Goodbye for Now: A breathtaking historical debut

About M J Hollows

M J HOLLOWS was born in London in 1986, and moved to Liverpool in 2010 to lecture in Audio Engineering. With a keen interest in history, music, and science, he has told stories since he was little. Goodbye for Now is his first novel, which he started as part of his MA in Writing from Liverpool John Moores University, graduating in 2015. He is now researching towards a PhD in Creative Writing, and working on his next novel. Find out more about Michael at his website: www.michaelhollows.com.

Goodbye for Now

M J HOLLOWS

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © M J Hollows 2018

M J Hollows asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008287962

Version: 2018-10-25

For everyone who fought and died in war,

and everyone who fought and died for peace.

Table of Contents

Cover

About M J Hollows

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1923

1914

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

1915

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

1916

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

1917

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

1923

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

Dear Reader

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

1923

They all stood in silence, with hats and caps doffed under arms, focusing their vision on their shoes. Meanwhile the bishop droned on in his fashion, extolling the virtues of sacrifice.

He stared with them, trying not to dredge up the memories of the past. I have lived through hell, but in that I am not alone, he thought. Bile stuck in his throat and he desperately tried to swallow it away. No one noticed, or if they did they attributed it to his grief.

Everyone had suffered and sacrificed, not just the soldiers. He wondered how his brother might be now. How much he would have been changed by the war. They had both endured their own private hells, and as the dead would keep their solace, so would the living. No one would ever truly understand their plight and those that had experienced it didn’t need the others to remind them. That was what the nightmares were for.

So he stood there, in silence, with their neighbours and people from the nearby streets, waiting for the bishop to finish his sermon, for the memorial to be revealed.

Somewhere in the distance a baby cried. No one reacted, empathising with the child, who was probably too young to know what was going on but was joining in nonetheless.

The bishop stopped and was replaced by a Major young enough to have been a junior Lieutenant at the outbreak of war. His voice broke as he began reading out the names of the lost, Morgan, Norris, Oliver, the endless torrent of the dead. They were just names now. Their legacy, the brass plaque that was being unveiled.

He patted his coat pocket, remembering the bundle of letters that he kept there. That’s where they would stay, sealed, but not forgotten.

The Major continued reading out the names of the fallen, some of whom he knew, others he had never met.

When he could bear to think of him, he had spent most of the war angry with his brother. Not angry, that wasn’t strictly the right emotion. They had never really understood each other. They were very different people, with different stories. He had had high hopes for his brother, they all had, yet he threw it all away. He chose his path. When he should have turned to his family he turned away. It was hard now to remember him as they were when they were children. Too much had happened. His name had not been spoken aloud since. They all missed him, but it was too painful a memory.

The Major had finished now and had disappeared. There was a cough from someone amongst the crowd. The only sound apart from that was the occasional sniffle of a nose or the sound of stifled weeping. Heads were still bowed and would remain that way for some time, some years perhaps.

At first he hadn’t understood his brother’s decision; they stood on opposite sides. But as the war dragged on and on, past its first Christmas and into a new year, year after year, he had started to understand his brother a lot more. He begun to understand the need to fight for something, to believe in something and to not give up. No matter what life would throw at you. That was a sentiment he could agree on, and he guessed it was something their father had managed to instil in them both, despite their differing opinions. It had been a clear dividing line at first, but things were less clear now. The world had changed for all of them. The horror of the war had left no family unaffected. They couldn’t change their decisions, but they could make sure that they counted for something. That things hadn’t just changed for the worse but would be allowed to change for the better too.

He just wished his brother was still around to say this to, but he would never have the chance now. Their paths drifted apart, on what was to be a fateful day for millions of people…

1914

Chapter 1

‘It’s war!’

George Abbott would never forget where he was that day, when those very words were spoken. He was sat at the family kitchen table, a roughly cut dark wooden frame, with an off-white cloth draped across it to hide its wear and tear. He leaned over a bowl of oats, playing them around with his tarnished spoon. Beside it was an enamel plate with some bread and milk.

His sisters, Catherine and Elisabeth, sat either side of him. Catherine was looking over at George to see if he would eat his bread, or if she could take it. Her hair was a deep black mess of curls, the same as their mother’s, framing a pale, chubby face, whereas little Elisabeth’s hair was a distinct copper colour, more like their father’s. At the other end of the table, across the other side was George’s brother Joe, gaunt and long like their father, although with a growth of unkempt curly black hair. He wore the deep brown suit that he always wore to work, even at the breakfast table. He was careful not to get any food on it.

The back door had burst open and their father limped in clutching the Daily Post to his chest and calling to the family. If George were to look him in the eye, it would be like looking in a mirror, except his father was older and thinner. Their faces were exactly alike and the resemblance was uncanny. It was only his father’s eyes that looked different, like they had seen a thousand things, and crow’s feet pulled at the edge of his face.

‘It’s war!’ he said. ‘We’ve declared war.’ He carried on as if unheard. ‘Britain has declared war on Germany.’

Everyone stared, not knowing quite what to say. War had been brewing for some time, so they weren’t surprised.

‘Pass your father the kedgeree,’ their mother said to Catherine and she did as bid, passing the dish of flaked fish and rice that everyone but their father despised. He must have picked up his taste for it in India.

‘I thought we were allies with Germany?’ Their mother was ever the practical woman. She carried on eating while the rest of the family grew excited and agitated. George pushed his plate of bread towards Catherine to distract her, but she just stared at it, then at him.

Their father finally found his seat, hanging his cheap coat behind him as he wrestled his body onto the chair.

‘No, no, love. Belgium. They’re the ones. They invaded there, so ol’ squiffy told ’em where to go.’

‘Belgium invaded Germany?’

‘No. The other way round!’

She didn’t appear to be listening and smiled conspiratorially in her husband’s direction, before collecting up more plates.

Joe stared across the room at the news their father had brought with him, wringing his hands in front of his face. Joe was older than George, but in this moment he looked even older, worry lining his face. His hair threatened to grow too long on his head and his feeble attempts to grow a beard in patches on his chin was a constant source of ridicule. The object of Joe’s gaze was a faded photograph of their dad dressed in his uniform, beaming with pride at the South Africa medal pinned to his breast. He still often wore his medal, stroking the silver disc absent-mindedly. Father turned to Joe, putting the paper down.

‘D’you know what this means, son?’ Joe didn’t respond and their father looked around the room, at the rest of them, testing everyone’s reaction. ‘The papers say they’re going to issue a call. They’re gonna need more men.’

George carried on playing with his oats, knowing that this was between Joe and their dad. Joe looked into the middle distance, the edges of his mouth moving as if about to form words but thinking better of it.

After a tense pause, Joe spoke. ‘I won’t do it,’ he muttered under his breath, so quietly that George almost didn’t hear.

Their father banged a fist on the table, and cutlery jingled as it was disturbed.

‘What do you mean you won’t do it?’ he shouted at Joe. He kept his fist firmly on the table, flexing his fingers, but managing to keep it balled. His other hand gripped the arm of his chair and George could see the blood draining away as his flesh turned a pale pink. ‘Every generation of this family has served. As far back as I know, the Abbotts have fought for our country. What makes you so different?’

‘Dad…?’ By simply calling out to him Catherine brought him out of his tirade. His hands relaxed and the blood flowed back into them. She had a way of calming him that none of the others could manage.

The legs of Joe’s chair screeched on the tiled kitchen floor as he pushed it back and stood up. Without taking a step he turned to face their father. His voice was calm despite the speed with which he had risen.

‘I’m not different. That’s not the point. I won’t, I don’t have to, so I won’t. You know exactly what I think about war, and I mean no disrespect to you or our ancestors, but I won’t fight. Not ever.’

He rushed across the kitchen, opened the door and, without looking back, left. The door clicked shut behind him. The room was silent.

The action was completely out of character; Joe was never angry. He never had any reason to be angry, he was always quiet and kind when he needed to be.

His sisters appeared as shocked as George surely did, trying to cover it by intently focusing on their food, and stuffing their faces with whatever was left.

Their father looked over at their mother and shook his head. ‘I told you that teacher had put funny ideas in his head,’ he grumbled.

‘Eat, love.’ She pushed a plate of breakfast in front of him, stroking his shoulder before going back to the worktop.

He ate in silence, as the rest of the family finished their breakfast. He occasionally looked up at them, his eyes resting on George, before he carried on eating. When he had finished he left the room himself, hobbling in his usual manner towards the front room. George waited a few seconds for him to be gone, before getting his mother’s attention.

‘What was all that about, Ma?’ Elisabeth said, before he could phrase the question himself, her six-year-old inquisitiveness winning out.

Their mother continued her meticulous dish washing. Her voice had to compete with the scrape of crockery and the splash of water as she poured more into the sink from the jug she had got in from outside, but she knew well enough how to project. A skill that he expected came from having four children.

‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said quickly, but not without care.

‘But why were they arguing?’ he asked, interrupting his younger sister’s reply. He had always felt close to his mother, she cared for them all well, but she had always been honest with him and spoken to him like an equal.

Another stack of plates clattered onto the draining board. ‘They’ll be looking for young men to volunteer, I don’t doubt. Your father wants our Joe to go and give his name, join the regiment. It’s the family tradition after all.’ She paused as a blackbird flew past the window. ‘But your brother has no interest in your father’s traditions. He has other plans for his life, what with all the things that he’s learnt.’

‘I’ve never seen our dad so angry before,’ Catherine said, finally eating George’s unwanted bread and pushing the words out between mouthfuls.

Mother finished her washing up and returned to the table, taking a look at the sisters then at George where her gaze lingered for a moment.

‘You’re too young, George, or your father would be having the same conversation with you too, love,’ she said as she took a dishcloth to his cheek to wipe away whatever leftover food was lodged there. That would explain why his father had kept looking at him.

‘Now get on with you and get yourselves ready. I need to go speak to your father and try to calm him down. Up the stairs now.’ She ushered the family out of the kitchen with a wet dishcloth, and a smile.

*

Upstairs, the house was a cramped affair, with the rooms close together, leading off from a shared landing. Four children was common for a family around Liverpool, and they all had to fit into what space their parents could afford. George and Joe brought what money they could into the house, but they still slept in a shared bedroom.

George walked into the room that had been his and Joe’s for as long as he could remember, to find his clothes for work. There were three other rooms leading from the landing: their parents’, their sisters’, and a small room that they used for cleaning and getting changed. Having one changing room between six people was never easy, but they made do. There was a kind of unspoken agreement about the order of who got to go in first. Their mother was always first. Their father would shout at them and push them away if they tried to get in before her. The rest was a hierarchy of age within the family. Catherine would usually have to go downstairs and boil a tub of water then bring it up for cleaning. They would often share the same water and rub as much soap as they could afford on their bodies. They had a tin bath that they kept next to the outhouse, but that was only for special occasions.

He sat down on the thin mattress of his wire bed to wait, and the frame creaked as it took his weight. Across from him was Joe’s side of the room. Both sides were marked out as separate, and neither of them ventured to the other’s. He couldn’t help but think just how different Joe’s personal space was compared to his own. Though only a couple of feet apart, an outside observer could easily see the two different personalities in the room.

Above his bed, Joe had a couple of cluttered shelves, so full that often things fell off whenever someone opened or shut the door to their room. He had put them up himself, forever keen on being self-reliant, even when George had offered to help. The bottom shelf contained a number of books, a few were great dusty tomes. Every time George looked he suspected there were more books. Joe would smuggle them in from somewhere, George didn’t know where.

Sometimes, in the evenings he often caught Joe pulling them off the shelf one at a time and running a finger along the words while softly mumbling to himself. He thought that George didn’t notice, but he did. He often wondered what Joe was thinking, while he read the words under his breath. He seemed so separate, so distant, as if he were born to another family and had been given to the wrong parents at the hospital. There were times when George was about to ask him what he was reading, but then Joe would start another book or go to sleep.

To say he wasn’t interested in things would be untrue. However, when it came to Joe’s interests George just didn’t understand. There was a difference between them that was more than age. Unlike a lot of his peers George could read, but he found more fun in other things.

He looked back over his own bed and at his own possessions. In pride of place was his favourite landscape, and various other pictures. They were all prints that he had managed to find for very little expense or trade for with what little he had. Some were cutouts from newspapers or magazines, of particularly interesting scenes. Some were postcards. Some were larger copies of paintings of places that he had no hope of visiting. Underneath them, if you looked carefully, were some of his own sketches. They were poor in comparison, but he practised whenever he could snatch a moment. With work at the dock, time was scarce.

The changing room door opened and Catherine walked back out. She smiled at George. ‘Your turn,’ she said, shutting the door behind her. George didn’t follow into the now empty room, there was no point in him washing when he was due to go to work, he would only end up dirty again in a matter of minutes. The dirt didn’t bother him, he was used to it, but the sweat always wound him up, as it ran down his temples and pooled on his chin. Instead, he got ready for work, throwing on a pair of overalls and making sure that his boots were securely tied to his feet. A loose lace could cause a serious injury in a hurry.

*

Less than half an hour later, he was out of the front door and facing down the road. Egerton Street was a quiet street hidden just off the main road. Terraced, brick houses lined the road without break, built for the workers in the city. The Abbotts weren’t completely poor, but they weren’t wealthy either. The army gave their father a meagre pension and he had found work at the docks bookkeeping, thanks to a friend. The others brought in what they could.

Most of the houses that George could see were occupied by the families of other dockworkers. The red brick buildings trailed off down the hill, meeting at a point in the direction of the Mersey which was still covered in a grey sea-mist at this time of day.

As George stepped out of the yard, closing the wooden gate behind him and making sure the steel latch stuck, a group of young children pushed past him, their leather soles clattering on the pavement as they chattered in excitement, on their way to the local school. They played soldiers running around with their arms outstretched in mockery of a rifle. One mimed shooting at him and George pretended to be hit, falling to his knees and clutching his chest. The child laughed and ran off, and George shouted a friendly warning after them as they disappeared down the road.

Mrs Adams from next door waved as she saw George on his knees in the street.

‘Mornin’, George,’ she said, smiling. ‘Get up now, you’ll get dirt all over you.’ She carried on tending to the small trough of plants she kept in her front garden, with a pair of secateurs.

‘Good morning, Mrs Adams.’ He pretended to wipe himself down. ‘D’you know where Tom is?’

‘Oh, he’s on his way to work, not long gone. You only just missed him. But knowing him, he’s probably off scrumping for apples.’ She smiled knowingly. Mrs Adams always smiled, no matter what happened. It made George feel happy to see it, knowing what she had been through. He smiled back despite the feeling of embarrassment that washed over him. The Adams’ smile was infectious.

She referred to the time that George had first met her son. Before then, they had never had so much as a conversation. After school one day, George had been walking home, and came across Tom, Harry and Patrick loitering at the end of a road. They were trying to climb over the brick wall of the corner house, to get to its orchard, but couldn’t make it over.

Being taller, George was asked to help, but there was a shout from over the other side of the road. The local copper had spotted them and was crossing towards them. They ran, the policeman giving chase. They turned a corner and hid in a hedgerow.

George’s lasting memory of that time was of laughing uncontrollably. The boys had been friends ever since.

George chuckled to himself as he carried on walking. A lady walking up the road glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and took a step around him. ‘Morning,’ he said, still smiling.

He hoped to catch up with Tom, but he had no idea how far ahead he was. He could feel the excitement of all those around him, from the running children, to the busy adults.

He crossed the tramway that ran along Catharine Street, careful not to trip on the rail that was indented into the stones of the road. He always preferred to walk to work, but Tom would most likely be waiting at the stop, hoping to jump on if George was too late.