Goodbye for Now

‘You were right,’ Tom said, holding up a paper he had taken off a bench. The headline indicated that the war was in the morning paper again. It had been all that people had talked about since the ultimatum had expired.

George wondered what Tom was talking about. Staring at him, he urged him to continue.

‘About them wanting more troops,’ he said. ‘You were talking about it the other day, remember? It says right here that Lord Kitchener has asked for another hundred thousand men.’

There was a loud crack, accompanied by the snap of breaking wood, which seemed to drag the sound out from its initial burst.

He turned to see a shape rushing towards them. He called out to Tom but it was too late. He just had time to reach for Tom and push him out of the way before an escaped barrel knocked into his back with force.

Tom fell to the ground with a cry as the metal-clad wood knocked into him. It carried on rolling past, and George was just about able to get out of its way, before it crashed against the brick wall of the dock house and burst open, spilling its contents all over the cobbles.

The coachman rushed to the back of his cart. The back plank had come undone, allowing the barrel to slip off the cart and run free. With the help of a few others, he managed to stop any more barrels falling off the cart and lashed them to the decking with some spare rope.

George ran over to Tom, sprawled on the cobble floor. Tom had been hit in the back and was lying face down. He feared the worst, but Tom just groaned and tried to roll over.

‘Don’t move, Tom. I’ll get help.’

Tom just smiled back at George as he always did and he pushed George away as he tried to check him for wounds.

‘Ah, don’t worry, George.’ He groaned as he sat up and put a hand to his back. ‘I’m all right, I’m all right.’

He finally accepted help but shook his head. George helped him up with a hand under his armpit and then dusted him down. There was a bit of blood on his forehead, but nothing on the rest of his body except for a bruise that would blacken over the next few days. George wet his handkerchief and handed it to Tom as he motioned for him to wipe his forehead. Seeing that George was taking care of Tom, the coachman got back up on his cart and led the horse away – any delay would cost him money.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ George asked.

‘Yeah. It was lucky you shouted,’ Tom said as he wiped the crusting blood from his forehead and winced at the pain. ‘I would have been stood stock still if you hadn’t. That shove helped too. I avoided most of the barrel.’ He stretched his back. ‘Still gave me a bloody great thump though. I’ll feel that one in the morning, no doubt. Let’s see what else they need us to do.’

He turned to walk away, but George grabbed him by the arm.

‘We should call it a day. You’ve had a nasty bump. That could be a head injury too,’ he said, gesturing towards Tom’s forehead again.

Tom shook his head and tried to hide another wince. The smile was back again. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my head,’ he said. ‘If we’re quitting work, do you think we should volunteer?’

George let go of his arm. ‘Come on, let’s go home. I’ve had enough for one day.’

‘I’m serious.’

George wiped the smile from his face, knowing it was doing him no favours in this situation.

‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. No matter what else I do, I keep coming back to the same thought.’

George tried to show compassion and lighten the mood. ‘I know, you haven’t shut up about it since the other day.’

At that moment the dock master ran over to them and started shouting. He was an overweight man, his belly threatening to escape his waistcoat, and his hair was balding, leaving a sweaty pate of pink flesh.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ he shouted when he had got his breath back from the run. A frown crossed his face.

‘You.’ He pointed at Tom, who was still stretching his back, visibly uncomfortable at the pain. ‘What did you do? Why are you slacking?’

Tom shrugged. ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘The cart’s full, and we’re going back for more.’

The dock master wasn’t appeased.

‘Don’t lie to me. I heard a commotion, what’s going on? If you’ve caused any damage…’

It was at that moment that he noticed the destroyed brandy barrel. It was a wonder he hadn’t seen it sooner, the stench of brandy was strong in George’s nostrils. The dock master’s eyes widened as he took in the broken wood and the precious cargo draining away through the cobbles.

‘You damaged the cargo,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘What?’

The dock master grabbed Tom by the collar, even though Tom was a good foot taller than him.

‘Do you have any idea how much that barrel was worth? More money than you’ll ever have.’

‘What?’ Tom said again, unsure. ‘I didn’t do anything. You’re mad.’

‘Damn right I’m mad. How are you going to pay for that?’

George moved to help Tom, but couldn’t see how without angering the dock master further. Instead he tried to calm him down.

‘Tom didn’t do anything, sir. The tail board on the cart broke and the barrel rolled off. If you ask the coachman he will vouch for us.’ The coachman wouldn’t be back for a while, but at least it might buy them some time.

The dock master turned to George, still holding Tom by the collar.

‘Who asked you? As far as I know you’re just as much to blame as this idiot is.’

Tom used that moment to break free of the dock master’s grasp. With a lurch, he pushed the smaller man away with both hands. He moved backwards and tripped over a cobble, but thanks to his low centre of gravity, managed not to fall.

‘I didn’t break the barrel, sir. In fact, it almost broke me.’ As a gesture of goodwill, Tom checked the man over to make sure he wasn’t hurt. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, my friend and I would like to get back to work. There are plenty more barrels like that that need moving and if that doesn’t get done, then I guess you’ll lose even more money.’

The dock master trembled, in shock from Tom’s shove, then nodded.

‘Fine. I’ll chase that coachman for this. But if either of you lads does anything like this again, if you put one finger where it shouldn’t be, then I will make sure that you never work anywhere on these docks again.’

He walked away, his pace slightly quicker than a walk like someone trying to escape a confrontation with an enemy without drawing attention to himself.

‘Now get back to work,’ he called over his shoulder, as if it was his idea and not Tom’s.

‘That was close,’ Tom said, grabbing George by the arm and leading him away. ‘Come on, let’s get this over and done with.’

They went back to work, but before long the conversation had returned to the war.

‘Well now, I think they’ll take me,’ Tom said out of the blue, and George rolled his eyes at him, even though Tom wasn’t paying attention. ‘They need more men, they’ll take anyone that can hold a rifle at the moment. Besides, what have I got to lose? I’ve not got much here except my old mum. It’s gotta be better than this. Anything is better than this.’ He stopped and gestured at the barrel he had been rolling towards the new cart. The previous coachman hadn’t come back.

He stretched his back and groaned at the pain. Injuries were common around the dock, and Tom was lucky it hadn’t been worse. Every week one or more of the lads working on the dock ended up in a ward, or sometimes worse: a mortuary.

George grunted. It wasn’t so much that he agreed with Tom – he resented the fact that he had only thought about his mother and not his friends – but Tom had that way of getting you to see his point of view.

George thought about Tom leaving, and about working on the dock alone. It didn’t appeal to him. They made a good team.

‘If you go, Tom, I can’t go with you,’ he said.

‘Sure you can, if that’s what you want. Why not?’

‘For a start, I’m not old enough. You have to be nineteen before they’ll send you abroad, eighteen if you just want to stay at home doing something boring.’

He saw the dock master prowling along the path and gestured to Tom to resume their work. ‘At least, that’s what my dad always told us. He’s been counting down the days.’

‘Ah, come on now, George.’ Tom shook his head as he always did when he thought George was being unreasonable. ‘If you want to sign up, they’ll take you. By the sounds of it they’ll take anyone. That old dock master over there might even be in khaki soon. You’ll see.’

They both laughed at the thought. It was a welcome relief to the melancholy that had settled on them during the day, and finally Tom was smiling again.

‘You don’t want to wait till eighteen or nineteen to go down the recruitment office. You’ll be sat twiddling your thumbs, hearing about all the heroic deeds we’ve been up to out there. It’ll all be over by the time your eighteenth birthday comes, then what’ll you do? Start another war, just so you can fight in it?’

He was poking fun at George, but the smile was so warm it was difficult not to get dragged along in his wake.

‘Perhaps I will. It’d show you.’ George thought for a moment. ‘They’ll know I’m not old enough and I’ll get turned away from the office. It’ll be humiliating watching you and the rest of them get your khaki and being told to come back when I’m a man.’

‘Ah, that won’t happen, trust me. You’re bigger than any eighteen-year-old I know. You even look older than me and don’t forget, I’m two years older than you. Besides, you’ll be with me. That’ll be enough to help you out. They won’t want to turn away any of the famous Tom Adams’ army.’

George laughed as he pushed the final barrel onto the cart and fastened the rear hatch, eyeing it suspiciously. Tom gave it a big thump and was satisfied that it wasn’t going to come loose. ‘Ready,’ he shouted to the coachman. He then stood with his hands on his hips, like George’s mother often did when he was in trouble. ‘If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t believe you were any less than nineteen,’ he said.

George pushed Tom away and they went to find some more work.

Tom was right. George was unlike his father and brother, who were both thin and gaunt. His broad shoulders and chest may have come from his mother’s side. Uncle Stephen was a much larger man. George had more in common with him than his father. His uncle was like a giant when stood next to his father, even if his father didn’t have a crooked leg. His father always stood as tall as he could when Stephen was around. His mother always argued that George looked just like his father had done in the army, and pushed old, brown photographs in his direction to prove it. Back then he was a stronger, prouder man.

The rest of the day continued largely without incident. They moved more barrels, and their backs became sore from the effort. George suspected that Tom was in a lot more pain than he let on, but he didn’t complain, except for stopping occasionally to stretch with a wince. Once the cargo ship was emptied and the other dock hands were on board, fixing and caulking, the two boys left. There was little extra work to be found, but they had managed to earn some money.

‘So then, George,’ Tom said, as if unsure how to broach a difficult subject. Tom was seldom lost for words, but this time he seemed unable to speak. He kept biting his lip.

‘What’s wrong?’ George asked, trying to force the conversation.

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Tom stopped speaking again and then shook his head. ‘Well, except for all this,’ he said, waving an arm behind him to indicate the dock. ‘This… this isn’t what I wanted from life, George. When we were back in school I thought so much more of life. All the things the teachers talked about. Every time I thought… “I could do that.” I should have tried harder. Perhaps I wasn’t intelligent enough. Who knows?’

George just nodded along.

‘I didn’t think I would end up down here in the docks. My ma was happy when I got a job. So was I for that matter, but now look at me.’ He waved an arm up and down his body and at his back. ‘Covered in muck and sweat. Just look at this bruise, George. That’s really going to hurt in the morning. Ouch.’ He had touched it with a finger. ‘It hurts now!’

‘Be careful, Tom.’ He wasn’t used to his friend being so glum.

‘We can be much better than this, George. Both of us. We’re not as daft as some of those idiots down that dock, so why not? Everything we’ve done, we’ve done well, right?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Right, so it’s settled then. When I get a chance, I’m putting on my Sunday suit, I’m going down the recruitment office and telling them I want to fight the Germans.’ Red threatened to break out on Tom’s cheeks, but then he held his head high, pushing his chest out at his decision.

George wasn’t surprised. He had felt that it was coming since he had spoken to Tom that morning. Tom had mentioned the war at every opportunity. George preferred to keep his thoughts to himself, but Tom appeared excited. The mood of the city was of excitement, Tom wasn’t the only one. The way George’s father often talked about his time in the army, it sounded like an adventure, like a way of life to be proud of. His father had served in the King’s Liverpool regiment and his uncle too. It was the only thing he ever remembered his father talking about with happiness in his voice. The troubles of recent times seemed forgotten, everyone was pulling together in the same direction, as his dad would have said. George reflected as they climbed the hill.

‘I think you should do it,’ he said to Tom, after a silence. Tom let out a deep breath as if he’d been holding it. ‘If it’s what you want to do, then why not? You’d make a good soldier, I don’t doubt.’

‘It’s my ma I’m worried about. After my old man… Ah, I can’t talk about it. She will understand, and your folks will look after her, won’t they?’

‘Sure.’ Their mothers were close. ‘Say, why don’t we go to the pub tomorrow night? It’s been an age. See what the other lads are up to. You can run your idea by them too. Let’s go to the Grapes.’

Tom’s grin returned. He always loved a drink.

‘Great idea!’ was the only reply George needed.

Chapter 4

Joe was walking through Chinatown the next day when he saw George and Tom Adams across the road. The signs on the shops and even the street signs were in Chinese. The Chinese seemed to be the largest of the sailor communities, huddling around the area of Nelson Street and integrating with the Liverpudlians in the area.

Joe couldn’t imagine settling in another country, especially one so far away from his home. But perhaps it had been easier for them than returning home. Who knew what kind of prospects they had back in China? At least here they had families and work.

His brother and Tom were walking along the road in the opposite direction to him. Of course, he saw them first, and as of yet they hadn’t noticed him. It was always the same way. He had a habit of disappearing into crowds, and he was so far outside their world they didn’t have any reason for acknowledging his presence. They must have been on their way home from the dock, chatting together in their usual way. Unusually, they didn’t look as happy as they normally did. Often when Joe saw the pair of them, they were too happily tied up in some inane conversation to notice him go by. Most of the time he didn’t mind, happy to meld into the background and avoid an awkward conversation with them. Today, however, he walked closer to the side of the road to make himself more noticeable. He wanted them to see him, he wanted to speak to his brother, if only in passing.

With luck, Tom crossed the road, George shortly behind him. They weaved between a couple of carts, before making their way across the cobbles.

‘Afternoon, Joe,’ Tom said, upon seeing him. He was always the more friendly of the two, with a smile for anyone he passed – though Joe suspected he wasn’t always the best influence on George. Recognition dawned on George’s face as he came closer, but he simply nodded. ‘On the way to work?’ Tom asked, before Joe had a chance to say hello.

‘Err, well, I have a few things to do first,’ he said, put off by the unexpected conversation. George had his hands in his pockets and looked around the road, seeming disinterested in any conversation. ‘George, could you tell Mum that I will be late this evening and not to worry about food?’

‘Sure,’ he said, nodding slightly. ‘We’re on our way home now. She probably won’t be surprised.’ This was the most they had said to each other in weeks. Sharing a bedroom was one thing, but working different hours meant they seldom saw each other.

‘No, I suppose not.’ The atmosphere was awkward, and Joe felt uncomfortable standing still on the pavement, but he so much wanted to talk to George, to reach out and feel something between them. He never could say the rights words, and it hurt him. He felt as if George believed that he had nothing to say to him, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. ‘The war’s creating a lot of work for us at the paper.’ He scratched at his collar, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. ‘A lot of the men at the paper have already left to sign up, and we’re having to do extra work to make up. I shouldn’t complain. You two possibly have it a lot worse.’

‘Yeah, there’s not much work on the dock at the moment. It could pick up with the war, but who knows?’ Again, Tom was the one to speak. George nodded at his words, as if thinking of something else. How had they grown so far apart? Joe was only a few years older than his kid brother, but the divide was a gulf. ‘We’ve been considering the war ourselves. Everybody is talking about it. We’ve been wondering what’s going on out there, what our lads have been up to. We should read your paper.’

George gave Tom a dig in the ribs with his elbow, and Tom yelped with mock pain. ‘We’d best leave you to it, Joe. Come on, Tom,’ George said, finally finding his voice.

‘Yes. There’s some stuff I need to do before work,’ he said, feeling the newspaper in his jacket’s inside pocket. ‘See you at home?’

George nodded with a slight hesitation as the pair of them walked away from Joe.

‘Goodbye, Joe,’ Tom called after him.

‘Goodbye, George,’ Joe muttered under his breath, ignoring Tom.

Chapter 5

George had been looking forward to a drink all afternoon and he didn’t take any time in pushing open the door of the pub and rushing inside. Clinking glasses, laughs and the occasional cheer filtered through the doorway to the Grapes, their local drinking haunt.

From the entranceway two doors led off, one to the private patrons’ bar and one to the public bar, the latter more brightly lit through the frosted glass of the door. Shadows moved inside. The patrons’ bar, by comparison, appeared empty.

George knew which side they would be welcome in and walked straight through the public bar door, taking his hat off, to where the smell of stale ale mixed with sweat, and the heavy fog of smoking hit his nostrils. The noise was louder inside as men tried to talk over each other and make their orders heard at the bar.

‘Let’s find the lads,’ Tom said, from behind him, raising his voice to be heard as they pushed their way into the pub.

The bar was a loose ‘L’ shape and as they moved around the corner George heard Tom’s name being shouted.

‘Tom! Get over here, lad. Pull up a stool and get your lips around a nice bevvy. Don’t waste any time!’ Patrick waved them over as he shouted.

George could just about see them through the cloud of smoke and the press of bodies. He and their other old school mate Harry had already got themselves a table in the corner and sat around it with pints of ale.

‘Evening, lads,’ Tom said as they got through the crowd. ‘Cains again, is it?’ He gestured to the glasses of thick, brown ale.

‘Aye,’ Patrick said. ‘Harry won’t drink anything else, will he?’

Harry tried to say something but had a mouthful of ale.

‘Everyone has their family pride,’ Patrick continued. ‘The only time I ever got him to drink something else was when he lost at Crown and Anchor. And even then he spat most of it up.’ He took a short drag on his cigarette. ‘Say, lads. Why don’t we play another game now?’

Harry lurched forward and ale spat down his front and across the table. The others laughed, and he joined in with them as the remnants of the ale frothed around his lips.

Patrick was always trying to be the life of any gathering and tonight was no exception. His blond hair was ruffled as if he had just dragged himself through a bush, and his thin, wiry frame would definitely aid in that.

Harry, on the other hand, was exactly the opposite; he cut his brown hair close to his head and his short thick frame would easier knock the bush over than slide through it. He was also slightly slower on the uptake than the others, and found himself lagging behind most conversations and, indeed, jokes.

‘Stop being cruel to Harry, O’Brien. He drinks what he wants to drink and no one should tell him otherwise.’

Tom sat down on a stool next to Patrick and pulled one out for George. Harry handed him a cigarette, and he lit it, taking a long drag, letting the cool, blue smoke escape his mouth.

‘So what news, Tom Adams?’ Patrick asked, puffing smoke while waiting for an answer. Tom put the glass to his lips and waited for a long moment, refreshing the taste of his beer, before answering.

‘Not much to say, Paddy. Work, work and more work for us.’

The others nodded in sympathy. Patrick shot him a look.

‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ Harry asked. ‘Like football or something? Is anyone going along to the match at the weekend?’

‘No, Harry, I don’t think so,’ Tom said, humouring him. ‘I think we have other plans.’

‘Come on, Williams. It’s only a friendly, why bother?’ Patrick put his arm around Harry’s shoulders, who deflated at the response.

‘The season doesn’t kick off for another month, Harry,’ George added. ‘Paddy is right. Besides it’s not like you support a proper football team.’ He tried to flick a cheeky smile to show Harry that he was jesting, but Patrick slammed his glass down.

‘You know I don’t like that name, Abbott. Don’t ever call me that again.’

He leaned over the table and raised a fist at George, a little stylised cross on a silver chain dropping out of his shirt. He reached for it with his other hand.

Tom put his hand around Patrick’s fist and slowly pushed him back towards his own seat.

‘There’s nothing wrong with the reds, George,’ said Harry. ‘Just because they’re not as old as Everton, doesn’t mean they’re not a proper club. You take that back.’

As always, Harry seemed to have missed the undertones to the conversation and the others laughed, breaking the uneasy tension that had built up from nowhere.

‘Sorry, Harry. I’m sure they’ll do better this season, but not if we can help it!’ George pushed another pint of ale in Harry’s direction and gave him a wink.

‘So how’s the rice industry, O’Brien?’ Tom broke his silence, then had another drink. He lit another cigarette from the butt of his last one.

‘Work is much the same as always, I guess it’s the same as down at the dock.’

George very much doubted that, but didn’t say anything.

‘Always back-breaking and sweating buckets without any thanks. I’m sure I constantly smell like rice,’ he laughed wryly.

‘Better than smelling like brandy,’ Tom interjected. ‘My old mum thinks I always come home drunk from work. She won’t listen that it’s thanks to those barrels.’ He sniffed his armpit in mock theatricality. ‘Brandy and sweat, a fine combination, fit for the middle classes.’

George chuckled. ‘Well, at least she’ll be right tonight, when you go home flat drunk,’ he said as he passed his mate another pint from the dwindling row of full glasses on the table.

‘That’s right!’ Harry shouted, and the others roared with laughter.