Greg went up to see John and to tell him that he had handed in the report. ‘They were satisfied to have a written report, and sent their regards,’ he said.
‘What did you think of them, Dad?’
‘I thought they were sincere,’ said Greg.
He said no more and they sat in silence for a few minutes, then John said suddenly, ‘I feel an imposter, Dad.’
‘Why? In what way?’
‘I’ve always had such an easy life. It was all a sort of dream of getting things done and righting wrongs. I can still feel indignant about the inequalities and injustices of the system, but I don’t feel that I can do anything about them any more. I feel useless.’
‘I would have thought your experiences in Spain made you more qualified rather than less,’ Greg said quietly.
‘It’s made me see myself as I am,’ John said bitterly. ‘Some of the men I was with had known hunger and poverty all their lives. They’d been unemployed except for a few days’ casual work on the docks, and their fathers had been the same. When they talked, I felt ashamed.’
‘But you did what you could to change things,’ Greg said.
‘I talked a lot, Dad. These men fought. They were intelligent men but they fought in the only way they could, with hunger marches and demonstration, risking gaol, going to gaol very often. I felt the only thing that gave me any credibility in their eyes was that I was Lawrie Ward’s grandson and they respected him.’ Greg sat listening to him in silence, knowing that John needed to talk.
‘I wasn’t the only one who’d had a soft life,’ John continued. ‘I met up with a chap from Cambridge University who’d belonged to the Left Book Club, and he said he was glad to be able to come to Spain, to do something constructive, because so far he had only been debating and writing pamphlets to try to change the system. He said they had clashes with Mosley’s crowd at meetings and tried to help the hunger marchers but they couldn’t do anything constructive.’
‘I suppose there were many men like that, son,’ Greg said. ‘I read somewhere that there were about sixty thousand members of the Left Book Club.’
‘But you see what I mean, Dad? The intellectuals – they were doing well out of the system but they were willing to change it. They used the way they knew best – words. The chaps I knew from Liverpool who’d never had a decent pair of shoes or enough food, didn’t let themselves be cowed down by the Board of Guardians and people like that who treated them with contempt – they fought back with hunger marches and demonstrations.’
John’s face was flushed and his voice was rising. Greg put his hand on John’s arm. ‘Don’t get worked up about it, son,’ he said.
John drank some water and said more calmly, ‘What I’m saying, Dad, is that I fell between two stools. I was neither fish, fowl nor good red herring as Grandma would say, and I let Grandad down. His plan was for me to get elected to the city Council then go on to become an MP and speak up about injustice when I got into Parliament.’
‘You can still do that,’ Greg said, but John shook his head.
‘No. I think I’ve blotted my copybook,’ he said. ‘I knew what Grandad planned but I wasn’t prepared to work steadily towards an objective. I was the big fellow who could take a short cut. I tell you, Dad, I saw myself very clearly when I was lying out on a hillside in Spain, and I didn’t like what I saw.’
‘I think you’re far too hard on yourself,’ Greg said calmly. ‘You didn’t let Grandad down. He was very proud of you, and he died a happy man believing that you would carry on fighting for what he believed in.’
‘But I didn’t, not in his way anyway. I don’t regret going to Spain. I saw it there for a while, what we are aiming for – a classless society. You know, I got separated from the Brigade. Spanish peasants looked after me and I fell in with the Spanish Militia for a while. I saw it there, no distinction between officers and men, everyone on a level, and all respecting each other and sharing whatever they had with each other, and with a stranger like me. If only we could have that here. But I don’t know what I could do to bring it about.’
‘What you must do is stop tormenting yourself,’ Greg said firmly. ‘You must put everything that’s happened to the back of your mind and stop worrying about the future. Just think about getting better.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Yes, but you must do it. For one thing you can’t make a balanced judgement because you’re too close to what has happened, and for another you’re not well enough,’ Greg said. ‘I think Mum’s bringing your supper up now.’
Greg went downstairs and a few minutes later Cathy came up with John’s supper. She sat and talked to him for a while, telling him family news and making him laugh with stories of the jobs she had been on and Cissie’s exploits.
When she had gone his father came back with three books, an electric torch and a small glass of dark liquid.
‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘It’s a concoction of Grandma’s. She says it’ll help you to sleep. If you wake in the night, John, don’t lie there thinking – read one of these.’
John picked up the books. ‘W. W. Jacobs,’ he read. ‘Arnold Bennett and Just William by Richmal Crompton. Quite a mixed bag, Dad.’
‘Yes, but all easy to read. There’s a short story in the W. W. Jacobs selection that frightened me more than anything I’ve ever read, so perhaps you’d better not read that: “The Monkey’s Paw”.’
‘I can always wake Mick if I’m frightened,’ John said with a grin. He lay down and Greg settled his leg comfortably before saying goodnight and going downstairs.
John lay for a while thinking of their earlier conversation. I’d never have believed it, he thought, that I could talk like that to Dad. He remembered what Greg had said about his grandfather, and felt a glow of pride and comfort. Why did I always almost hate Dad and think he picked on me? I must have been barmy, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.
He slept heavily until he was awakened by Mick getting ready for school. Mick brought him a cup of tea and later, when Cathy brought up his breakfast, she asked if he felt well enough to come downstairs.
‘Dad thinks you’d be better down there today as long as you keep your leg up on the sofa,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
‘Yes, I feel fine, Mum. I’ve had a real good sleep,’ he said. He thought that his father had worried about his mother having to go up and downstairs to him, but realized later that Greg had suggested it for a different reason.
His grandmother came over and John said, ‘That was good stuff you sent me last night, Grandma. What was in it? I went out like a light.’
‘Just herbs, lad,’ she said. ‘Sleep’s the best medicine for you at present.’
A little later Kate came home from school for her lunch, and she told John all about her part in the theatre and her singing and dancing. Sally was still there and said sharply, ‘We don’t want a performance. John’s not well enough.’
Kate pouted and Cathy said hastily, ‘Run along to Mrs Meadows with this dress, Kate.’ When she had gone Cathy said to her mother, ‘I’ve been putting a patch in Josie’s dress for work. She burst the stitches in the armhole when we were on that job in Litherland.’
‘She’s putting on flesh,’ Sally commented. ‘She’ll go like her mother if she’s not careful.’
‘She’s got a long way to go yet, Mam,’ Cathy laughed.
A little later Josie came to thank Cathy and to bring some coconut ice and some cigarettes for John.
‘I made some for the kids and I thought you might like some.’
‘The cigarettes, you mean?’ John said innocently, and she laughed and struck his arm playfully. She left and Peggy Burns arrived with Meg.
They brought him a gingerbread cake and Meg said proudly, ‘I helped Gran to make that.’
‘Then I’ll enjoy it twice as much,’ John said.
They accepted cups of tea, and when they had gone Cathy said mischievously, ‘I don’t know about Josie putting on
weight – you’ll be like the side of a house if this goes on. What did you think of Meg?’
‘She seems much quieter,’ he said. ‘I suppose she can’t work.’
‘No, even if she could get a job, but her Gran’s done wonders with her. Training her to cook and clean, and even some simple shopping. She worries about what’ll happen to her after she’s gone.’
‘It’s a shame Meg’s like that, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘She’s such a pretty kid too.’ He was amazed when Kate returned again from school, followed a little later by Mick.
‘I’d no idea that was the time,’ he said. ‘What time will Dad get in?’
‘Not till late tonight,’ Cathy said. ‘He took last night and the day before off, but he’s mad busy looking after everything while Stan Johnson’s away.’
John was surprised at the sharp stab of disappointment he felt at the news, and to realize how much he had been looking forward to another talk with his father. He had realized why Greg had suggested that he spend the day downstairs, too. There had been no chance for him to brood as the constant stream of visitors passed through the kitchen throughout the day, and John was grateful for his father’s consideration for him.
Chapter Thirty-One
Sarah knew that the Fitzgeralds hoped that Joe would be able to get a job ashore, but Anne came into the shop one day looking downcast. ‘Our Joe’s signed on again,’ she said. ‘It’s for a nine months’ trip and he thinks jobs might be easier by the time he gets back. The other lads will keep looking out for one for him.’
‘Nine months will soon pass,’ Sarah consoled her.
‘He doesn’t go aboard until Tuesday,’ Anne said. ‘If it’s fine on Sunday, we thought we’d go for a run to Thurstaton and Joe can borrow Tony’s bike.’
Sunday was a hot sunny day and it was arranged that the Fitzgeralds would call for Sarah on their way to the Pier Head. They arrived just as she discovered a puncture in the front tyre of her bicycle, and Mick started to mend it.
Cathy invited them in for lemonade while they waited for Sarah. Tony and Maureen were not with them, but Eileen and Stephen, Terry and Joe, were with Anne. The girls sat in the parlour but the young men went through to the backyard to help Mick.
Cathy detained Joe as he went through the kitchen. ‘I believe you’re going back to sea next week?’
He smiled ruefully. ‘Yes. I was hoping to get a job ashore but there’s nothing doing.
‘You don’t like the sea?’ Cathy asked.
‘Not really, but it’s better than being unemployed. I was lucky to get a ship.’
‘My Dad went to sea when he was young,’ Cathy said, ‘but he didn’t care for it either. He went to see his own father off and saw a pal on a ship and gave him a hand to load. They wanted to catch the tide and were shorthanded so they offered him a job and he went.’
‘A Pier Head jump,’ Joe said, smiling. He was leaning against the sideboard, watching Cathy rolling out pastry.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But he was far too young.’
‘He only made one voyage then?’
‘No,’ Cathy laughed. ‘He told me he always spent his money then signed on to get the advance note, and that went on for years. He always intended every trip to be his last.’
‘Like me,’ said Joe.
‘Yes, but after he met Mam he got a shore job,’ Cathy said. She smiled reminiscently. ‘He was very impulsive, you see, and whenever he did anything rash, our old neighbour used to say, “No wonder you did the Pier Head jump, and you’re as hare-brained yet.”’
‘Was that Mrs Malloy?’ Joe asked. Cathy looked at him with surprise and he coloured and said hastily, ‘Sarah told me about her, that she knew the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins.’
‘She didn’t exactly know him. He was a priest at St Francis Xavier’s and she told me about saying good morning to him in Langsdale Street. She said he must have heard her because he lifted his top hat, but he never took his eyes off something in the gutter.’
‘Did she know he was a poet?’
‘I don’t think so. She said he was reckoned very clever but she didn’t think much of his sermons. They were above her head, I think, but of course the Jesuits are clever men, aren’t they?’
‘Sarah told me that she said he did his best in the service of God.’
‘She was a lovely woman, Mrs Mal,’ Cathy said softly. ‘I think of her so often.’
Suddenly Eileen, Anne and Sarah erupted into the kitchen. ‘What on earth are they doing?’ Anne said indignantly.
They went into the backyard and there were cries of indignation when they discovered the bike, ready for use, and Stephen and Terry inside the shed with Mick, looking at a model aeroplane that he was building.
‘It’ll be dark before we start out,’ Eileen cried. ‘We thought you couldn’t be all that time mending a puncture.’
With laughter and recriminations they trooped by to say goodbye to Cathy, and Mick carried Sarah’s bike through. Cathy said goodbye to Joe with warm wishes for a safe voyage and a speedy return.
‘I can’t get over our Joe staying in the kitchen gassing to your mum,’ Anne said to Sarah. ‘He’s usually so shy. But of course she’s very easy to talk to, isn’t she?’
When they boarded the ferryboat the boys took charge of the girls’ cycles, and Terry wheeled Sarah’s up the gangway and rode beside her when they disembarked.
They spent a happy day at Thurstaton and when they rode back to the ferry, Sarah rode beside Anne, Joe beside Eileen, and Terry beside Stephen. They sang as they rode along, “Danny Boy”, and “Ole Man River”, and then another song popularised by Paul Robeson, “Just a-wearying for you”.
Terry rode up beside Sarah, trying to sing in Paul Robeson’s deep tones, with his hand on his heart and looking soulfully at her.
‘Watch out, you fool,’ Anne said. ‘You nearly wobbled into us.’
And Stephen told him, ‘Keep back. What if a car comes?’
Terry dropped back beside his brother. ‘You’ve got no romance in your souls, you lot,’ he complained.
They were near the ferry, and as they free-wheeled down to it, Stephen exclaimed: ‘Whew, I’m creased! Wish I could lie in tomorrow like you, Joe.’
‘Make the most of it. The last time for a while, brother,’ said Terry.
A shadow crossed Joe’s face, but he only said quietly, ‘Yes, I will.’
When they reached Egremont Street, Sarah wished Joe a good trip and a safe return, before the Fitzgeralds rode off and she turned in at her own door.
‘Joe Fitzgerald’s a nice lad,’ Cathy said. ‘Did he tell you we were talking about Mrs Malloy?’
‘No, I didn’t talk to him,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s just general when we’re all out together.’
‘They’re a nice family,’ Cathy said. ‘I’m glad you’ve got a friend like Anne. She reminds me of Norah in Morecambe. We were friends like you and Anne when we were young.’
John soon recovered, thanks to his father’s careful treatment of his injured ankle and the cossetting by his mother and grandmother, although he still walked with a slight limp. He told them that his ankle was healing when he was moved to another hospital and became separated from his companions while travelling there.
He had been cared for by Spanish peasants and had joined with a group of Spanish Militia until he met some Englishmen that he knew. Three of them had made a trench on the hillside but a shell had brought down earth which had buried them, and although they managed to dig themselves out a boulder had fallen on John’s foot and reopened his wound.
‘A good thing we didn’t know all that while you were there,’ his mother exclaimed. ‘I’d have been out of my mind with worry.’
John put his arm around her and kissed her. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you.’
Cathy hugged him, happy to feel the old warmth between them. She tried not to feel jealous of the new closeness between Greg and John, and was ashamed of herself when she fel
t a twinge to see them deep in conversations from which she was excluded.
It was not deliberate on their part, but partly to avoid upsetting Cathy and partly because the discussion went on over many weeks as John tried to sort out his thoughts.
He still collected for Spanish Food Relief but had stopped going to the Club, telling the men there that he needed time to think.
He discussed many things with his father as they worked on the allotment or sat up talking after Cathy had gone to bed. John still felt as strongly about the inequalities in society but was unsure how he could help to change things.
Greg was aware that his son had been disillusioned in some ways and uplifted in others by his experiences in Spain, and hoped that just by listening he could help John to sort out his thoughts and plans.
When John was well enough, he tried hard to find work but it was impossible although he was prepared to do anything. He had already found that there was no hope of his previous job, and sent letters to various offices without success. Now he found that even the most menial jobs were not available to him.
Twice he managed to find a position, once in the kitchens of a big hotel and once labouring on a building site, but both times he was sacked after a few days. The foreman on the building site told him that he was sorry to see him go. ‘You’ve worked well. It’s nothing to do with your work,’ he said. He refused to say any more and John suspected that he was now on a black list.
Stan Johnson had returned, looking sunburned and well, so Greg was able to spend more time at home. Stan was delighted with the way Greg had looked after his interests and handed him a bonus of fifty pounds.
‘You’ve earned it,’ he told Greg. ‘You’ve probably saved me that much and more.’
‘But it’s too much,’ said Greg. ‘I’ll take something for my overtime but that’s too much.’
‘Not to me,’ said Stan. ‘You know the business can stand it, you keep the books, and look at it this way – I couldn’t have gone off with an easy mind if I hadn’t known I could safely leave everything in your hands. My health is worth more than that to me, so take the money and thanks.’
There is a Season Page 39
