Goodbye for Now

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Adams.’ Patrick leaned over conspiratorially and covered one side of his face with a hand, as if he was going to whisper into Tom’s ear and he didn’t want anyone else to overhear.

‘Things have not been going well at the millers.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Tom feigned interest, but Patrick didn’t seem to notice.

‘Yeah. The supervisors are getting jumpy. Things have been going badly for a while. We’ve kept on working, doing our thing, but they’ve been getting worried nonetheless. The unions are urging us to strike, and winding up the owners, but we don’t know what’s best.’ He leaned closer. ‘I think Bailey’s going to call a picket any day now, you wait.’ He sighed. ‘There’s too much trouble at the moment.’

‘You’re right, O’Brien, there is. I don’t know what you should do, but you should try listening to the union man. Surely they’ve got your best interest at heart?’

George took another sip of his beer, listening to the conversation between the other two. Patrick was hardly being quiet, despite what his body language suggested.

‘And to add to that, my da is worried about his family. I thought we were his family? But no, he wants to go home, to help out with all the trouble there. He says he’s gotta help ’em.’

‘What’s he going to do in Ulster? What can he possibly do to help them?’

‘I don’t know, but he’s got to try, hasn’t he?’

‘I guess so. Your father’s an honest man, O’Brien. And don’t worry, he loves it here almost as much as he loves Ireland. This is home now.’ Tom patted Patrick on the back in a friendly gesture and stood up. ‘Time to get some more in.’

He pushed his way to the bar, and the conversation died out. Patrick studied the bottom of his empty pint and George averted his attention. The pub was busier now, and there was a group of men by the bar having a heated discussion.

Tom came back, precariously carrying four pints of ale. He plopped them down and beer spilt over the rims.

‘Easy, Adams,’ Patrick said.

‘Well, give me a hand next time then, won’t you?’

He made sure that the fullest pint was sat in front of Patrick.

‘Listen, there’s a group of lads over there getting quite rowdy. Keep an eye out for them. There might be some trouble.’

A glass shattered and Tom cringed. A tall, thin man, with yellow hair came flying through the crowd and almost fell over in front of their table. He was being pushed in the chest by a stockier, balding man.

‘What do you mean you don’t think we should fight, Smith?’ The smaller man was shouting in the other’s face, prodding his front with a finger. ‘Or should I call you “Schmidt”? That was your family name before you came over here, wasn’t it? Taking good, British jobs from good, British workers.’ He punctuated each word with a jab.

The two men were nearly at their table now. A hush had descended across the bar.

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Saying that they shouldn’t be defending their right to work. What gives you the right, you Prussian bastard?’

‘Actually I was… well, I was born here. And our King is cousins wi—’

‘I don’t care,’ the other man said. A great shove propelled the other man into Tom’s back, almost spilling the pint he was holding.

‘Sorry,’ the thinner man said from the floor, but Tom had had enough. He turned to the two men, standing taller.

‘That’s enough,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no need for that in here. Good and honest British workers are trying to enjoy their downtime. You hear me?’

The stocky man looked up at him.

‘Now go and have another pint or go home. Either way, leave us in peace.’

The other man glared at Tom, before he grumbled and pushed his way through the crowd. George didn’t realise that he and the others had stood up to help Tom, and he sat down again, feeling embarrassed.

Tom helped the thin man to his feet, brushing him down.

‘Be careful what you say in here, lad. This is a workers’ pub.’

‘Thank you, I’m sorry. All I said was that it seemed odd that our King had gone to war with his cousin, and that our soldiers should have to fight for it.’

Tom frowned.

‘Well, even still, be careful.’

The other man nodded and walked away, eyeing the customers as he left the pub.

‘See what I mean, lads? Too much trouble,’ Patrick said as Tom sat down.

‘Well, I think the Germans are a much bigger problem than anything else, O’Brien,’ Harry replied, wiping the beer’s head from his lips with the back of his hand, while Tom remained silent.

‘I mean, how dare they try to start a war? Over what, some pompous Duke’s death? What’s that gotta do with Belgium and France?’

‘Archduke,’ George said.

‘I mean,’ Harry continued, ignoring George, ‘I thought their problem was with the other side? Not with the French.’

‘I think they have a problem with everyone in Europe, Harry. Most of the Royal Houses are at war with each other now. What next?’ Tom had calmed down enough to rejoin the conversation and he lit another cigarette.

‘Well, our boys will show ’em where to get stuffed!’ Harry took a large swig of beer.

‘Dad says that their army is much bigger than ours.’ George finally managed to get a word in now that Harry’s mouth was full. However, he was met with scoffs of derision and chuckles.

‘Don’t worry, Georgie,’ Patrick said, with a big grin from ear to ear. ‘The Kaiser may have a bigger army but he doesn’t know how to use it!’

George spat beer across the table, and they burst out laughing.

Tom put his hand on George’s shoulder and smiled before saying, ‘Lad, George’s right. That Kitchener is building a new army, to counter the Germans.’

He paused for breath, weighing his next words, then plunged straight ahead. ‘Listen, I’m going down the office tomorrow, lads. To sign up.’

‘What? You?!’ Patrick and Harry replied almost at the same time.

‘Yes, me. I’ve had enough of trying to scrape something together. I think you lads should join me, but I’ll understand if you don’t.’

‘But you’re a cad.’ Patrick was smiling despite the insult. ‘They’ll never take you.’

‘Then they’ll be losing out.’ Tom grinned back, and slapped Patrick on the arm. ‘I’m not worried, Paddy. Just wait and see, they’ll be begging me to enlist. I bet they’ll sign me up as an officer right away. They’ll give me my own battalion. I’m sure that they’ll let you join it. You can be my servants, lads.’ He held up his arm with his palm outstretched. ‘They’ll even call it Tom Adams’ Army.’ He punctuated each word with his hand as if imagining a hoarding.

‘What about your job, Tom, lad?’ Harry sounded concerned. ‘What’ll you do when the war is over?’

Tom shook his head.

‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, Harry. There’s no use in worrying what might be. Plus, I hear the army pays better.’ George caught the hesitation in Tom, but he carried on, apparently hoping the others wouldn’t notice. ‘It’ll be an adventure.’

‘Besides, he’ll be back soon when it all blows over.’ Patrick was clearly warming to the idea. ‘He might not even get a chance to go over there before our boys have sent them Germans packing.’

‘Aye,’ Tom said. ‘But I might stay on after the war. See where it takes me. I could go all over the world.’

‘When he served in the King’s, my dad was out in South Africa,’ George added. ‘Not to mention Afghanistan and India. Who knows where they might go after this war?’

‘It’s gotta be better than good old Toxteth,’ Patrick laughed.

‘My dad has always said he misses it, ever since he got injured. Though I was too young to remember much about it.’

‘So, that’s why your old man’s so grumpy,’ Harry said, trying to elicit a laugh, but bringing the conversation to a halt. The colour drained from George’s face, his anger swelling. He wasn’t quick to anger, but he couldn’t let someone insult his dad.

‘Come on, Harry, there’s no need for that!’ Tom came to George’s rescue. ‘George’s dad served our country proudly for years. You should show him more respect.’

Patrick drank his beer as if he hadn’t noticed the awkwardness.

‘Sorry, uh, George… lad. I was, er, ah… out of line,’ Harry apologised.

George could only nod, not wanting to open his mouth for fear of what he might say.

‘You can’t go alone, lad,’ Patrick said, returning to what he thought was a more interesting topic, leaving George still fuming.

‘I won’t be alone, the rumours of war have been going for weeks. I’ve heard whispers all over the city about signing up.’ Tom was grinning wider with every word, engaging his audience with enthusiasm in every breath.

George quickly forgot about the insult to his father, and envisioned a great British soldier rallying his troops and leading them into a glorious battle against the despicable enemy. He could see Tom doing that sort of thing, pulling every other soldier along with him in his wake and winning the day, with a big grin on his face. Men would follow Tom into anything. He would, too.

‘Besides, that’s why our George is coming with me.’

That one sentence ripped George out of his daydreaming and back into the present. He tried to hide his surprise by grabbing his ale and taking a swig. He hadn’t told Tom that he would be signing up with him, but as usual Tom had assumed he would follow. They had talked about it, yes, but he hadn’t said that he wanted to sign up. It had all been Tom.

Although, now it had been said, he liked the idea. He couldn’t imagine working down at the dock without Tom to keep him company and get him through a hard day.

‘Oh, you too eh, Georgie?’ Patrick obviously wasn’t willing to let the matter lie. ‘Going to follow in the footsteps of your father? Keep it in the family? Make him proud?’

Without thinking George replied. ‘Yes,’ he said. He very much wanted that, to make his father proud. George’s father was a hard, uncompromising man, but he had always done everything he could to do right by his family. George knew that his father loved both his sons, even if he never showed it, but he desperately wanted to see that sense of pride on his father’s face. His mother always said that the reason he was so sullen and withdrawn was because he was forced out of the army by injury. George wanted to do anything possible to give him some of his pride back. His father couldn’t fight, so he would.

He had tried to make a living, urged by his mother to do something honest and constructive, but it wasn’t working. The dock was its own special kind of hell. Heavy, hard work, and if he was truthful, he hated it as much as Tom did.

‘So, what about the football then?’ Harry urged again.

The others continued talking without George. He didn’t care what they thought. ‘I’m going to enlist,’ he said, more for himself than for any of the others, testing the words out on his lips, to say it out loud. Tom was the only one to take any notice and smiled at him, before turning back to the others, deep in conversation. They were too drunk now to talk about anything serious. George had another drink.

Chapter 6

‘It’s a dacks-hound, one of them German ones, lad,’ said one of the group of small boys with dusty brown hair, as Joe walked nearer. They were surrounding a small, whimpering dog. Another boy taunted it with a stick.

‘It’s the enemy, get it,’ shouted another, lost in the crowd.

The boy, a gaunt thing with scruffy clothes and thick curly black hair, whacked the dog with his stick. It fell on its side and elicited a great wail. Its pain didn’t deter the boys, and as the boy raised his stick again Joe grabbed it from behind. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, and yanked the stick out of the boy’s hand.

‘Hey, that’s mine,’ the boy complained. He must have been about eight or nine years old, his face covered in the muck and grime accumulated from playing in the street. The dog used this distraction to limp off and disappear from sight around a corner.

‘Not anymore,’ Joe said, calmly, making sure not to talk down to the boy. ‘There’s no need to abuse that poor dog. What has it done to you?’

‘Hey,’ someone shouted from behind Joe, and he turned. ‘What are you doing to my son?’ A slightly plump woman wearing a pinafore rushed across to road to confront Joe. He thought of the stick in his hand and dropped it.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘They were having a go at a poor dog, saying it was German. Hitting it with a stick.’

‘And you think it’s right to tell them what to do, do you?’ Her big cheeks were flush with anger. ‘They’re just showing their patriotism. Are you some kind of pacifist or something?’

‘Well actually—’

‘You’re all the same, your lot. Go on, leave my boy alone, or I’ll give you a good hiding like your mother should have done.’

‘I was just helping the dog,’ he said, the sound struggling to get past his throat.

Her anger didn’t abate, but she focused on her son and Joe walked away as fast as his legs would allow. Behind, he could still make out her voice, yelling at the boy.

He crossed the road past the horse carts, as a lone motorcar trundled past. Outside the greengrocer’s boxes of fruit and vegetables shone in the late morning sun. He picked up a couple of apples. One was thick, ripe, and juicy, the other was thinning and clearly older, bruised in parts. He put the ageing apple back on top, feeling sorry for it. Perhaps a customer might see it first and buy it.

He entered the newsagent’s next door, which opened with the jingle of a bell. Posters lined the walls, showing various headlines from different newspapers. Light filtered in through the window panes casting long shadows across the stands. It smelled of musty paper and ink, a smell Joe was well used to. At the far end of the shop the shopkeeper was having an argument with another man. Their voices were rising and falling. The shopkeeper, a bulky man wearing an apron, and with silver hair around his ears, was moving bundles of papers away from the counter. A smaller man followed him. They hadn’t heard the entry bell. Joe couldn’t make out what was being said.

He read the first newspaper on the stand, waiting for them to finish. The terrible ‘Hun’ was plastered in a headline across the first page. He shook his head and put the paper back, sliding it behind another, then picked up the copy of the Labour Leader that he had come in for, folded it under one arm and walked to the counter.

‘Don’t expect me to do your work for you,’ said the shopkeeper to a smaller man as he moved another bundle of newspapers aside, dropping them with a bang.

Joe coughed into his fist.

Both men jumped in shock. ‘Sorry, sir,’ the shopkeeper said, letting go of another bundle and rushing around the counter to serve Joe. The small man’s cold blue eyes stared.

‘Joe?’ he said. ‘Joe Abbott?’

Joe didn’t reply. He put the paper down in front of the frowning shopkeeper.

‘Joe, it is you. It is.’ The other man moved to shake Joe’s hand. He was a head shorter than Joe, with, short brown, bushy hair. His cheeks were gaunt, and his jaw pronounced. There was evidence of a moustache and beard that was only just showing through on his pale skin and gave him an unshaven appearance. Recognition dawned.

‘Oh my,’ Joe said. The words came out in a hurry. He stared at the other man’s outstretched hand and wondered if it was now too late to shake it.

‘You know this idiot?’ the shopkeeper joined in, putting his hand out to be paid.

Joe handed over a ha’penny without looking at the man or answering his question. The shopkeeper cashed up. ‘So, do you?’ he said again, before returning to his work when Joe gave a shallow nod.

‘Little Jimmy.’ Joe paused for a second, thinking. ‘Little Jimmy Sutcliffe, isn’t it? I remember you.’

The blue eyes brightened as Joe recognised him. ‘Yes, though less of the little now. No one calls me Little Jimmy any more. James will do.’ He smiled. It seemed forced, the corners of his mouth were still downturned. ‘You do remember how we were always at the front of the class back at school, and you pretended never to understand me?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ Joe wasn’t sure he had been pretending, but didn’t want to say so.

‘You do remember, don’t you? Old Fenning, used to put us next to each other in his classroom. His two brightest students he used to say, remember?’

‘Yes.’ Joe remembered, but rather differently. He had been one of Fenning’s brightest students, but Little Jimmy Sutcliffe was not. His old teacher was always recommending further reading and philosophy to Joe. He had grown particularly fond of the old man. As a boy Jimmy always seemed entitled, from a rich family on the hill that looked down on them all. He expected to be one of Fenning’s brightest and best, but really, he wasn’t.

‘I remember it, Jimmy… James.’ He caught himself. ‘We had some good years at that school. Before I had to leave.’

‘I never really did understand why you had to leave.’

Joe nodded. He hadn’t had time to tell anyone why he was leaving or where he was going to. He had only been there by the kindness of his Uncle Stephen who, because he had no children of his own, had decided to pay for Joe’s education. That was until his younger siblings had needed schooling. His uncle simply couldn’t pay for them all and so Joe had had to leave. After all, he had learnt all he needed to know, hadn’t he? The local school would be fine for the rest of his education. ‘We couldn’t afford it, James.’

‘Oh, that is rum.’ He pushed his lips out and dropped his head. Joe wasn’t sure if Jimmy was genuinely upset, or just humouring him.

‘Don’t frown, James,’ Joe said, mimicking old Fenning. ‘I did all right.’

Jimmy smiled again. Joe missed old Fenning. The man was a bright spark in a dark, cruel world and had always given Joe so much to think about. The master at his next school had been unkind and unfair. Joe had withdrawn and found solace in books. He would have rather been at home, reading. Perhaps Jimmy had become Fenning’s best student after Joe had left.

Jimmy shuffled, as the shopkeeper gave an occasional huff, making it clear that he wanted them gone. ‘What brings you here in particular, Joe?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Oh,’ he continued before Joe answered. He pointed to the newspaper that Joe was holding. ‘I found a few old issues of that in Fenning’s room once.’

‘This?’ He held up the paper. ‘Fenning encouraged me to read it when I was at school, to learn about all walks of life he used to say. It’s also interesting research for my newspaper work. I had no idea Fenning read it at the school.’ Reading the newspaper would have been quite dangerous at such a school. He had only ever mentioned it in hushed tones.

‘Oh yes, we found all sorts of things after you left. Best not to dishonour his memory with that sort of discussion though, may he rest in peace.’ Jimmy sighed.

He didn’t hear what Jimmy said next. He had never found out what had happened to Fenning after Joe had left the school. It had seemed like a different life. He wiped his eye with a handkerchief, passing it off as if he were wiping his nose. He didn’t want to think of the old, kind teacher passing away. He wondered how it had happened, but he didn’t dare ask.

‘We could discuss our old school days and old Fenning sometime while having a drink,’ Jimmy said, beaming at him.

Joe hesitated. ‘I don’t know, Jimmy. Sorry… James.’

Jimmy’s eyes dropped to the floor. ‘It would be fine to catch up. If you are busy, we could arrange a better time.’

‘You’re right. Why don’t you give me your address, and when I’ve time, I’ll be in touch.’

‘Excellent. Just one second.’ He patted his pockets. ‘Here, do you have a pencil and some paper I could borrow?’ The shopkeeper scowled as handed him a small notepad and a worn pencil. A few seconds later, Jimmy handed Joe a piece of paper. An address in Woolton. Joe could only imagine the large houses with their own estates, a good distance from their nearest neighbours.

‘You know the area?’ Jimmy asked.

Joe nodded.

‘Good! Do pop by whenever you get a moment, won’t you?’

‘I’ll try,’ Joe said, cramming the piece of paper into his coat pocket.

‘Whenever you get a spare second, we would love to see you up at the house. Just knock on the door and the man will let you in. That is whenever – the newspaper, was it? – whenever they let you free for socialising.’

Joe nodded again. He wasn’t really listening. Jimmy brought back painful memories of a life he didn’t really care for. Although he wanted to make more of himself, he didn’t agree with how families like the Sutcliffes lived.

‘What newspaper was it that you said you worked for?’

Joe mentally cursed for having mentioned it. ‘Did I say newspaper?’ It was a poor dodge and he knew.

‘Yes, I’m sure you did.’ Jimmy’s smile didn’t falter.

‘That’s right. Well, I er—’

At that moment, the welcome-bell jingled as the door opened and an older man, dressed in a tweed jacket, came into the shop. ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ the shopkeeper said. Joe thought he had been saved by the distraction, but Jimmy was still waiting.

‘I’m a sub-editor for the Daily Post, James,’ he finally conceded. Jimmy moved a fraction closer. ‘It’s not much, but it can be interesting, and it gives me a chance to write from time to time.’

‘Fascinating,’ Jimmy agreed, biting his lip in a thoughtful expression. ‘I wonder—’

‘I always enjoyed writing, I suppose.’ If he could keep talking, he hoped Jimmy would get bored and have to leave. ‘There were no jobs available when I started, I had to work my way up from the bottom. I’ll work my way up to a top journalist one day. I’ve already talked to the editor about it.’

Jimmy was biting his lip, while scratching his head. Joe tried to gauge Jimmy’s thoughts, but he hadn’t seen Jimmy in so long, he didn’t really know the man. The shopkeeper moved past them, tidying the shelves. He stopped in between newspapers to give the two men a very pointed stare, which he held for a few seconds, before returning to his work. He reorganised some magazines that the newcomer had disturbed. ‘We should leave,’ Joe said.

‘I think that you would be interested in these.’ Jimmy pulled out a wad of paper from his jacket and pushed them at Joe. They were a number of identical pamphlets, printed on a light, expensive brown paper. At the top of the page were the words ‘Stop the War To-Day!’ in block capitals. Joe sighed. Why would Jimmy be pushing these pamphlets on people? What was the war to him?

‘You don’t like them?’ Jimmy asked. ‘They are just the beginning, I asked for some larger prints to post on walls.’

‘Why?’ was all Joe could manage.

‘Why?’ A frown crossed Jimmy’s brow. ‘Because the war needs to be stopped before it even starts. It’s not right. Britain should have nothing to do with it.’

‘Right, that’s enough of this. I told you I don’t want nothing to do with this rubbish.’ The shopkeeper stormed over to them and opened the door, politeness giving way to frustration. ‘Out with you. Go on.’ The door slammed behind them. A young woman was examining the vegetables on the greengrocer’s stand. The doctor left the newsagent’s and walked away. A horse cart rattled past, a cacophony of hooves and metal-clad wheels on the cobbles.

‘You have to be careful, James. Protesting the war could see you in prison.’

‘Yes I know, but—’

‘It doesn’t matter. You won’t stop the war with these.’ He shoved the pamphlets back into Jimmy’s unresisting hands. ‘People aren’t going to listen to these. They’ll either ignore them or be so disgusted with the sentiment that they will cause you trouble.’

‘I thought you might understand…’ Jimmy’s voice was childlike, a squeak. His face puffed under that tuft of a moustache.

‘I don’t understand. These leaflets will not help, and I don’t understand why you of all people would care. You will get arrested, or at best fined.’ He couldn’t help raising his voice.