index finger. ‘It’s not looking good.’

He flicked through the first couple of pages. The grainy pictures of smiling soldiers and waving men at the recruiting offices were a stark contrast to the headlines and articles. Perhaps that was the whole point, Joe thought. The British Army had been heavily defeated at the small Belgian town of Mons, it said. They had taken over a thousand casualties and were on the retreat.

He set the newspaper down and took a sip of water from a glass on his desk. His throat had gone dry.

‘Are you all right, lad? You look pale as a ghost.’

Concern and confusion was etched across Frank’s face, and he could clearly sense Joe’s discomfort. He took the newspaper back when Joe didn’t reply.

‘I just keep thinking of our George going out there.’

‘I didn’t think he’d shipped out yet?’

‘No, he’s not gone yet, but soon they say. With heavy losses like this, they will be sending them all over as soon as possible. See how many they’ve lost, and the war has only just started.’

‘Well, wait, look here,’ Frank said, prodding the newspaper and waving it in his face. ‘It also says that the Germans suffered many more casualties, expected to be in the thousands.’

‘Oh, and that means it’s going to be all right, does it?’ Joe felt ashamed at his outburst, but Frank was unconcerned.

‘It’s war, lad. There’re bound to be casualties. But if we’re inflicting more than them, then we will win. It’s a simple matter of numbers. We’ve suffered defeats before and still won the war, and still looked good in uniform.’ He smiled emphatically, but it had no effect on Joe.

‘It also says here,’ Joe said, grabbing the newspaper, ‘that we’re on the retreat.’ He paused for a second, waiting for it to settle in. He had never thought of the British Army as ‘we’ before. The idea of nationalism was disconcerting. Perhaps the national pride was working its way into his psyche too. ‘The British Army are almost as far back as Paris. That’s something like… like a hundred and thirty miles from where they started. They’re no longer helping Belgium, not anymore. The Germans far, far outnumber the British Army, even if they keep inflicting casualties, it’s unsustainable.’

‘Then they’re gonna need our help, lad. You know it makes sense.’

Joe sighed.

‘Come on, lad. I keep saying you’d look good in a uniform. There may be lots of them Germans, but they’ll take one look at you and run away with their tails between their legs.’

He made a sound like a dog whimpering and ran around the desk. Some of the other men looked up, wondering what was going on, and Joe laughed.

‘Carry on like that, and you’ll get yourself shot,’ he said as Frank sat down again, lazily draping his arm over the back of the chair. ‘They’ll shoot you just to shut you up.’

‘Steady on, lad,’ Frank said, all mock innocence. ‘I have the very vocal cords of a tenor, me.’ He burst into song, singing a couple of lines then stopping. ‘Even the Germans will be rushing over to hear me. Hah.’

‘I’d like to see that.’

He was being honest. It would be quite a sight, and perhaps show some semblance of peace. ‘But, no, not for me. It’s bad enough that our George is heading out there. I’ll not be joining the army, no matter what they say.’

‘Oh well, I didn’t think I’d ever convince you, lad. You knows what you wants. Far more than I ever did.’ He patted Joe on the arm, but this time it was as a sign of friendship, not in a playful manner. ‘This is something I want. I reckon this is my last day, lad.’

‘I was wondering how long you would last,’ Joe said, not knowing what else to say.

‘Then I’m off in the morning to take the shilling and sign an oath.’

He put his hand on Joe’s arm again and turned his body gently so that he was looking into Frank’s eyes. He was serious for a change.

‘Will you do something for me, Joe?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘While I’m gone… will you… will you look after all the girls for me?’

Frank burst out laughing again and pushed back on his chair, whilst wiping a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. ‘You’re a softie you, lad. Had you going for a minute.’

Joe tried not to get angry at Frank’s ridiculing, he knew he was only joking. ‘Oh, are you still here, Frank?’

‘Hah! At least you have a sense of humour though. I’d be worried I might upset you otherwise.’

Joe didn’t think that Frank would ever be worried about upsetting anyone, he was too free and easy. He acted like he didn’t have a care in the world. Everything was a joke to him.

‘You know you’ll have to do all the boring work while I’m gone, don’t you, Joe? Can’t say that I’m sorry. I’d rather get away before it all piles up on my desk.’

‘Yes, well your spelling is atrocious anyway.’

‘Hah!’

Joe would miss Frank’s laughter around the office, that was for sure, and he wasn’t looking forward to the amount of work he would have to do. But that didn’t matter. He felt like he was losing a friend, and who knew if Frank would come back? The office would be a lot quieter, and a lot duller without him. He would only have Mr Harlow’s soft wheezing to keep him company on the long nights of overseeing casualty lists and reports from the front.

‘Listen, Frank. It’s my turn to be soppy now.’

‘Oh, ’ere we go. I thought you were already being soppy. Is that not a normal state of affairs for you? You actually mean you’re going to get worse? I’m not sure if I can take it. It’s completely against my martial pride.’

‘Shut up, Frank, and listen for once.’

Frank leant an arm on his desk and lay the side of his head at an angle on his upturned palm, to show that he was listening, then smiled at Joe. ‘Go on,’ he said.

Joe tutted, wound up by Frank’s levity.

‘Just when you’re out there. If you see my brother, you look after him. All right?’

‘Ah, I was only joking. Of course I will. I’ll take George under my arm and show him how a man in uniform behaves. Show him how to charm the ladies, since I seem to have failed with you. Hah!’

‘If you ever find him somewhere he shouldn’t be—’ Joe ignored Frank ‘—you do me a favour and make sure you get him out of there. Get him to safety. All right? Do that for me?’

‘All right, all right. You’re so serious sometimes, I worry about you. You’re going to end up very lonely sometime if you keep it up, you know? I won’t always be there to cheer you up.’

Joe grumbled. He didn’t need Frank to tell him that. Besides, it wasn’t the point, he was asking about his brother.

‘I can’t promise anything, Joe,’ Frank said. ‘Who knows what’s going to happen out there? I may never see him. He could be in a completely different regiment to me. But, I promise you I’ll try to find him, and if I ever see him in danger then I will do what I can.’

‘Good, that’s all I ask.’

‘You know, if you’re so worried about him, you could enlist yourself and keep an eye on him? It would be the best way, you could do more than I could.’

‘I don’t think he would appreciate his older brother mothering him in the army. Besides, you know I’m not going to enlist, no matter how much you try and convince me.’

‘Oh, go on. It’ll be fun. You won’t have a foil for your seriousness if you stay here on your own.’

‘No, Frank.’

‘Not even if I forced you?’ He balled up Joe’s sleeve in his fist, but it was gentle, and threatened to pull him off his chair. All the time he was smiling, the gesture lighting up his blue eyes. Joe tried not to resist, knowing that it would upset his friend.

‘No, not even if I’m forced, Frank. You can’t drag me round with you everywhere to keep you out of trouble.’

‘Hah.’

A wheezing sound passed down the rows of desks, accompanied by the clop of heavy footsteps. Joe looked up just in time to see a puff of smoke and then Mr Harlow’s round face peered out of the cloud.

‘What on earth are you two up to now?’ he said, shaking his head, glancing at where Frank still held Joe’s sleeve. Frank let go quickly.

‘Just chatting, Mr Harlow,’ Joe said, trying to distract him. ‘Sorry about the noise, you know how excitable Frank can get.’ With that, he gave Frank a very pointed stare, who merely shrugged in reply.

‘Hmmm,’ Mr Harlow said, before taking another puff of his cigar. ‘I knew I should have split you two up on day one. It’s a wonder you get any work done at all, Gallagher.’

Frank mumbled something under his breath, but Joe didn’t catch the words.

‘I should bring my office out here, so I can keep an eye on you.’ There was a glint in Mr Harlow’s eye which showed that he was joking, but Frank just stared at the pile of work on his desk with a frown. ‘At least I wouldn’t miss out on the fun,’ Mr Harlow continued, ignoring Frank. ‘Do you have that work I asked you for?’

He could do that so well, Joe thought. Go from reprimanding someone to being their friend, then asking them for the work that they should have been doing. It was a well-practised management technique he had picked up somewhere. Joe couldn’t think where he might have got such a thing; as far as he knew, Mr Harlow had been at the newspaper his entire life.

Frank shuffled through the papers on his desk, making what was a mess into an altogether different type of mess. He found what he wanted between a pile of books and pulled it out, smiling to himself. The books clattered onto the floor. Without attempting to pick them up, he handed the paper to Mr Harlow.

‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘I finished it this morning. Had I known you wanted it that desperately I’d have brought it you.’ He beamed with pride at having not been found wanting by Mr Harlow and smirked at Joe who shook his head and scoffed.

‘You should get that framed, Mr Harlow,’ Frank said.

‘Oh, why?’ He frowned at the two younger men.

‘It’ll be worth something one day. The last article that Frank Gallagher, national hero, ever edited. It’ll be priceless.’

‘You’re priceless, Frank,’ Joe said, laughing.

‘Another one leaving me.’ Mr Harlow tutted and shook his head. ‘Don’t think that there will be a job for you here when you get back. I can’t go keeping spaces for everyone that fancies their hand at soldiering. We’ve got a paper to run, you know. The owner said, “We have to support our brave men and boys,” but what does he know about running a paper, eh?’

He stared for a few seconds, as if willing them to answer his question.

‘Just you make sure that you get the rest of those articles ready to go for tomorrow’s paper, all right? I’ll have to go off and sort out finding someone to do your work, not that it’s much. Still, someone’s got to do it, even if it’s a trained monkey.’

He walked off, leaving a cloud of acrid smoke in his wake. The wheezing grew quieter as his footsteps diminished into the distance.

‘Well, I never. That was a bit rude,’ Frank said shaking his head and trying to tidy his desk. ‘He’s never spoken to me like that before.’

‘He doesn’t seem very happy with you,’ Joe said. ‘Not his usual self anyway. What have you done this time, Frank?’

Frank’s mouth opened in shock.

‘Why do you always assume I’ve done something? I’m offended.’

‘Because I know you, Frank. You’re always up to something. What is it this time?’

‘I’m not sure if you’ve suddenly developed a sense of humour, or if you’re just being rude, lad.’

Joe fought the urge to smile. He enjoyed getting one up on Frank, but this time he wanted to know what was up with Mr Harlow. Usually, he fell over backwards to keep his staff happy. Joe had never seen or heard him have a go at anyone before. Nor had he heard him bad mouth the owner before. Something was definitely amiss.

‘Perhaps it’s just because I’m leaving,’ Frank said. ‘He’s going to miss me around here, with stony faces like yours.’

Joe lost the fight and burst out laughing again.

‘Frank, your world must be perfect, what with the sun revolving around you and everything.’ He grinned at Frank, who bowed theatrically.

‘I’m gone tomorrow, lad. And the sun will probably follow me too. This place is dark enough already.’

‘It’s not that bad, you’re exaggerating. You’re going to miss out on all the fun, Frank.’

‘Aye, perhaps. I will miss the place. And I did really want to see that new Chaplin film. Guess I’ll have to catch it on leave, if the army can spare me when it is showing. I suppose I’ll let you come with me.’

‘Thanks.’ Joe rolled his eyes, but Frank didn’t notice. ‘Do you think, perhaps, that Harlow’s upset because everyone is leaving. Not just you?’

‘No, it’s not that. Them other lot were useless when they was ’ere. I’m pretty sure he was glad to see the back of them.’

‘How can you be so sure it was something else?’

‘Well.’ Frank leaned over to Joe’s desk and then looked to see if anyone could be listening to their conversation. ‘I happened to walk past Harlow’s office yesterday.’

Joe felt like the two of them were conspiring. It was warm in the heat of the office. He pulled his collar open a little bit. He felt silly for it – there was nothing wrong with walking past Mr Harlow’s office. He couldn’t imagine what Frank was going to say, but it couldn’t be that bad.

‘And? Why is that important, Frank?’

‘There was quite a heated argument going on inside. I couldn’t make out the voices at first.’

‘At first? You mean you stayed to listen?’

‘Well, of course. Wouldn’t you?’

‘No, absolutely not.’ Joe didn’t even hesitate. ‘What business is it of mine, what Mr Harlow may or may not be arguing about? Or yours for that matter.’

Despite the outburst, it brought to mind the time he had stood at the bottom of the stairs. On that occasion he had lingered too long, trying to listen to what his father and brother were discussing. That was none of his business either but it hadn’t stopped him then. He tried to convince himself that because it was family it was different, but he knew he was lying to himself.

‘Oh, will you take that rod out of your backside for one minute and just listen?’

‘Wha—’

‘Don’t forget you’re the one that asked me what I knew.’

‘Yes, but—’

Frank wasn’t listening and just kept talking. ‘As I said before, Harlow was having a big old argument. Or, should I say, someone was shouting at him. It was more the other chap, thinking about it, but that’s not the point.’

‘Get to the point, Frank. Before he comes back and has another moan at you for not working.’

‘I’m trying to, but you keep having to have your say. Just like always.’ Frank sighed loudly, emphasising his frustration, before leaning in closer again and speaking in a quiet voice that only Joe could hear. ‘I think it had something to do with that idiot Barnes.’

Joe tried to hide his shock but knocked his glass of water off the desk as he jumped back from Frank’s words.

‘Damn,’ he said, under his breath.

The water had spilled over some of his papers and he jumped out of his seat in horror. He picked up the papers in one hand and held them over the floor hoping the water would run off.

‘Oops,’ Frank said, not caring about the papers, or what might be written on them. Joe thought he could probably salvage them, but it would take some extra work. He picked up the now empty glass with his other hand, thankful that it hadn’t shattered, and placed it upright on the desk. He then carefully pinned the damp sheets to the partition on his desk, clearing a space underneath them where the residual water might pool. He would find a cloth later, it was too late now. He set back down again, and self-consciously tidied the rest of his papers, attributing the accident to his lack of organisation, though his desk was a far cry from the state of Frank’s.

‘So, where was I?’ Frank said, picking up the conversation and determined to ignore Joe’s accident. ‘Ah yes, why Harlow’s in a bit of an old grump. Do you remember that article that Barnes penned before he left? You edited it, I think.’

Joe could only nod in reply. His mouth had gone dry and he longed for the glass of water that he had spilt on the table. He swallowed and his tongue felt like paper.

‘You know the one, something about whether the war was just and all that rubbish. Just your kind of thing.’

‘Go on,’ Joe said, quietly, trying to pretend that he was eager for the rest of the story. ‘What about it?’

‘I’m coming to that. The other voice I could hear must have been the owner’s, and whew, he did not sound happy at all.’

‘How did you know it was the owner?’

‘Well, he said that we have to “support our brave men and boys”.’ Frank put on an air of superiority and sat taller in his chair as he said it, as if talking down at Joe, who resisted the urge to laugh. ‘So, it must have been him. I can put two and two together and get four, you know.’

‘All right, Frank. I didn’t mean any disrespect.’

‘He was pretty angry himself. Probably could have heard him from here if you was listening. I think he said that Harlow would have to fire the man that wrote it.’

‘You think?’ Joe felt his throat constrict again.

‘Yeah, well, his door’s pretty thick, isn’t it? Bit like him!’ He laughed again and then looked around to see if he had been heard. ‘Definitely heard something like that. Harlow tried to say he wouldn’t do it, but the owner raised his voice again. I heard something break.’

Joe felt incredibly guilty and, worst of all, sorry for Mr Harlow. He was a decent man and didn’t deserve the trouble that Joe had got him in. Still, he couldn’t come clean, otherwise Mr Harlow would have no choice but to let him go. Then what would he do? With the war he might find some other work that other men had left, but without a good reference and a sacking hanging over him that was unlikely. There was also the fact that even though he had done wrong, he was still in the best place to have an influence on the war and to help people realise what it was costing them.

‘Then he flung the door open and rushed out,’ Frank carried on. ‘He nearly bumped into me on his way out, but because he was in such a state he didn’t really notice. It gave me a chance to pretend I was just walkin’ past. Harlow just glanced my way as he closed the door. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but after seeing him before… he must have known I overheard.’

Frank was being uncharacte‌ristically sheepish.

‘You don’t think he thinks that I… do you?’

‘What? I asked you earlier what you’ve done now.’

‘I ain’t done nothing, I told you that.’

Joe was joking, trying to take his mind off his fear, but Frank was no longer in the mood. It seemed that even Frank’s moods could change as quickly as his.

‘I meant, do you think he thinks I wrote it? Me?’

‘No!’ Joe denied it more forcefully than he had intended, and Frank jumped back in his seat. ‘I mean, why would he? Albert Barnes wrote that article. You know he did. Why would he think otherwise?’

He was feeling desperate now and his words came out quickly. Frank didn’t seem to notice.

‘Yeah, but well, he’s disappeared, hasn’t he? He’s gone off to the war. Why write an article saying we shouldn’t fight and then go fight? Something’s not right about that.’

‘Could be he just wanted to question it and then decided that it was what he needed to do after all?’

He felt horrible about lying to Frank, but also that he now seemed to be condoning the acts of war. He was ashamed of himself. Ever since he had messed around with Albert’s article he had felt ashamed. It had been a moment of madness, well intentioned, but madness all the same.

‘Harlow can’t think it was me, he knows I’m off too. Better sooner rather than later, I think. Before I get pushed.’

Joe was glad that Frank was too self-involved to suspect that it might have been him that had written the article. He didn’t have anything else to say, so just patted Frank on the back as he stared into the middle distance.

After a few seconds the wheezing sound of Mr Harlow was back as he walked past.

‘I thought I told you two to get back to work. Don’t make me tell you again,’ he said as he disappeared off out of the main office.

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