Goodbye for Now

by M. J. Hollows

‘My dad has always said he misses it, ever since he got injured. Though I was too young to remember much about it.’

  ‘So, that’s why your old man’s so grumpy,’ Harry said, trying to elicit a laugh, but bringing the conversation to a halt. The colour drained from George’s face, his anger swelling. He wasn’t quick to anger, but he couldn’t let someone insult his dad.

  ‘Come on, Harry, there’s no need for that!’ Tom came to George’s rescue. ‘George’s dad served our country proudly for years. You should show him more respect.’

  Patrick drank his beer as if he hadn’t noticed the awkwardness.

  ‘Sorry, uh, George… lad. I was, er, ah… out of line,’ Harry apologised.

  George could only nod, not wanting to open his mouth for fear of what he might say.

  ‘You can’t go alone, lad,’ Patrick said, returning to what he thought was a more interesting topic, leaving George still fuming.

  ‘I won’t be alone, the rumours of war have been going for weeks. I’ve heard whispers all over the city about signing up.’ Tom was grinning wider with every word, engaging his audience with enthusiasm in every breath.

  George quickly forgot about the insult to his father, and envisioned a great British soldier rallying his troops and leading them into a glorious battle against the despicable enemy. He could see Tom doing that sort of thing, pulling every other soldier along with him in his wake and winning the day, with a big grin on his face. Men would follow Tom into anything. He would, too.

  ‘Besides, that’s why our George is coming with me.’

  That one sentence ripped George out of his daydreaming and back into the present. He tried to hide his surprise by grabbing his ale and taking a swig. He hadn’t told Tom that he would be signing up with him, but as usual Tom had assumed he would follow. They had talked about it, yes, but he hadn’t said that he wanted to sign up. It had all been Tom.

  Although, now it had been said, he liked the idea. He couldn’t imagine working down at the dock without Tom to keep him company and get him through a hard day.

  ‘Oh, you too eh, Georgie?’ Patrick obviously wasn’t willing to let the matter lie. ‘Going to follow in the footsteps of your father? Keep it in the family? Make him proud?’

  Without thinking George replied. ‘Yes,’ he said. He very much wanted that, to make his father proud. George’s father was a hard, uncompromising man, but he had always done everything he could to do right by his family. George knew that his father loved both his sons, even if he never showed it, but he desperately wanted to see that sense of pride on his father’s face. His mother always said that the reason he was so sullen and withdrawn was because he was forced out of the army by injury. George wanted to do anything possible to give him some of his pride back. His father couldn’t fight, so he would.

  He had tried to make a living, urged by his mother to do something honest and constructive, but it wasn’t working. The dock was its own special kind of hell. Heavy, hard work, and if he was truthful, he hated it as much as Tom did.

  ‘So, what about the football then?’ Harry urged again.

  The others continued talking without George. He didn’t care what they thought. ‘I’m going to enlist,’ he said, more for himself than for any of the others, testing the words out on his lips, to say it out loud. Tom was the only one to take any notice and smiled at him, before turning back to the others, deep in conversation. They were too drunk now to talk about anything serious. George had another drink.

  Chapter 6

  ‘It’s a dacks-hound, one of them German ones, lad,’ said one of the group of small boys with dusty brown hair, as Joe walked nearer. They were surrounding a small, whimpering dog. Another boy taunted it with a stick.

  ‘It’s the enemy, get it,’ shouted another, lost in the crowd.

  The boy, a gaunt thing with scruffy clothes and thick curly black hair, whacked the dog with his stick. It fell on its side and elicited a great wail. Its pain didn’t deter the boys, and as the boy raised his stick again Joe grabbed it from behind. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, and yanked the stick out of the boy’s hand.

  ‘Hey, that’s mine,’ the boy complained. He must have been about eight or nine years old, his face covered in the muck and grime accumulated from playing in the street. The dog used this distraction to limp off and disappear from sight around a corner.

  ‘Not anymore,’ Joe said, calmly, making sure not to talk down to the boy. ‘There’s no need to abuse that poor dog. What has it done to you?’

  ‘Hey,’ someone shouted from behind Joe, and he turned. ‘What are you doing to my son?’ A slightly plump woman wearing a pinafore rushed across to road to confront Joe. He thought of the stick in his hand and dropped it.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘They were having a go at a poor dog, saying it was German. Hitting it with a stick.’

  ‘And you think it’s right to tell them what to do, do you?’ Her big cheeks were flush with anger. ‘They’re just showing their patriotism. Are you some kind of pacifist or something?’

  ‘Well actually—’

  ‘You’re all the same, your lot. Go on, leave my boy alone, or I’ll give you a good hiding like your mother should have done.’

  ‘I was just helping the dog,’ he said, the sound struggling to get past his throat.

  Her anger didn’t abate, but she focused on her son and Joe walked away as fast as his legs would allow. Behind, he could still make out her voice, yelling at the boy.

  He crossed the road past the horse carts, as a lone motorcar trundled past. Outside the greengrocer’s boxes of fruit and vegetables shone in the late morning sun. He picked up a couple of apples. One was thick, ripe, and juicy, the other was thinning and clearly older, bruised in parts. He put the ageing apple back on top, feeling sorry for it. Perhaps a customer might see it first and buy it.

  He entered the newsagent’s next door, which opened with the jingle of a bell. Posters lined the walls, showing various headlines from different newspapers. Light filtered in through the window panes casting long shadows across the stands. It smelled of musty paper and ink, a smell Joe was well used to. At the far end of the shop the shopkeeper was having an argument with another man. Their voices were rising and falling. The shopkeeper, a bulky man wearing an apron, and with silver hair around his ears, was moving bundles of papers away from the counter. A smaller man followed him. They hadn’t heard the entry bell. Joe couldn’t make out what was being said.

  He read the first newspaper on the stand, waiting for them to finish. The terrible ‘Hun’ was plastered in a headline across the first page. He shook his head and put the paper back, sliding it behind another, then picked up the copy of the Labour Leader that he had come in for, folded it under one arm and walked to the counter.

  ‘Don’t expect me to do your work for you,’ said the shopkeeper to a smaller man as he moved another bundle of newspapers aside, dropping them with a bang.

  Joe coughed into his fist.

  Both men jumped in shock. ‘Sorry, sir,’ the shopkeeper said, letting go of another bundle and rushing around the counter to serve Joe. The small man’s cold blue eyes stared.

  ‘Joe?’ he said. ‘Joe Abbott?’

  Joe didn’t reply. He put the paper down in front of the frowning shopkeeper.

  ‘Joe, it is you. It is.’ The other man moved to shake Joe’s hand. He was a head shorter than Joe, with, short brown, bushy hair. His cheeks were gaunt, and his jaw pronounced. There was evidence of a moustache and beard that was only just showing through on his pale skin and gave him an unshaven appearance. Recognition dawned.

  ‘Oh my,’ Joe said. The words came out in a hurry. He stared at the other man’s outstretched hand and wondered if it was now too late to shake it.

  ‘You know this idiot?’ the shopkeeper joined in, putting his hand out to be paid.

  Joe handed over a ha’penny without looking at the man or answering his question. The shopkeeper cashed up. ‘So, do you?’ he said again, before r
eturning to his work when Joe gave a shallow nod.

  ‘Little Jimmy.’ Joe paused for a second, thinking. ‘Little Jimmy Sutcliffe, isn’t it? I remember you.’

  The blue eyes brightened as Joe recognised him. ‘Yes, though less of the little now. No one calls me Little Jimmy any more. James will do.’ He smiled. It seemed forced, the corners of his mouth were still downturned. ‘You do remember how we were always at the front of the class back at school, and you pretended never to understand me?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ Joe wasn’t sure he had been pretending, but didn’t to say so.

  ‘You do remember, don’t you? Old Fenning, used to put us next to each other in his classroom. His two brightest students he used to say, remember?’

  ‘Yes.’ Joe remembered, but rather differently. He had been one of Fenning’s brightest students, but Little Jimmy Sutcliffe was not. His old teacher was always recommending further reading and philosophy to Joe. He had grown particularly fond of the old man. As a boy Jimmy always seemed entitled, from a rich family on the hill that looked down on them all. He expected to be one of Fenning’s brightest and best, but really, he wasn’t.

  ‘I remember it, Jimmy… James.’ He caught himself. ‘We had some good years at that school. Before I had to leave.’

  ‘I never really did understand why you had to leave.’

  Joe nodded. He hadn’t had time to tell anyone why he was leaving or where he was going to. He had only been there by the kindness of his Uncle Stephen who, because he had no children of his own, had decided to pay for Joe’s education. That was until his younger siblings had needed schooling. His uncle simply couldn’t pay for them all and so Joe had had to leave. After all, he had learnt all he needed to know, hadn’t he? The local school would be fine for the rest of his education. ‘We couldn’t afford it, James.’

  ‘Oh, that is rum.’ He pushed his lips out and dropped his head. Joe wasn’t sure if Jimmy was genuinely upset, or just humouring him.

  ‘Don’t frown, James,’ Joe said, mimicking old Fenning. ‘I did all right.’

  Jimmy smiled again. Joe missed old Fenning. The man was a bright spark in a dark, cruel world and had always given Joe so much to think about. The master at his next school had been unkind and unfair. Joe had withdrawn and found solace in books. He would have rather been at home, reading. Perhaps Jimmy had become Fenning’s best student after Joe had left.

  Jimmy shuffled, as the shopkeeper gave an occasional huff, making it clear that he wanted them gone. ‘What brings you here in particular, Joe?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Oh,’ he continued before Joe answered. He pointed to the newspaper that Joe was holding. ‘I found a few old issues of that in Fenning’s room once.’

  ‘This?’ He held up the paper. ‘Fenning encouraged me to read it when I was at school, to learn about all walks of life he used to say. It’s also interesting research for my newspaper work. I had no idea Fenning read it at the school.’ Reading the newspaper would have been quite dangerous at such a school. He had only ever mentioned it in hushed tones.

  ‘Oh yes, we found all sorts of things after you left. Best not to dishonour his memory with that sort of discussion though, may he rest in peace.’ Jimmy sighed.

  He didn’t hear what Jimmy said next. He had never found out what had happened to Fenning after Joe had left the school. It had seemed like a different life. He wiped his eye with a handkerchief, passing it off as if he were wiping his nose. He didn’t want to think of the old, kind teacher passing away. He wondered how it had happened, but he didn’t dare ask.

  ‘We could discuss our old school days and old Fenning sometime while having a drink,’ Jimmy said, beaming at him.

  Joe hesitated. ‘I don’t know, Jimmy. Sorry… James.’

  Jimmy’s eyes dropped to the floor. ‘It would be fine to catch up. If you are busy, we could arrange a better time.’

  ‘You’re right. Why don’t you give me your address, and when I’ve time, I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Excellent. Just one second.’ He patted his pockets. ‘Here, do you have a pencil and some paper I could borrow?’ The shopkeeper scowled as handed him a small notepad and a worn pencil. A few seconds later, Jimmy handed Joe a piece of paper. An address in Woolton. Joe could only imagine the large houses with their own estates, a good distance from their nearest neighbours.

  ‘You know the area?’ Jimmy asked.

  Joe nodded.

  ‘Good! Do pop by whenever you get a moment, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Joe said, cramming the piece of paper into his coat pocket.

  ‘Whenever you get a spare second, we would love to see you up at the house. Just knock on the door and the man will let you in. That is whenever – the newspaper, was it? – whenever they let you free for socialising.’

  Joe nodded again. He wasn’t really listening. Jimmy brought back painful memories of a life he didn’t really care for. Although he wanted to make more of himself, he didn’t agree with how families like the Sutcliffes lived.

  ‘What newspaper was it that you said you worked for?’

  Joe mentally cursed for having mentioned it. ‘Did I say newspaper?’ It was a poor dodge and he knew.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you did.’ Jimmy’s smile didn’t falter.

  ‘That’s right. Well, I er—’

  At that moment, the welcome-bell jingled as the door opened and an older man, dressed in a tweed jacket, came into the shop. ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ the shopkeeper said. Joe thought he had been saved by the distraction, but Jimmy was still waiting.

  ‘I’m a sub-editor for the Daily Post, James,’ he finally conceded. Jimmy moved a fraction closer. ‘It’s not much, but it can be interesting, and it gives me a chance to write from time to time.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Jimmy agreed, biting his lip in a thoughtful expression. ‘I wonder—’

  ‘I always enjoyed writing, I suppose.’ If he could keep talking, he hoped Jimmy would get bored and have to leave. ‘There were no jobs available when I started, I had to work my way up from the bottom. I’ll work my way up to a top journalist one day. I’ve already talked to the editor about it.’

  Jimmy was biting his lip, while scratching his head. Joe tried to gauge Jimmy’s thoughts, but he hadn’t seen Jimmy in so long, he didn’t really know the man. The shopkeeper moved past them, tidying the shelves. He stopped in between newspapers to give the two men a very pointed stare, which he held for a few seconds, before returning to his work. He reorganised some magazines that the newcomer had disturbed. ‘We should leave,’ Joe said.

  ‘I think that you would be interested in these.’ Jimmy pulled out a wad of paper from his jacket and pushed them at Joe. They were a number of identical pamphlets, printed on a light, expensive brown paper. At the top of the page were the words ‘Stop the War To-Day!’ in block capitals. Joe sighed. Why would Jimmy be pushing these pamphlets on people? What was the war to him?

  ‘You don’t like them?’ Jimmy asked. ‘They are just the beginning, I asked for some larger prints to post on walls.’

  ‘Why?’ was all Joe could manage.

  ‘Why?’ A frown crossed Jimmy’s brow. ‘Because the war needs to be stopped before it even starts. It’s not right. Britain should have nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Right, that’s enough of this. I told you I don’t want nothing to do with this rubbish.’ The shopkeeper stormed over to them and opened the door, politeness giving way to frustration. ‘Out with you. Go on.’ The door slammed behind them. A young woman was examining the vegetables on the greengrocer’s stand. The doctor left the newsagent’s and walked away. A horse cart rattled past, a cacophony of hooves and metal-clad wheels on the cobbles.

  ‘You have to be careful, James. Protesting the war could see you in prison.’

  ‘Yes I know, but—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You won’t stop the war with these.’ He shoved the pamphlets back into Jimmy’s unresisting hands. ‘People aren’t going to listen to these
. They’ll either ignore them or be so disgusted with the sentiment that they will cause you trouble.’

  ‘I thought you might understand…’ Jimmy’s voice was childlike, a squeak. His face puffed under that tuft of a moustache.

  ‘I don’t understand. These leaflets will not help, and I don’t understand why you of all people would care. You will get arrested, or at best fined.’ He couldn’t help raising his voice.

  ‘Old Fenning…’

  ‘He wouldn’t have wanted this,’ Joe said. ‘This is an incitement to riot. You’re going to find yourself in a lot of trouble if you carry on.

  ‘Fenning would have advised caution. He would say educate people about the war. Not to go all out on some kind of crusade. People are mad at Germany, and they’ll be mad at you too. What good would you be able to do from a prison cell?’

  ‘Th… that’s…’ Jimmy had developed a stammer from nowhere, and Joe felt sorry for him. ‘That’s w-why I w-wanted to talk to you, Joe. I r-r-read an article p-published by your p-p-paper. I w-wanted to ask if you could p-p-put me in touch w-with—’ he took a deep breath ‘—Albert Barnes.’

  Joe’s heart sunk. This nervous man was trying to make a difference. He had read an article that asked questions about the war, and he wanted to speak to its author. All the time he had no idea that the person he was speaking to was that man. Joe felt ashamed at his anger, but he couldn’t shift the feeling that Jimmy was wrong for this. It was as if he was searching for a place to exist, something to be part of, rather than having any real conviction. The army itself would have given Jimmy a sense of purpose. He had always gone from one idea to the next, without following it through.

  Joe sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have got angry with you. Albert Barnes is no longer in Liverpool. He enlisted. He’ll be in France by now.’

  ‘But why did he write the article, only to sign up?’

  ‘Because he didn’t, Jimmy. I did.’ He didn’t trust Jimmy, and he knew it was probably a mistake to tell him, but he hated lying. ‘Don’t you dare tell anyone, or I’ll lose my job.’