by James Hanley
‘All ready there.’
This was called down the platform by the sergeant of the draft.
The troops in single file began to move into the train, and as each entered the carriage he handed his rifle to the private who stood by the luggage van. Whilst they were embarking a train came in on the other side. It had just arrived from Gelton with its load of office workers, warehouse men, soldiers and sailors on leave, shoppers, a slight sprinkling of clergy, a policeman—and nothing seemed more exciting to them than to see four hundred brave lads going off to the war. They rushed from the train, pushing against each other, dashing past the collectors at the barriers, and then swinging round, swooped on to the troops’ platform. They stood cheering. Girls went up to the windows, rapped on them with their knuckles, laughed, made eyes, shouted and giggled.
About one hundred of them were now embarked. There was still the other hundred to go. The first carriages were filled. As the train was a local non-corridor one the remainder of the troops were marched down to the middle of the platform. The sergeant walked down, barked at Joseph Kilkey:
‘How you feeling now, old cock?’ He turned to two soldiers. ‘You two,’ he said. ‘Take charge of this man and get into that there carriage.’
‘Yes, sir,’ they replied with one voice, and it made the sergeant smile.
He pushed Joseph Kilkey forward. ‘Go ahead. Get in there. We’ll look after you at the other end,’ and as he climbed the step and entered the carriage the two soldiers followed. The door was slammed.
Joseph Kilkey collapsed in his seat.
‘Hey! Come to hell out of it, mate. That’s my seat. Reserved.’ and laughing boisterously he pushed Kilkey to the other side of the carriage so that he sat at the window which the other soldier had released and shot right down.
The two escorts sat opposite each other, lit cigarettes, talked about girls’ legs, and the next big push on the Western Front. They ignored Kilkey and didn’t even notice that he had collapsed, his head well back upon the dirty upholstery, his mouth half open, his face pale, his hands under the pack straps, and in between these straps, what looked like the remains of the pink paper hat.
People were now crowding down the platform, and it seemed as though all Gelton had arrived to see this latest draft off. Men, women and children crowded round the windows, every one of which was down, and over which leaned, one, two and sometimes three smiling, laughing faces looking down at the people. It was wonderful!
A man, two women, a boy of ten, three girls came up to the window where Mr. Kilkey sat. He seemed unaware of their presence. His heavy breathing sounded in the carriage though he was fast asleep.
One of the soldiers got to his feet. The people looking in smiled.
‘Good luck to you, laddies,’ said the woman. ‘Hope it’ll be all over soon now.’
‘And don’t forget to give’em a bloody good hiding!’ the man said, half a cigarette stuck to his lower lips, and then one of the girls went up to the window. ‘Tell us your name and we’ll write to you in the trenches,’ she said.
‘Lumme! of course,’ and at this the other soldier got up, and in doing so saw the strange attitude of Mr. Kilkey. He retrieved the hat from between the straps, and stuck it on the man’s head.
‘Can’t go to France without your blinkin’ hat, mate,’ he said, and then joined his friend at the window.
Another man came up, chewing tobacco, thumbs stuck into his vest. The girls saw Kilkey, cried: ‘Oh lor’! Never saw him! He’s cute! Who is he?’
‘Little bald-headed conchie,’ said the first soldier.
‘No?’ said the man, chewing tobacco. ‘No! Not a conscientious objector?’
‘’Course he is. Look at his blinkin’ hat. Can’t you tell!’
There was a blast from the train’s whistle, the long carriages creaked, the brakes made staccato noises.
The man looked in at Joseph Kilkey. The soldiers moved out of the way.
‘Have a good look! Mightn’t see him again.’
‘Conchie!’ said the man again. ‘Really! Are you sure?’
‘’Course I am,’ replied the soldier. ‘Hey you, wake up there,’ he shouted, shaking Kilkey by the shoulder. ‘Fellow wants to meet you here.’
Mr. Kilkey opened his eyes, and they fastened on the soldier. They had a weary look. The man stuck his head through the open window.
‘I don’t want to see any damned conchie,’ he said and spat a stream of tobacco juice into Joseph Kilkey’s face.
The train moved slowly out of the station.
CHAPTER X
I
Fanny Fury, Mrs. Elizabeth Gumbs and a lady named Mary Post stood in a little group on the main platform at Gelton’s largest railway station. They made a little circle, and one would suppose, seeing them from a distance, that all three were praying. Two stood with their hands clasped over their laps, the third kept fingering her thick grey gloves.
‘A month ago,’ said Mrs. Gumbs, ‘I wouldn’t have known you. You do look nice to-day, Mrs. Fury,’ and then she gave the woman a slight pat on her arm, ‘and whatever you do, watch the traffic, and when you get there, don’t get excited and upset yourself, because you are an excited woman, you know. And I hope you have a nice long cheery talk.’
Fanny Fury adjusted a blue toque, kindly lent for the occasion by Mrs. Gumbs, and she kept pushing back straying strands of greyish black hair.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I must say you are both very kind. In a way I wish you were coming too.’
‘What—me?’ replied Mrs. Gumbs, and her body shook with laughter. ‘Me? Good heavens, woman, I have my work to do, my living to earn. Oh, and that’s another thing. Your job. Now don’t you worry about that. I’ll look after that all right. I’d hate you to lose your job, Mrs. Work’s doing you good,’ and then she turned round and scanned the length of platform. How long would the train be? Should have been here five minutes ago. ‘Waiting about’s awful, isn’t it? Always the worst part of long journeys.’ She looked at Mrs. Fury. ‘Have you got everything now?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ she thought, sweeping Mrs. Fury with a glance. ‘She does look nice to-day, and so much better!’ Wonderful what a bit of hard work did. Really wonderful.
A navy-blue toque, and a long, sweeping navy-blue serge coat, black stockings and shoes. Yes. Mrs. Fury looked very nice. And her face was filling out, even getting a bit of colour in it. ‘This is her great day,’ thought Mrs. Gumbs. ‘How she idolizes that boy!’
At this moment the long train groaned into the station, its engine spitting steam. It came to a halt.
‘Well, here it is at last,’ exclaimed Mrs. Fury, ‘and I’ll never believe I’m going until I’m on it, and the wheels going round.’
Mary Post was a thin, wizened little woman whose main purpose in life was going down to the docks on every occasion that a cotton warehouse went on fire, and being engaged along with many other women in separating the soiled and burnt cotton from the good cotton, salvage work for which only women were engaged. She too lived in Edcott Court, on the ground floor. Like Mrs. Gumbs, she lived alone. Like Mrs. Gumbs she looked upon Friday evenings as important, though she did not go to church, but she called on Mr. Sloan the grocer, and bought her half-pound of arrowroot biscuits, and a confection called Light Paradise. And as she sat picking the cotton with hook and fingers she sucked the Paradise confection.
So far she hadn’t made up her mind about Mrs. Fury, only having lately been introduced, but she was interested in her. She thought Mrs. Fury was too tall for a woman, and she walked erect like a soldier, which to Mrs. Post didn’t appear womanly at all. Mrs. Gumbs and she had decided to come to the station with Fanny Fury, and Mrs. Gumbs had remarked to her how fortunate she was in having two people accompany her to the train. It wasn’t everybody who was so fortunate.
Now Mrs. Post opened the carriage door, Mrs. Fury climbed in and as there was still a few minutes to go, the two women followed after her, seated themselves and imagined in their
different ways how nice a long train journey really was.
‘Sure you’ve got everything?’ enquired Mrs. Gumbs, spreading herself on the seat.
‘Everything! You are so very thoughtful,’ replied Mrs. Fury. ‘Very kind, I must say.’
‘Have you the paper safe?’ asked Mrs. Post, suddenly sticking her head out of the window to view the siding on the off-side of the train.
‘Yes, I’ve got the paper,’ said Mrs. Fury. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’
‘Yes do,’ said Mrs. Gumbs.
‘’Course you will, dear,’ Mrs. Post said, and then surprised Mrs. Fury by spitting out of the off-side window. A porter came along calling out the stopping-place. At the far end a whistle blew. Doors were slamming shut. A guard cried: ‘Ready.’
‘Good heavens! We’d better go,’ exclaimed Mrs. Gumbs. ‘Come, dear,’ and first Mrs. Post and then Mrs. Gumbs climbed down to the platform.
Mrs. Gumbs patted Mrs. Fury on the shoulders, said sternly, ‘Now! Now! What nonsense!’ seeing the woman put a handkerchief to her eyes. ‘Good Lord, woman!’
‘I feel so happy,’ said Mrs. Fury.
‘Well, a nice journey, and safe return, and I do say this: you deserve it. Ta-ta.’
Mrs. Gumbs waved, Mrs. Post waved, a porter brusquely slammed the door. The train began to move. The two women waved hands frantically, whilst Mrs. Gumbs called after the vanishing and lone figure in the carriage: ‘Goodbye, dear. Take care of yourself,’ and then the train gathered speed, its guard’s van swung round, passed through the short tunnel, and a burst of smoke appeared when the van disappeared from view.
The two women stood looking up and down the platform. ‘I hope it won’t rain,’ Mrs. Post said.
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Gumbs. ‘That’s that! I think we ought to go into the refreshment and have a glass of something to warm up, don’t you?’
‘She is rather a fuss, isn’t she?’ commented the little woman.
‘She is and she isn’t. If I were in her place to-day I suppose I’d fuss myself. We’re all fusses really,’ she wound up, as she darted ahead of her companion and opened the refreshment-room door. Then she waited for Mary Post, and when she had passed inside shut the door softly and went straight up to the counter.
‘Two glasses of mild, please,’ she said.
Whilst she stood waiting she took note of the people in the room. Mrs. Gumbs liked looking at people, but as she observed to Fanny Fury, she didn’t like talking to them, she liked one or two good friends, she didn’t want the whole world as a friend.
The woman behind the counter handed over the glasses. Meanwhile Mrs. Post had seated herself at an empty table that stood under the window, from which one could look out on to the platform and watch the world come and go. Mrs. Gumbs carried the glasses over and sat down.
‘Lucky for her I’m on nights,’ she observed, ‘or she would have had to see herself off. She looked rather nice I thought. A month ago you wouldn’t have believed it was the same woman. She looked wretched when she first came. Well, here’s your health, Mary,’ she said, and took a sip of her mild ale.
‘Yes, she did, I suppose,’ remarked Mrs. Post, ‘but somehow—oh, I don’t know—she looks more like a man to me than a woman. There are some queer people in the world.’
‘There are indeed, and you’re no exception, Mary! Nor am I. We’re all queer.’ Mrs. Gumbs took another sip and then continued: ‘Can’t you imagine how excited that woman’ll be on that train? Going to see her son after over two years. I never read about that case myself, did you?’
‘I never read nothing,’ replied Mrs. Post, and she drank her beer. ‘Never.’
‘Do you know what a slave is? Ever seen one? A real one?’ asked Mrs. Gumbs.
‘Slave! Slave!’ muttered Mrs. Post. ‘Oh, you mean the Uncle Tom’s Cabin ones?’
‘Slaves,’ repeated Mrs. Gumbs. ‘White ones, not black.’
‘Oh!—well, no—I couldn’t say I have,’ replied Mrs. Post, wondering what the sudden mention of slaves could signify. She had read of black slaves, but not white ones. But she could trust Mrs. Gumbs. The woman knew everything.
‘Well, then, you saw one this morning,’ replied Mrs. Gumbs. ‘That woman’s a slave.’
‘What woman?’
‘The woman we saw off on the train. She’s a slave. Slaved for a family that laughs at her now. There are white slaves as well as black, Mary. She’s one if ever there was. Lord! You should have seen her the first week she came down to work with us. We had a hospital ship—at least I still think it was. Anyhow, she’d never been on any kind of a ship in her life. Now isn’t that strange! A husband at sea all his life, and a son, and she’s never stepped on a boat. But it was funny. She was so upset. Went and sicked herself in the’tween-deck, because one of the women found a man’s leg. I ask you! A leg! A mere leg! Why I went to work on a ship that came in with troops from India, and when I went into the glory hole I found six of them dead. Aye! Stiff as Death makes them! Typhus. But a leg. An ordinary leg! Good heavens! She was upset. And yet you can expect only two things aboard a ship—especially while this terrible war’s on. A surprise and a lot of hard work. D’you know, work’s made two of her. Two of her. She reared a big family and she’s no better off now, really, than when she started. I was sorry for her, mind you, but when she told me one thing and another—well, I said to her. “Mrs., you’re a great big fool of a woman and that’s all you are!” She’s a nice woman though, and very good living. Every Friday off she goes to chapel. Sometimes I’ve envied her. She can look so peaceful—so contented, so happy.’
‘I’ve never been in a church in all my life,’ remarked Mrs. Post. ‘When I was little, oh—probably about four—well, when I was about four my father came home one day in a temper, because something had happened at his work. I don’t know what. But I do know that in the afternoon Mr. Swate, he was our minister, he came and tried to calm my father down. I wish I could remember what it was—but it doesn’t matter anyway. But when Mr. Swate had gone there was only me and my father in the house. He said to me: “Mary! God’s no gentleman, and I know it.” It was a strange thing to say and from that day he never would allow me to go to any chapel or church. And I never have. Not to this day.’
Here Mrs. Post finished off her glass of beer, and rose for imminent departure. Mrs. Gumbs drank off hers, got up too. They left the refreshment room and walked slowly down the platform. They walked slowly, almost aimlessly, like two people bent on no particular destination, and they nodded their heads and each talked and listened very attentively to what the other had to say. Life rolled past them and they were indifferent to it.
‘I suppose she’s well on her way now,’ said Mrs. Post.
‘Well on! Two months ago her son came home on leave from the Navy. Such a nice boy he was. Such a nice boy,’ and there was something almost ominous about Mrs. Gumbs’s concentration on the future tense. ‘Awfully nice he was. I felt sorry for him in a way. He talked to me a lot. My! He does think a lot of his mother! Such devotion, Mary! Such devotion. He and his girl took her out to the theatre. Really, if you’d seen her face when she came back—well, really, it would have made your heart go swish-swash like a jelly, you could tell how much the creature had loved it. You know how I mean, Mary. And some people who never expect such surprises always go to pieces. It’s the kindness, I suppose. Well, I’ve seen kindness in my time, and I suppose you have too, but bless us, Mrs. Fury felt she was in heaven. His girl was so sweet to her, too. The woman cried like a baby the morning he went. But you could hardly blame her. It made me wish I had had a son like that. So nice, so decent.’
It would have been surprising if Anthony Fury’s ears did not burn, aboard his ship, somewhere in the North Sea, at this catalogue of praises. But Mrs. Gumbs would say she had had so much experience in the world that she knew what was nice and what wasn’t.
‘He struck me as genuine, Mary, and that’s saying something in these days. Besides, I’ve alway
s said that there are no short cuts to it. Never was, never will be …’
She blew her nose into a new white linen handkerchief. Mrs. Post and she had now reached the end of the platform.
‘Better turn down this way,’ said Mrs. Gumbs. ‘Else you’ll have to go along the fish platform, an awfully smelly place and so slippery. Yes, it made me curious about her other children. He was a fine-looking lad.’
‘I never knew she had a large family,’ remarked Mrs. Post.
At this moment a burly-looking gentleman bumped into them, apologized profusely, but they passed on in silence.
‘Oh yes! They’ve a daughter—but it seems she ran off and left her husband. There was another lad. She often talked about him. It seems he was killed at the docks. Oh, years and years ago. John his name was. But she has two other sons. The one she’s gone off to see. Only a child, really, about eighteen or nineteen. Then there’s another son who’s an officer or something in the New Army. But she never said much about him. Her husband is away all the time, though she says he’s coming home soon. Well, every woman says that. Nothing like kidding yourself up, Mary. Look at all those poor lads getting killed and think of that nice lad out on the sea. Thinking of his mother and his girl, and not any war at all. Why, the whole world is just kidding itself. Her man mightn’t be home for months, perhaps years. Never know. Can’t tell! Wars are awful, really.’
‘I suppose they are—at least to us who don’t fight in them,’ Mrs. Post said.
They had reached the station entrance.
‘Had anything out of the way lately?’ Mrs. Gumbs asked, as her eye followed the passing trams, her eye subconsciously searching for 12B. ‘I mean in the salvage line.’
‘Well, we had about a thousand bales of American cotton to work on last Tuesday. Curious how these fires are taking place on ships all the while. Them Germans, I suppose. They’re dreadful, aren’t they? And the things they do!’
