‘It was my father’s,’ Tom said. ‘And I want you to have it. Should anything happen to me then it will remind you of me and could also be a lasting memory of my father.’
George knew Tom was lying, the lighter could only be a few years old at most, there were very few of them around. Tom’s father died when they were young and it was far too long ago for this to have belonged to him. George regarded it in more detail, unsure of what to say. It was silver but had been blackened by soot and mud. There was an inscription etched into one side, but it had worn from use and he couldn’t read it. It looked like German. Tom must have taken it from a dead German soldier during a raid.
‘I don’t know what to say, Tom. Thank you.’
He flicked it open and clicked the mechanism. With a satisfying whoosh the flame burst into life, casting more shadows on the walls around them.
Tom grinned at him. ‘Fun huh, lad?’
George nodded back and put the lighter away in a pocket before anyone else could see it and envy him.
‘’Night, lad,’ Tom said and rolled over to the left, pulling his greatcoat over him and snoring almost right away. George rolled the other way, but he didn’t close his eyes. He lay there for a while in the ever-darkening barn, thinking.
Chapter 23
Anne stood over Joe’s shoulder to see what he was doing as he ran his finger along the paper. She didn’t say anything, but he could smell her perfume and sensed that she was there. He flicked another page and stopped, satisfied.
‘Every time we get the casualty lists in, I have to check,’ he said to her without turning.
‘Why? I thought I’d let you finish,’ she asked as she pulled a seat closer and sat next to him, pulling the paper gently towards her.
‘It’s become a kind of tradition, a ritual, I guess. I have to see them before they are printed. To make sure.’
‘To make sure that none of your friends are on there?’
‘To look for George. I don’t know what I would do if I saw his name. I almost want to be ignorant of it, but I have to look. I have to make sure his name isn’t there. It’s odd, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not odd. I understand. I often look at the names and wonder who they are and who has lost someone. Who the men were and what they were doing when they… when they passed.’ She had been about to say ‘died’, but for a reason Joe couldn’t guess, she had hesitated. ‘George is your—’
‘My brother. He is my younger brother.’
‘Oh yes, you mentioned him before. Do you wish you could go out and look after him?’
‘No, I don’t. I wouldn’t go out there for anything. You know I’m against this war.’
‘Then why are you worried about him? If there is nothing you can do then what purpose will worrying serve? He made his decision to go out, and you made yours; to stay here and do what you can to stop people like him having to fight.’
He knew she was trying to reassure him, but it wasn’t working. It felt like she was criticising him, but could it be he was just being paranoid? He watched her idly flicking through the pages of names, sometimes running a finger along a line, other times going back a page to see if what she had read was correct. The sheer amount of names was staggering, but it had become routine now, they were almost desensitised to it. It still didn’t stop him worrying about George though. He didn’t know what he would do if his brother’s name ended up on that list, but he knew how he would feel. Guilty. Devastated.
‘It’s just that he shouldn’t be out there.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said without raising her head. He thought he heard a hint of impatience in her voice.
‘No, what I mean is that he isn’t even old enough. He shouldn’t be out in France, they never should have let him go.’
‘How old is he?’ She looked up, done with the newspaper.
‘Seventeen. Not even old enough to sign up, let alone be shipped out to France. I don’t know what they were thinking.’
‘Hmmm,’ she said, and passed him back the newspaper. ‘If he is anything like you, Joe, he’s an intelligent man. Even at seventeen, I would dare say he’s intelligent and shrewd enough to look after himself. If he’s like you, he will be smart and brave enough to make his own decisions. He went out there, he fights because he wants to, and even if you disagree you should be proud of him that he is as strong in his convictions as you are.’
She was right, she had a way of always being right.
‘I am proud of him,’ was all he could say. He was; his little brother had grown up, and as Anne said, he was an intelligent man. He was a far better man than Joe. And Joe was always proud of him. Proud in the way that only a brother can ever be proud of another brother.
‘You two are close?’ she asked.
He had to think for a moment. He didn’t know how he would describe their relationship, but close wasn’t the word.
‘No, not really. More’s the pity. I think that’s one reason why I worry about him so much. I never told him how much I care, and he’s probably out there in the mud thinking that his family and his brother don’t care one jot for him. It’s not true, and it makes me worry to think that he might think that.’
‘Why don’t you write and tell him how you feel?’
‘I do. I write to him all the time, whenever I have a spare moment, and something to tell him about. I’ve even written to tell him about you.’
She smiled, full of warmth, and put her hand on the back of his. He liked it when she did that. The closeness of her hand and the warmth of the gesture always soaked through him and took away his worries, if only for a moment. But his mood dropped again, as quickly as it had risen.
‘But he never replies. I don’t know if he reads them. I have no way of telling. I know he writes to our parents, to the family at large every now and then, but never directly to me.’
‘Perhaps he is too busy out there? You have no idea what kind of chores and routine they have. What if he only has time to write one letter and so he choses to write to your parents?’
‘I suppose that could be true.’ He wasn’t sure, he could imagine that the soldiers had plenty of time hanging around in between bouts of fighting. He didn’t blame George for not wanting to write to him, he had never given him any reason to before now, and they weren’t close. Joe just wished that they could be closer, he knew that somewhere deep-down, if given a chance, George would be the one person to understand him.
At that moment, Anne put a hand on Joe’s sleeve, her eyes darting along the corridor. The sound of wheezing came closer, indicating Mr Harlow was coming, but it was much softer than usual. The big man stopped in front of the pair of them and just stared. His face was ashen and pale, and he gripped his cigar in a clenched fist that was so firm all the blood had drained away to leave a white blubber of flesh.
‘What’s wrong, Mr Harlow?’ Joe asked as Anne stood up and went over to him.
‘You look terrible,’ she said. ‘Come, have a seat. Sit down, sit down. There, good.’
She had pulled out her own chair and helped the large man into it. She had acquired a handkerchief from somewhere and was using it to mop his sweating brow.
‘What’s wrong?’ Joe pressed again, eliciting a frown from Anne. He frowned back, sure that she too would want to know what was wrong.
‘I… I received this,’ Mr Harlow said, holding up a small chit of brownish paper, his voice only a whisper. ‘It seems I am becoming the bearer of bad news.’
Anne took it from his hands and began reading, her eyes rushing across the page. As they got to the bottom of the telegram her eyes dropped and she closed them, pushing the paper to her breast. She took a deep breath.
‘What?’ Joe asked. Had someone close to Mr Harlow been killed in the war? He didn’t think the man had any children that could be serving, and his wife was at home as far as Joe knew. It had to be a relative.
‘It says—’
‘Here,’ Anne said, interrupting Mr Harlow and handing Joe t
he telegram.
‘It says,’ Mr Harlow continued, unperturbed, his voice still little more than a whisper. ‘It says that the Lusitania has… It says it’s gone down… almost everyone onboard with it. Almost all of them.’
‘Oh dear God,’ Joe said, and went to sit down himself. Those poor people. He didn’t know much about the ocean liner, except that she was big. She was big and must have had a very large crew, not to mention the passengers.
‘She went down yesterday afternoon,’ Mr Harlow continued. His voice had become stronger, now he had found an audience to confide in. ‘She was just off the north coast of Ireland. The telegram only came in this morning. Oh, God. My brother…’
He trailed off again and sobbed to himself for a few seconds, before pulling out another cigar from his jacket and lighting it with a whoosh of a match. Anne patted him on the shoulder half-heartedly as she stared off into the distance, lost in her own world.
‘My brother… and his darling wife. They were both onboard along with their children. On their way back from holidaying in New York.’
Joe read the telegram. It said nothing about Ed’s brother, only about the ship being sunk, and he said as much to Mr Harlow. Anne didn’t even frown at him this time.
‘No, no. You’re right. I don’t know. That telegram is just from a reporter.’ He paused for a second, taking a long drag on his cigar. ‘Listen, I want you two to do me a favour.’
He stood up and shook himself as if shaking off his melancholy like a dog shaking water off its fur.
‘Anything, Mr Harlow. Please, what is it?’ Anne asked, taking a step away from him now that he had stood up.
‘It’s rather more of it being your job, than a favour, but I want you to do it all the same. I need you two to go down to the pier head and to the Cunard offices. Find out whatever you can. As much as you can. There’ll be lots of other people down there, asking about their families, some of them just enjoying the drama. So, you’ll have to throw your weight about as reporters and make yourself known to the staff. Then find out as much as you can for me.’
He stared at them as they stood still.
‘Well? What are you waiting for? On with you.’ With that he waved his hand at the door and strode off. He had exchanged sadness for anger much quicker than anyone Joe had ever seen before, and it threw him.
He gave Anne a look, then turned to get his coat from the stand. He daren’t think how many grieving families would be down at the ocean liner’s offices. Those poor, poor people. What must they be going through? He remembered when the Titanic had sunk. So many families from the city had had family onboard as crew, or heading to America to start afresh. The city was still reeling from it, many still struggling to make ends meet. How would they cope with another disaster?
Despite that he was glad. He knew it was terrible to feel this way, given the circumstances, but Mr Harlow had finally given Joe a reporting job.
Whether it was intentional, or just because he had been there when Mr Harlow had received the telegram, he didn’t know. But he didn’t care, at that stage he would’ve taken anything, and he was determined he would do the best job he could. Letting Anne out before him with a drop of his shoulder and a smile, he walked out of the office, head held high, feeling more important than he had ever done.
*
The Cunard offices were a ten-minute walk from the Daily Post, and by the time he and Anne had got there, Joe was sweating in the mid-spring heat. As they turned the corner a great baying noise overwhelmed them. Outside the Cunard offices and leading up to the facade of the brick building, men and women were gathered. It was like the early days of the war again when the recruiting offices had been overwhelmed. Except, rather than standing in orderly queues, excited, there was a great deal of shouting going on. Those that raised their voices reached for the building as if they were trying to gain the attention of some deity, and were being pushed back, unwelcome.
‘What’s going on?’ Anne asked someone, as they joined the back of the crowd.
‘I have no idea,’ he said. Joe believed him.
He had expected a crowd of mourning mothers, wives and daughters, but what they had found was a scene of anger.
They pushed through the baying crowd.
‘Excuse me!’ He said ‘excuse me’ to each person that he and Anne weaved in between. Rather than a parting crowd he was only met with angry glances and resistance. He had to push harder to get through, and he grabbed Anne’s hand to make sure that she didn’t get lost behind him. The angry shouts begun to be directed at the pair of them, but Joe made a point of ignoring them.
At the front of the crowd, up a small flight of stairs to the building’s entrance, a thick burly man was barring the way and pushing back the occasional troublemaker who grew overconfident.
A meaty fist applied to his chest pushed Joe back as he made to walk up the stairs.
‘We’re with the Daily Post,’ Anne said. ‘Please let us through.’ The resistance fell back and with a rush they were through the crowd and into the reception area of the building. The baying crowd were kept behind them by the security men. ‘What on earth is going on, Joe?’ Anne asked from beside him, out of breath from their struggle.
‘Who are you?’ Another voice cut in, belonging to a young man, a couple of years younger than Joe. He strode towards them with a purposeful air, his head held high as he regarded them. His greased, pitch black hair shone in the reflection of the electric lighting. ‘How did you get in here?’ His black suit marked him out as a clerk of some kind.
Anne took the initiative.
‘We’ve come from the Daily Post, as soon as we heard the news,’ she said, raising her voice so that no one else in the building would question why they were here, but the clerk didn’t respond. ‘Who are you?’ he said again, this time directed at Joe who repeated Anne’s repsonse.
‘Ah yes, a most dreadful affair,’ the man said, turning on his heels and beckoning them after him. ‘Dreadful.’ They followed at his heels as he carried on. ‘You’ll understand that none of the directors have the time to talk to the press?’ They nodded, it wasn’t a question. ‘They are far too busy with the matters of business at a time like this. I, however, will be able to answer any questions you might have, on behalf of the company.’
Joe felt put out by the way that they were being dealt with, but what could he do apart from make a scene and demand to see the directors?
The clerk had led them to a small room off the central hallway that resembled a waiting room. Chairs lined the walls and a window let in a small amount of light from between the buildings. The white plaster was stained yellow where the waiting people had been smoking. There were a couple of newspapers on a small table in the corner, and Joe noticed a copy of the Daily Post with a sense of professional pride.
Anne took a seat, putting her hands on the knee of her skirt.
‘What is going on?’ she said. ‘All those people outside, they seemed angry…’
The clerk gestured for Joe to sit down and he did, noticing the slight creak of the old chair. He took out the notebook from his jacket and began jotting down notes. The clerk glanced at it, but then found himself a seat across from them.
‘The crowd?’ Joe asked.
‘Yes, it is quite odd I must say,’ the clerk said, nodding at Joe. ‘When we first heard the news we mainly had families coming to see about their loved ones, to find out what had happened to them. We did what we could of course, but things are all a bit confused at the moment, as you would understand.’
‘Yes,’ Anne jumped in. ‘We have some questions to ask about that ourselves later.’
She wanted to ask after Mr Harlow’s relatives.
‘Hmm.’ The clerk looked at her then back at Joe.
‘May we ask some questions?’ Anne pressed.
‘Yes. Yes.’ The clerk waved her request away with a well-manicured hand. He was determined that he would be in charge of the situation. ‘It wasn’t long after the fami
lies arrived when other people started to show up on the doorstep. Many of them angry, like you say, shouting all sorts of horrible things. At first, we thought they were blaming us for the sinking of the ship. I guess it’s bringing back too many memories of the Titanic. Well, we learnt from that disaster without delay. No, it wasn’t us that they were angry at. We still had to call in the security to keep them at bay, though. We can’t have them making a mess of the building. We soon had a pretty good idea what they were angry about though.’
‘And what was that?’ Anne said. She was jotting down notes and didn’t even look up at the clerk who only had eyes for Joe.
‘Why were they angry, Mr…?’ Joe tried, and the man continued without giving a name.
‘Well, they’re angry with the Germans of course.’
‘Of course?’ Joe stared dumbfounded at the clerk. What on earth was he talking about?
‘Well, yes. Didn’t you hear? I thought you two were reporters?’
The clerk shot an angry look at Anne.
‘Oh, we are,’ she said. ‘Our editor didn’t give us much information before he sent us down here. So you’re going to have to be patient with us, I’m afraid, and help us piece together what is going on.’ She paused, smiling at the clerk again. ‘Our readers will be pleased to hear how helpful you were in representing the Cunard company.’
The clerk scoffed and grinned back. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. Joe was getting frustrated at his refusal to answer Anne’s questions or take her seriously.
‘Now, hold on just a minute,’ he said. ‘If you don’t start answering Miss Wallace’s questions then we shall go and find someone else to talk to. Someone who might not be so inclined to agree with the Cunard company.’
Goodbye for Now Page 22
