Goodbye for Now. M.J. Hollows
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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 His mother always said that the reason he was so sullen and withdrawn was because he was forced out of the army by injury.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.
‘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.