Goodbye for Now
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.’