Goodbye for Now

by M. J. Hollows

  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 tou
ched 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 solider, 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?’