There was a murmur around the room. Campbell liked to push them. He was determined that they would excel, be even fitter, and fight harder than a unit of regulars. Some of the men had wanted to give up, but Tom had managed to keep them going.
‘At least we’ve finally got full kit and guns!’
‘Shut up, there,’ George said. ‘Go on, Tom, get on with it.’
Tom grinned at him.
‘I thought it would be something nice for you to have once we’ve shown the Bloody Sergeant that we can march as long and hard as he wants and go back for more. Then I saw how miserable you were tonight, thinking of the homes we’ve all left behind.’
Fred had closed his eyes again. George thought he saw a single tear roll down Fred’s cheek, but he couldn’t be sure in flicker of candlelight.
‘I’ve left my old mum behind,’ Tom continued. ‘And I don’t know about you lot, but I can’t help thinking of her.’ Some of them nodded, others stared into thin air. George had left behind more than just his mother; there were his sisters, his dad, and even his brother. He wondered what they would all be doing on a cold night back in Liverpool, but it was painful to think of them all there and he the only one somewhere else.
Tom didn’t wait for any of the others to join in. He was acting now as their superior, but also as the leader they all wanted rather than the leader they had. ‘Well, you see, she’s back home, and no doubt worrying about me, out here with you lot. She hasn’t got anyone else. But the way I see it, there isn’t much I can do for her from here, except for think about her. I’m sure the neighbours will invite her in.’
George smiled and nodded, knowing that his ma would drag Mrs Adams round to talk.
‘I bet she’ll think you lot are steering me down a wrong path, rather than making a man out of me.’
‘I bet your ma will think you’re off somewhere stealing apples and the Sergeant chasing after you,’ George said, smiling at a shared memory.
Tom laughed. It was a good laugh, deep and powerful, unexpected given the mood. The kind of laugh that made you double up, trying get your breath back. Some of the other men laughed, not wanting to be left out. It took Tom a few seconds to get his breath back and compose himself.
‘You’re probably right, George. I will never live that down. It’s a wonder that copper didn’t find me and send me off to the army anyway.’
‘Probably thought they was better off without you.’
‘Oi. See this stripe?’ Tom said, pointing to his arm, which at the moment had nothing on it. They all laughed again.
‘Come on, I want my gift!’ a voice called from the back.
‘Fine, fine. Don’t let me stand on ceremony,’ Tom said, pausing again. ‘Not like I was trying to do something nice for you.’
‘Give it ’ere!’ Arthur shouted, grabbing the parcel out of Tom’s hand. The grab encouraged the others to go for their own, growing disappointed when a parcel didn’t have their name on the front, before moving onto the next.
‘Order, order!’ Tom shouted, laughing along with everyone else. ‘I’ll hand them out.’ He picked a letter out of Fred’s hand, which made the young soldier look disappointed.
‘This one’s for you, Bert,’ he said. ‘And this one for you.’ Picking up another and another, passing them to the correct recipient. George waited. After a couple of minutes, most of the men were sitting back against the walls of the hut opening their parcels, or letters from home.
Tom joined George who was sitting against the outer wall of the hut, from where he had been watching proceedings. The wall was cold against George’s back, but it distracted him from the chill throughout the rest of his body. Something about it was unusually cosy. It reminded him of sitting by the fire at home, where he would have to sit on the floor in order to get anywhere near its meagre heat. Catherine would always sit on the floor next to him, as their parents took up the chairs and the other two squeezed in where they could. He missed his sister, they had always been the closest. Home felt like a long, long way away, but at least he had Tom.
Tom handed him a small packet, wrapped in brown paper.
‘Thought I’d forgotten you, did you?’ he said, all charm.
‘No, not you.’
Tom’s face was a patchwork of confused happiness. He shrugged and carried on unwrapping what Mrs Adams had sent him.
‘I didn’t think they would send me anything,’ said George. ‘Not that I really thought they would forget.’
‘Of course they wouldn’t forget. They love you… and they’re proud of you. You’re the second in command of Tom Adams’ army! They should be giving you all the gifts in the world.’ They both laughed. The cold wood chafed against George’s back.
‘That’s just it. What could they afford to send?’ He still held the parcel, whilst the rest of the section had ripped theirs open in excitement. He didn’t want to break this moment. The moment of surprise and love that he felt. ‘They don’t have very much, why would they send me anything when they need everything they can get at home?’
‘Who knows, George? Love can make people do strange things. Could be they knew you would be sat here brooding and thought you could do with cheering up.’
‘Yes, well. I still didn’t expect to get anything. They have other things to worry about.’
‘Could be they miss you as much as you miss them? Have you thought about that?’
George nodded. The packet wasn’t very large. Some of the other men had heavy parcels, brown paper ripped and across the floor. He unfolded his parcel, starting at one end and carefully folding it back. One piece at a time. Tom scoffed, but he carried on opening the packet in his own way. When the brown paper was undone, he folded it into one flat piece, and lay it on the floor next to him. He then placed the parcel on his lap. This was how he had unwrapped any present he had ever been given. He didn’t want to rush. He took care because he wanted to prolong the moment. Taking longer to unwrap it made the experience even more special, more mystical, despite knowing who it was from.
Inside was a simple card container. The front was open. A couple of small white envelopes, addressed to him in the same way as the parcel, lay on top. The first envelope was written in his mother’s handwriting: the practised, curvy script that was at times difficult to read. He put it on one knee. The second envelope was written in his brother’s handwriting, the clear joined-up letters of a man who wrote professionally, simply addressed to ‘George’. He put the second envelope into his coat pocket without looking at it.
Next was a metal tin. It was plain white with black script that spelled out the words ‘Fry’s Chocolate’. He smiled. His ma had remembered his love for chocolate. He didn’t know how they had afforded it.
‘Open it then,’ Tom said, leaning closer over his shoulder.
George lifted the lid. On the inside of the tin was a postcard. The picture showed a ghostly bearded man, dressed in white robes, passing a tray of gleaming chocolate to a young man dressed in full khaki. On the back was a short message. ‘To George, From Fry’s Chocolate to the King’s forces, with lots of love from your mother.’
George ripped the foil this time and, breaking off a piece, gave it first to Tom.
‘Thanks, pal.’
This time he went back to the letter from his mother, putting the tin of chocolate in his breast pocket, complete with the postcard. He would keep it close to his heart. The letter was written on several pieces of simple white paper. His ma loved to write and every time it went on and on, a stream of thought on the page. His brother had inherited that from her.
She wrote about simple home matters, what was happening on the street, what the neighbours were doing. He skipped most of it, it made him think of home too much. His father was as he always was. Catherine was trying to find work, and Elisabeth, in the way of six-year-olds, had fallen in love with a sixteen-year-old boy at the local church and wouldn’t stop following him around. Joe and their father still weren’t talking much.
&nb
sp; George’s father, she said, would not stop talking about George being in the army. She said all this and more. It was as if his mother had not known what to say, and so had run from one idea to the next. She could not believe that it had been so long since they had seen him. Almost four months, that had gone so quickly. They all missed him very much.
It was all too much for George. It had been bad enough before, but the letter brought memories of home. He tried his best to stifle a tear that rolled down his cheek by running his sleeve across his face. Whether through ignorance or through kindness, Tom didn’t say anything. George folded up the letter, noticing the blotches where his tears had stained the page and put it in his pocket with the rest. There was a subdued silence around the rest of the hut now, as the other men treasured their gifts and read letters. Some of them looked warmer than they had done before, but George just felt cold. He decided then that he would start writing home, but what would he say?
At that moment the door at the end of the hut slammed open. The Sergeant stormed in. Everyone dropped what they were doing and stood, but they were too slow. Campbell bawled at them. ‘What are you doing in here? Get those lights out! It’s bedtime.’ With a flourish he blew out the biggest candle and was gone, leaving them in the darkness.
There were a few whispers of ‘’Night, lad’ while everyone scrambled for their beds. Reveille would be at five o’clock, even if it was Christmas Day. After that they would begin their usual four-mile march.
Christmas of 1914 was over.
1915
Chapter 18
He didn’t come by Lime Street much, but when he did Joe loved the show of everything going about its business. It was busy by the station, with freight always coming and going. Sometimes he would just sit and watch. Today, though, he was meeting Anne, who had finally agreed to go to the picture house. She had suggested they go and see a new film that was being shown, and he had barely let her finish the sentence before saying yes. He hadn’t even asked which film it was.
He was worried that his fondness of her had been too obvious. After all, she was a very astute and intelligent woman. It was one of the reasons he liked her. In their short time working together he couldn’t get enough of her warm, endearing smile. He felt he could tell her anything. She would regard him with those fathomless eyes and then say something with conviction, something he hadn’t been expecting, but something that made perfect sense.
Perhaps, he was getting carried away with Anne; not only was she intelligent, she was very modern, and was working towards a career. What if she only saw Joe as a friend? Could a man and a woman spend time together as simply friends? The world was changing, but he wasn’t sure it was yet ready for that.
Joe had to grudgingly admit that the war was having some positive influence at home. That women were now being allowed to work jobs traditionally considered suitable only for men was a good thing. Anne may just think of them as two friends that could spend time together enjoying the same things, but he hoped he was wrong.
He had suggested they meet inside Lime Street Station, as it had been the first place they had met, in a roundabout sort of way. She had laughed when he’d made the suggestion, and again it made him unsure. A steam engine blew its whistle as it departed, amongst a cloud of smoke. Joe looked up at the big clock face that hung above the concourse. As usual he was early, Anne wasn’t due for twenty minutes. He decided to go for a walk, it would help calm his nerves.
He dodged through the traffic to cross the road and passed down the side of St George’s Hall, built in a Greek style with white columns around its perimeter. It stood above Lime Street and St John’s Gardens lay behind the hall. It was a small park surrounded by a stone wall and acted like the garden to St George’s Hall as if it were a stately home.
Joe sat on one of the benches next to a flower bed. His father used to bring him and George here all the time when they were younger. The girls would come too sometimes. He would let them run and play in the gardens. Afterwards he would stop them and tell them of the memorial, its stone-grey facade towering over both young boys. Britannia stood on top, judging if they were worthy of inheriting the empire. Their father would sometimes tell stories of his time at war, but only when he was in the mood. Other times he would tell them to have pride in anything they did. The King’s Liverpool regiment had fought for the country and had given everything so that the young, like them, would grow up in a free world.
George would ask question after question. Questions that their father would only answer if he was in a good mood. Those times he would laugh and talk of the heroism of the soldiers, other times his expression would grow dark and moody, and, picking George up in his arms, he would leave the park with Joe following behind.
Those stories had made Joe resent war. He had never felt that sense of martial fervour. The memorial was cold and forbidding and even as a child he couldn’t understand why men should die for anything. It was so senseless. He also despised the look that came over his father’s face. He hated seeing the darkness in his eyes. A look of remembering past horrors, of repressed nightmares. George had been too young to notice, but Joe had seen every tic of emotion and every cold bead of sweat that ran down his father’s cheek. He had been haunted by sympathetic nightmares ever since. His father had too much pride to say anything to him, but Joe could imagine what he had been through. Joe’s father thought that he had fallen too far from the tree. Their difference in personality had always been a barrier between them, while George had only ever wanted to make their father proud.
He met Anne in the station a few minutes later. He was puffed out from rushing to make sure he got back on time.
‘Joe, are you all right?’ she asked as he drew near.
‘I, er, sorry I’m late,’ he said, struggling to get the words out.
She wore a long black woollen coat, loosely covering a pale blue dress. The same dress, he suspected, that she had worn the first time he caught a glimpse of her. Her jet black hair was done up in curls that fell around her shoulders. She looked beautiful, so beautiful he was lost for words. He wore the same waistcoat and trousers he often wore for work and felt underdressed.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said at long last.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him, and turned from side to side showing herself off. ‘I scrub up all right, I think. You look… you look like you’re about to go to work.’ She laughed, indicating that she was teasing.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think’
‘Oh no, you look fine. You really should stop apologising.’
‘I’m sor—’
He caught himself and they both laughed again.
‘It suits you, really. I was just looking for an excuse to wear this. I don’t get to very often. I can’t really wear it at work, people wouldn’t take me seriously. Just some middle-class girl with a dream of playing at journalist. We should get going. It starts soon.’ She turned and took his arm, putting hers through his so that he had to form a crook she could hold on to. He didn’t need to speak, a moment of quiet reflection to take in all of her was welcome. He liked her strength. She was confident and he liked it. Against his timidness it was welcome, and helped to bring him out of himself. It complemented her intelligence. When she smiled at him he could see all the knowledge and warmth in her eyes and he wanted nothing more than to stare into their depths.
‘I’ve heard it’s a delightful film,’ she said, still smiling, enjoying the moment. ‘It’s called Tillie’s Punctured Romance. Allegedly it’s based on a very successful Broadway play. Isn’t it amazing that we will get to see such a thing without having to step foot in New York?’ She paused, gauging his reaction. ‘Although it would be nice to visit someday. There’s a young chap in it who’s apparently kicking up quite a storm in New York. He’s called Charles Chaplin, or something like that, I think.’
‘You should write about it for the newspaper,’ he said. Plays and films were so outside his experience, he felt he needed to say some
thing. She laughed again, that laugh that in a few months he had come to enjoy so much. It was infectious. It made him want to laugh along with her, it didn’t matter what they were laughing about. The rest of the world was a blur when she laughed.
Joe held the door of the picture house open for Anne and entered into the foyer. He was proud to be with her and, for some reason, wanted to show her off.
‘Will you go and get the tickets, Joe? I need to use the lavatory.’
He nodded and let go of her arm, already feeling the loss. It was like someone had wrenched a part out of his soul. The tickets were being sold by a booth off to one side, opposite a similar booth selling confectionery. The amount of electric lighting in the foyer was incredible, he had never seen as much in one place. Oil lamps would not have had quite the same effect. The young man manning the booth handed Joe the tickets and took the money. Joe had managed to convince Mr Harlow to give him an advance on his wages. He needed it with the price of the tickets, which were simple paper stubs torn from a reel. Anne was waiting in the foyer. He loved the way she smiled as he got closer. He held the door open for her and they entered the auditorium. The light was much more muted and dim, and it took a few awkward seconds for his eyes to adjust. He daren’t walk any further for fear of falling over. Once his eyes adjusted, he could see rows of seats lowering down as they approached the large screen at the far end of the room. A good number of the seats were already occupied. They pushed along a row of seats, apologising as they passed the other patrons. Joe stood on someone’s foot in the gloom and apologised profusely.
Goodbye for Now Page 16
