Goodbye for Now

by M. J. Hollows

  ‘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 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.

&nb
sp; ‘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.