Goodbye for Now

by M. J. Hollows

  ‘Next!’ he shouted over George’s shoulder.

  George signed the attestation, while Tom walked into the room clutching his own paperwork. ‘All good, George, as they say.’

  The magistrate ordered them to line up. Patrick and their friends were nowhere to be seen. They must have already given their oath of allegiance to the Crown. He and Tom were so close to joining them.

  ‘I told you it would be fine,’ Tom whispered.

  ‘Shh. It’s not sealed yet. It was nerve-wracking back there. I thought that officer had found me out and decided to play a game with me. The doctor treated me like a prize horse. If I wasn’t standing here with you, I’d think they were still having me on.’

  ‘Odd. The doctor barely touched me. Took one look, made me read the letters, and shoved me through that door. Hold up, here we go.’

  The magistrate had shut the door to the room.

  ‘Where’re Patrick and Harry?’ George said in a hush. He hoped that the officer didn’t notice his lack of discipline.

  ‘I don’t know. They must’ve gone, ended up in a different section. At least it means we won’t have to put up with them out there.’ Tom’s voice was slightly louder than George’s and earned a disapproving glance from the magistrate.

  ‘Right, men. Raise your right hand like this.’ He raised his hand to shoulder height with his palm facing outwards. ‘Repeat after me, inserting your name one at a time in the correct place.’ He picked up a piece of paper from the desk and began reading aloud, ‘I…’ He nodded to the first man in the line, who after a second’s hesitation barked out his name in a hurry, and it stuck in his throat as if he hadn’t spoken yet that day, ‘Johnny Smith.’ Then the magistrate nodded at the second man who was ready. ‘Albert Jones,’ he said. Every man along the line announced their name.

  ‘George Abbott.’

  ‘Thomas Adams.’

  It took a few minutes for the assembled men to speak their names for the oath, and the magistrate carried on where he left off as soon as the last man spoke.

  ‘Swear by Almighty God.’

  ‘Swear by Almighty God,’ the men replied in chorus.

  The call and repeat carried on until every man had all said the final line, ‘so help me God.’

  The magistrate went down the line of men handing each the King’s shilling and dismissing them. He got to George and said, ‘This is the King’s shilling. Take it and you are a member of the regiment.’ He pushed a shilling into George’s palm. ‘Take this.’ He then gave him a sheet of paper with his name and the name of the regiment on it. ‘We will tell you when to report for mobilisation. In the meantime, you will attend training drill starting from Monday. Dismissed.’

  George and Tom were now members of the King’s Liverpool regiment. The enlistment felt like it had taken hours, stretching George’s confidence to his wits’ end, but in reality it had only been a few minutes. He had expected a sense of something new but he didn’t feel any different. Tom grinned that grin at him and, taking George around the shoulders, said, ‘That’s that then, we’re men now.’ He laughed. ‘Now to go home and wait, lad. I should probably tell my ma too.’

  It was done.

  Chapter 8

  Joe had just woken up. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but the sun glared in through the window. Last night at the newspaper had been a late night, editing more and more news about the war, and trying to get his anti-war message in wherever he could without Ed noticing. When he had got home, he was out as soon as his head hit the thin pillow. He hadn’t even heard George leave in the morning. His brother had left before Joe had woken, which was unusual, as Joe was often disturbed by George. They didn’t socialise or talk much – they hadn’t since they were small children. One day, Joe would own his own home and bedroom.

  Getting up early and reading was his usual morning pattern, but today he just got dressed. He tripped over George’s boots on his way downstairs. He had done enough reading last night for a few days, and his head was still sore from the concentration.

  Halfway down the staircase he heard raised voices coming from the kitchen and stopped.

  ‘How dare you?’ his mother shouted, just loud enough to be heard through the walls. Joe didn’t hear the reply, mumbled as it was. ‘How dare you?’ his mother shouted again, loud enough to wake the house if anyone had still been sleeping.

  There was silence for a few seconds, and Joe tried to relax. He daren’t go further down the stairs, should anyone realise he was there.

  ‘No, George. Not this time. You shouldn’t have done this.’ The anger in his mother’s voice had more control this time. Then he heard an unexpected voice, that of his Uncle Stephen; a voice he hadn’t heard in some time. He didn’t visit their home often. His uncle was how his parents had met. He and Joe’s father had served together and at a regimental dinner George’s mother and father had been introduced. He had heard the story many times. Joe’s heart raced as he thought of all the possibilities of what they were arguing about. He kept coming back to the same conclusion, and the thought made him sick. He hesitated, one foot on the bottom step and a hand on the banister. He dearly wanted to go upstairs and avoid the conversation, but his curiosity and his concern pulled at him. One day he would have to start confronting things.

  ‘You’re too young.’

  The beating of his heart grew louder in his ears, and he still didn’t hear George’s response. Joe put his other foot on the stair, praying they wouldn’t creak.

  ‘Hello, Joe. What are you doing?’ enquired a young voice, followed by the click of a closing door. She made him start. He had been so engrossed he hadn’t heard his little sister creep up on him.

  ‘Shush, Lizzie. Not so loud!’ He waved his hands, but she only smiled in return and came closer. ‘I’m just thinking. Why don’t you run upstairs? And don’t tell anyone you saw me!’

  He was getting in the habit of lying recently, and he hated himself for it. If he told her what was happening then she would no doubt tell her parents at some point. She was too young to understand. By now, he could no longer make out much of the conversation in the kitchen. His mother was no longer shouting, but he could feel the tension as she moved around the kitchen. Still, his sister stood and smiled at him, craning her neck to see what he was doing, mimicking him.

  ‘What are you thinking about? Is it to do with stairs?’

  ‘It’s not important, Lizzie. Now come along with you, up the stairs. Mum will be calling you down soon, and if you’re not ready she will be upset.’ Again he bent the truth to suit his needs, but Lizzie didn’t need to know what was up – not knowing was better at her age. She would find out soon enough. She stopped smiling and stomped up the stairs, her curls bouncing with each step.

  ‘Shush,’ he said again, in a whisper up the stairs. He would rather not know himself for now. Once again, he was running away from things. If George had signed up for the army, it would rip the family apart. His sixteen-year-old brother was far too young to be going to war. The thought made Joe sick, and he rested his head against the banister, closing his eyes. No one was old enough to go to war. It didn’t matter who they were. No one should have to kill another or be killed for their country. George was brave, not stupid, but Joe couldn’t help but feel he had made the wrong decision. He felt guilty. Guilty that he had never reached out to his brother, and now it could be too late.

  He went back upstairs, leaving the conversation behind. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. As he walked past one door he could hear Lizzie singing softly to herself and the sound brought a warmth to his heart. She had a sweet voice, the voice of innocence. He re-entered the room that he and his brother shared, the two iron framed beds on each long wall, like a school dormitory. Kicking his shoes off, he fell backwards onto his bed with a creak of springs. A wave of tiredness hit him. He was tired with the world, with the constant conflict. He turned to the bookshelf that ran alongside his bed. His eyes fell on Tolstoy, amongst others. His collectio
n was meagre, gathered from a second-hand bookshop in the city centre with what money he could spare, but the books were his. One day he would have his own library, full of books on any number of subjects. These took pride of place on the shelf, their battered covers only serving to highlight the quality of names presented on them. A couple had been given to him by his teacher, Fenning. They were both philosophy texts, to encourage him to higher thinking. Not today, he thought. Today wasn’t the time to reach such works. He wasn’t in the mood for opening his mind to possibilities and ideology. He was already weary of thought.

  His spotted a copy of the Labour Leader. The same issue that he had used to help edit Barnes’s article. He didn’t usually leave the paper out, the writings of Brockway and the rest would not be welcome in this house. His father wouldn’t appreciate them. Even his books were a risk. The newspaper was incriminating evidence when Barnes returned, and if he accused Joe of tampering with his article. Joe didn’t want to think about the possibility now.

  It was proving to be a bad kind of day, and it hadn’t even really started yet. He was exhausted from work at the Daily Post, where others were leaving to join the war effort and everyone else had to gather round and work harder. Now he suspected that there was going to be some consequence of his editing of Albert Barnes’s piece. Worst of all, was the news that his brother had signed up to go and fight – the very thing he was trying to convince other boys not to do. There was nothing he could do to stop that now. He could help others, but what good would that do if he couldn’t even help his family? The least he could do was support his brother, give him confidence. He couldn’t stop him going to fight – he would never listen to Joe, he never had – but, short of signing up himself, he could do everything possible to make sure George would come home.

  He pulled out his notepad from the drawer next to the bed and began writing.

  Dear George .

  A door slammed downstairs, the kitchen door. With nothing short of instinct he jumped up from his bed and rushed to the top of the stairs. He was only just in time to see his mother’s back. ‘Come on, Lizzie,’ she said and walked out the front door. His sister had gone back to listening at the bottom of the stairs, and now followed their mother from the house.

  He rushed down the stairs to see what was happening, and peered out the front door. His mother and little sister were nowhere to be seen. Wherever they had gone, they had gone in a hurry. He decided not to follow. His mother had done this a couple of times before, but she would return later as if nothing had happened. He guessed that she just needed to calm down, and that Lizzie’s presence would help her.

  He turned back into the house and clicked the front door shut behind him. A moment later the kitchen door opened and Uncle Stephen walked out into the hallway. Stephen was a tall man, half a head taller than Joe, and always wore his uniform. Joe was fond of his uncle, but he wouldn’t exactly call them close. He was a warm and friendly man, but the two of them had nothing in common. Joe had never been boisterous, or particularly adventurous, and his uncle was a classic example of what a military officer should be.

  ‘Ahh, Joseph. Good to see you,’ he said, in his clipped, proper accent. The sound of his voice reminded Joe of everyone at his first school, the sound of the upper classes. Uncle Stephen stood to attention, even in the Abbotts’ small hallway. He always smelt of cigars and faintly of wool from his uniform. The smell that Joe always associated with the army. ‘I don’t suppose that you saw my dear sister on your way in, did you?’

  ‘Only on her way out.’ Joe almost stammered, feeling like a school child again, afraid of that new world. ‘She didn’t say where she was going.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, I will find her. I can put all that expensive army training to the test and track her.’ He winked, and moved to the doorway, easily gliding past Joe who was rooted to the spot. ‘I’d best go and calm my dear sister down. She does tend to get upset so easily. I’m sure she will be all right, but I’d best go.’

  He patted Joe, who had still said nothing, on the shoulder and said, ‘Be seeing you.’ With that he left, and Joe was alone again. Without the presence of his mother, sister, and uncle the house felt incredibly silent. He could hear his heartbeat thumping in his ears. Of course, the only other person left in the house was his brother, sitting in the kitchen for whatever reason. Joe decided that it really was time he knew whether his brother had done what he suspected. He wouldn’t be able to put it off forever, and it was about time he had some courage himself. He finally had an opportunity to catch his brother on his own and have a decent conversation with him. To tell him how he felt. He would still write the letter he had started but for now that could wait.

  With a deep breath he placed his hand on the door handle and walked into the kitchen.

  Chapter 9

  The conversation hadn’t gone exactly as he had planned, but he hadn’t expected his ma to storm out quite like that. It was good of Uncle Stephen to stay behind and give him some encouragement, but then he had left too. He hoped he would see him again before shipping out. He loved his uncle dearly. George put his face in his hands, elbows on the desk. He felt like crying, but a soldier didn’t cry. A man didn’t cry. He would remain strong for his mother’s sake, but it was so difficult.

  He heard the door click open again and looked up. He had expected his mother or Uncle Stephen, but it was his brother. He hadn’t realised Joe was home. How much had he heard? Joe didn’t say anything, but stood in the doorway looking sad. He always looked that way, some might say he had a sad face. George couldn’t remember if he had ever seen his brother smile. At least, he never had with George in the room. Now, though, he looked as if he were about to break out in tears. It was a sentiment George shared, but how could he tell his brother that?

  Joe opened his mouth, about to say something, but then was interrupted by the sound of their father’s cane on the hallway tiles. ‘What are you two doing moping around here?’ he said, joining them in the kitchen. He was dressed in his work clothes, a woollen suit and bow tie. George knew that he so much wanted to be wearing his uniform, but his father would only ever get to wear it on special occasions. He wouldn’t be joining George in France. ‘Why aren’t you down the dock getting work, and why aren’t you at that paper of yours?’ He limped to the table and lowered himself into a chair. ‘Where’s that mother of yours? She’s normally here when I get home from work.’

  George wasn’t sure what to say. His father wasn’t unused to his wife’s bouts of sadness, but it wouldn’t make him particularly happy to hear about another. Besides, George had something important to tell him, and he didn’t want to put him in a worse mood. He was sure that his dad would be proud of him, and he would have to tell him sooner, or later. ‘D—’

  ‘She’s just gone for a walk with Lizzie,’ Joe interrupted, giving George a pointed look. He wasn’t sure why Joe had interrupted. He always had to get in the way of things, ever since they were little he had been trying to get in George’s way. But this wasn’t the time; he was a soldier now and that gave him a certain sense of power.

  ‘I’ve got something I need to tell you, Dad.’ He took a gulp of air, remembering how his mother had reacted. He found it difficult to say what he wanted to. It should have been easier to tell his father, but he felt a strange sense of reluctance. Perhaps it was because of Joe’s presence as well. He plunged ahead. ‘I went to the recruitment office, up on Gwent Street. I went with Tom.’

  His father didn’t look up. He was flicking through the newspaper on the kitchen table, grumbling to himself with the turn of each page. George wasn’t sure that he was even listening.

  ‘He and I…’ George paused again, trying to read his father’s expression. ‘He and I… well, we signed up. We signed up to the regiment, Dad. We wanted to go out to Europe, to France. We wanted to stop the Hun.’ The words came out in a torrent, as if a floodgate had been opened. George thought what he had been trying to say was obvious, but the silence in the room h
ad made him spurt it out. Joe sighed and sat down in another chair with a thump. He didn’t say anything, but shook his head, then put his head in his hands. Their father carried on reading the newspaper. Nothing could change George’s mind now.

  ‘Dad?’ George said, unsettled by his father’s silence. He knew that when his father was silent, something was brewing. George thought that his father was going to cry out as his mother had done and felt guilty again. She had made him second guess his decision, but all along he had thought that his father would support him. Had he made a mistake? No, he couldn’t have. He thought of returning to work on the dock and it made him shudder. He couldn’t go through that again. His father’s stories of the army sounded much better. It had made his father a man and given him so much pride. After all, that’s how his parents had met. George wanted the same sense of belonging, to make something of himself. The dock had no prospect of advancement. Most of the men that worked there were twice his age and would never be anything more.

  ‘Right,’ his father said at last, in a low voice that always signalled he had made his mind up about something. He pushed the now closed newspaper to one side and looked at both of them, before settling on George. ‘That’s that then.’

  Joe leaned forward on his elbows. ‘If I had known—’

  ‘You keep out of this.’ Their dad didn’t even look at Joe, but stared at George. The gaze was piercing, as if his father was trying to see into his very soul and guess his inner thoughts. His father had often told them off, but George hadn’t seen his father look like this before. It made him shudder. ‘You’ve made your decision then. I had expected you to wait a few years, but what’s done is done.’