Rooke scowled at him and took it off.
George took off his jacket and refolded it. They stood there, uncertain what to do next. The machinist, who had given the woman a new needle, turned and seemed surprised to see them still there.
‘That’s all,’ he said, looking amused and gesturing to a door at the far end of the room. ‘You’re free to go.’ He made a flapping movement at them with his arms and they trooped out feeling a little foolish.
In the parade ground, men were still queuing to enlist; others carrying bundles of uniform like their own were waiting around watching two horses being unharnessed from a cart and led away. The backboard of the cart was unfastened and its load of boots and shoes, of many different styles and clearly not army issue, was tipped out on to the paved ground. The quartermaster arrived and held each pair up in turn, shouting out the sizes. Men called out, ‘Me, sir! Here, sir!’ in return and he would toss each pair over, a scrum ensuing as men scrambled to get hold of them. Rooke, who took a small size for which there was no great competition, got a pair of boots fit for a farmer and said that they more than made up for the jacket, even though it was so big it stood still when he turned round. George decided that he would stick with his own boots. The legwork on his rounds had taught him the value of a pair of boots that were well ‘broken in’ and he had no desire to change.
Whilst the scrum was going on around the pile of boots, Turland waiting patiently and Haycock darting forward every now and then to make a grab, George noticed that a pair of fellows had detached themselves from the recruitment queue and were moving casually along the line to the edge of the square. Something in their manner made George immediately certain that they had changed their minds and sure enough they were making towards the gate. One of the men waiting in the queue spotted them and knocked the arm of his companion.
‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘Where you off to?’
One of the men glanced back, and then carried on walking, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.
A ripple of movement ran along the line as men turned in curiosity.
‘Enjoyed your march through town but had enough of the glory now, eh?’ shouted another man.
A mutter rose from the line. The man who was leading the way to the gate said something in reply that George couldn’t hear and he saw him stumble as someone shoved him. He recovered himself and for a moment squared up to his attacker, but then clearly thought better of it and stepped away from the line, beyond easy reach. There were boos and jeers from the crowd and shouts of ‘Cowards!’ and ‘Turncoats!’ The two men hurried away without looking back.
George felt his cheeks and neck burning as if he had been one of them. How horrible it would be to have everyone against you in that way. He almost hated the men for drawing down upon themselves the very thing that George dreaded most himself: that someone would see through him and realise that although he had been buoyed up by the glitter and the camaraderie, lurking close to the surface on which he floated was a current of dark, cold fear. Surely he wasn’t the only one to feel it. He looked around at the others; Turland was smiling, and Haycock laughing as Rooke hopped around absurdly trying to pull on the second of his new boots. He took a deep breath, thought of the feeling he had experienced as he stepped forward in the street and looked up at the blue sky. The moment passed.
Rooke tied the laces of his old boots together and slung them over his shoulder. They set off companionably towards the gate. Haycock said goodbye. He said he was going to drop in at the gas works to let them know not to expect him next week and then go on to visit a few friends and say cheero.
George walked back with the others to retrieve his bike from behind the basement railings. He didn’t relish the prospect of breaking the news of his enlistment to his family or the Ashwells. Nonetheless, now that he had overcome what he told himself was a fit of the ‘collywobbles’, he felt again the excitement of the great change that was to come. As he shook hands, first with Turland, who wished him a safe journey, and then Rooke, whom he joshed about his luck in squeaking into the army at all, he felt a little rebellious pride begin to grow, that he had instigated this and was being his own man. As he set off back towards the main road out of the town, the strains of the silver band reached him faintly once more and he found himself pedalling to the rhythm of imagined marching feet.
5
FRIAR’S CRAG
Feeling hot and dusty, George came through the gate into the yard, squeezed past the privy and the shed and propped his bike against the coal bunker. He took his new uniform out of the basket and tucked it under his arm. Lillie was sitting on the back step, surrounded by cooking pans. She was singing to herself and pouring water from one pan to another, using a broken-handled cup.
‘Hello, our Lillie,’ George said and squatted down opposite her. ‘What have we here? Is it a tea party?’
Lillie offered him the cup and he started to drink from it.
‘No, no,’ Lillie said crossly. ‘P’tend!’
George pretended to take a sip and said mmm. He was rewarded by a pat and a smile. Lillie’s ‘Fums Up’ doll lay on the ground with its painted lick of baby hair and rosy cheeks, looking up with a cheeky expression from the dandelions growing in the cracks in the brick path. George picked her up, put the cup between her hinged arms so that she held it and swivelled them up as if she were drinking. Lillie started to laugh. His mother’s voice came from inside saying, ‘What’s tickled you, Lillikins?’
George put his finger to his lips and passed the doll and the cup to Lillie. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘You feed Baby.’
He stepped round her and went into the scullery. His mother was in the kitchen beyond, standing at the table with her back to him, buttering the end of a loaf of bread. Her frowsy hair was pulled back into a plait; it hung down her back rather than being pinned in a coil in her usual manner. George noticed the dull grey hairs that were curlier than the brown and had escaped to form a soft edge to the silhouette of her head against the light from the window. Her apron strings were coming undone and the bars of her shoes were unbuttoned as if she’d slipped them on in haste. Such was George’s scrutiny as he hesitated to speak that, as if she had sensed it, she made a small sound of irritation and paused to slap at the back of her neck as though she felt a midge bite.
George steeled himself. ‘I’m back,’ he said.
His mother wheeled round. ‘Where have you been?’ Her face looked pinched; the two worry lines between her eyebrows that he knew so well were drawn tight. ‘You stayed out all night!’
George, unable to tell the truth without eliciting further questions that he didn’t want to answer, simply said, ‘I’ve joined up.’ He walked into the room and put his folded uniform down on the table.
‘Mind! Crumbs,’ she said automatically, moving it further over, away from the breadcrumbs and smudges of butter on the oilcloth. ‘What do you mean? Whatever did you want to do that for?’
‘I … I lost my wages. It was careless of me; I must have put them in my trouser pocket so they fell out when I was riding the bike. I know you always tell me to put them in my breast pocket. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, that was foolish, but never mind that, George. What do you mean you’ve joined up? Not enlisted?’ She looked again at the folded clothes on the table; then she reached out and touched the cloth as though trying to believe that it was real.
George said nothing.
‘It’s not right,’ she said. ‘We’ve taught you that since a baby.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘You know better than to get involved. Think how your father will feel about it; it’s not Christian!’
George shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, I’ve done it,’ he said. ‘I’ve signed the papers.’ He reached into his pocket to look for the shilling.
‘But it’s dangerous!’ A plaintive note came into his mother’s voice. ‘Surely you’re too young … They won’t send you overseas, will they? How long have you signed up for?’
‘The d
uration.’
She sat down at the table and pushed away the breadboard, which chinked the butter dish and the muddle of plates together. ‘That’s good, better than signing up for years, that’s not so bad … it’ll be training,’ she said as if to herself. ‘It’ll all be over soon – before you’re old enough to go. Well, that’s something …’ She rested her forehead on her hand, her action belying her words of self-comfort. She looked as though she was about to cry.
George said, ‘Oh, don’t, Mother, please don’t.’ He touched her shoulder but she wouldn’t look at him. ‘I’m very sorry about the money.’ He produced the shilling, saying, ‘Here, I know we’ll still be short but I’ll get this every day so we’ll soon catch up again.’
He held it out to her but his mother just shook her head and looked away from him.
George was unsure what to do; he wished that his father were at home. Even if it meant facing his disappointment, it would be worth it to have him know what best to say to Mother.
‘Well, I suppose you must just look after it for me until I come back then.’ He put the shilling down on the table beside her elbow. He kissed the top of her head, picked up his uniform and went slowly upstairs.
It was stuffy in the bedroom with its sloping ceiling under the eaves. George changed out of his postman’s uniform and put on a clean shirt and trousers. The uniform would have to go back to Mr Ashwell but he didn’t feel that he could ask his mother to sew up the ripped pocket and he knew he would make a mess of it if he tried to do it himself. He put it on a clothes hanger, opened the window and hung it from the sash to air. He wished he had asked Mother for some of that bread.
Ted’s bed was unmade and still had the dent in the pillow where he had slept. George lay down on the smooth coverlet of his own bed, his head propped against the wooden headboard that his father had made for him when he was a child. He had been so proud to have this crude piece of carpentry from his father that he had scratched his initials in the corner. The marks were there still, though dulled by age and polish. It felt strange to look around the little room that was still so full of his childhood and know that he would be leaving it in just two days. All his things had been handed down to Ted so the shelves still held his old games: Ludo, Railway Race and Magnetic Fishing; his eye wandered over the boxes, their cardboard lids softened and dog-eared with use. Piles of Boys’ Best Story Papers and Funnybone comics, which he had reread time and time again, were stuffed higgledy-piggledy between a book on scouting and a pair of shin pads. George thought that he hadn’t taken Ted to play cricket for a long time and felt a pang of regret.
On top of the boxes was Ted’s newest acquisition, a ‘panorama’ of Captain Scott’s expedition. The little theatre had a scarlet proscenium arch decorated with gold acanthus leaves and inside was a snowy scene with tiny stand-up figures. In the foreground, Scott himself shouldered an ice pick while behind him fluttered the English flag, and men, horses and dog sleighs crossed the snow between the spread of tents and the mountains. He thought of the boldness of the expedition, how courageous it was to brave those unknown wastes. He thought of the aching cold, the labour of moving all the equipment and making camp, the fear of breaking ice. How arduous the enterprise and how glorious the attempt! He felt a shiver go through him at the romance of it all. Soon he would be starting out on an expedition of his own that was equally serious in intent, and which would demand just such manly qualities. He got up, retrieved his sketchbook from his jacket pocket and tucked it under his pillow. He closed his eyes and let all the strain, and the events of the last two days, drift into the background. He daydreamt of the time when he would return from the war. He would visit Violet, upright in his uniform, perhaps with stripes on his sleeve, and with his own tales to tell of distant countries …
Ted shook him by the shoulder to wake him to tell him that tea was ready. He groaned as the movement made his tender ribs ache. He could hear the clatter of plates and his mother’s voice telling Lillie to wash her hands at the tap.
‘Are you really going for a soldier?’ Ted said. ‘With a rifle and everything?’ He bounced down on the end of the bed.
George groaned again and said, ‘Te-ed.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Is Father home?’ he asked.
‘Not until around ten. I heard him tell Ma at lunchtime that he’s going on to choir practice after the meeting with the Elder. Where’s the rifle then? Go on, show us it.’
‘I haven’t got it yet and anyway it wouldn’t be safe to have it lying around in a bedroom,’ George said in an authoritative tone.
Ted, rather stung by what he saw as George acting ‘above himself’, said, ‘Huh, not much of a soldier then; you haven’t even got a proper uniform.’
George shuffled up the bed and slowly lowered each leg to the ground, wincing as he did so. He had stiffened up and his ribs felt as though someone had taken a hammer to them whilst he slept.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Ted said grumpily. ‘When you’ve gone, I’ll be able to use your fishing rod. And your cricket bat,’ he added meanly.
George said, ‘If I show you, will you promise not to tell?’
Ted nodded.
George pulled up his shirt and Ted said, ‘Holy Mother!’ – an expletive that he didn’t fully understand but knew to be Very Bad.
George pulled his shirt back down again. ‘Not a word, now.’ He gave Ted a nudge. ‘And I don’t mind if you use my rod and my bat as long as you catch all three-pounders and only hit sixes.’
At teatime, the atmosphere was strained. Lillie was fractious after having spent too long in the sun, which had made her arms and legs pink. She scrambled up on to her mother’s lap and then down again, and wouldn’t be comforted. Ted started asking George more about how he had come to join up but soon realised from George’s frowns and his mother’s hurt silence that this was not a topic to pursue at the table. Finally, overwrought with tiredness, Lillie took to throwing herself backwards in Mother’s arms so that it was all Mother could do to hold on to her, and she decided to put her to bed early.
‘She’s about done up,’ Mother said, standing and hefting Lillie to her shoulder, ‘and I know just how she feels.’
George began to stack the tea things on to a tray. His mother turned at the door. ‘Oh, I forgot to say, George, Kitty called round while you were sleeping to see if you were all right; she’d been concerned since you didn’t drop back to the post office after your round yesterday. I told her you were home safe …’ She tailed off as though uttering the word ‘safe’ brought all her fears once more to the surface. Lillie wriggled in her arms and began banging her head rhythmically against Mother’s shoulder. ‘I told Kitty your news, and I’m sure she’ll pass it on,’ Mother said, holding Lillie tighter and stroking her hair.
George appreciated his mother’s attempt to break the news to Mr A. on his behalf; he hadn’t been relishing the prospect of telling him himself. ‘How did Kitty seem?’ he asked.
‘She looked rather stricken, to be honest. It seemed a bit of a shock to her. Well, I expect it was, Arthur having gone so recently and now they’ll be another man short.’
George felt a stab of anxiety as another uncomfortable consequence spread from his action, a ripple from the stone he had dropped into the calm pool of his own ordinary life.
‘You know you must go and see Mr Ashwell anyway, don’t you? It’s only polite,’ his mother said abruptly and, shushing Lillie, carried on upstairs.
‘Well, it’s very inconvenient,’ Mr Ashwell said. He stood with his arm resting on the mantelpiece in their best room ‘above the shop’. George was seated, along with Mrs Ashwell and Kitty, on the pretty, floral parlour chairs that Mrs Ashwell draped with antimacassars to protect the treasure of her upholstery from Mr Ashwell’s hair oil.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ashwell,’ George said with downcast eyes.
Mrs Ashwell said in a mild tone, ‘I expect your mother and father are very proud of you – making a stand for poor Belgium and supporting
the King.’ She risked a glance at her husband.
Mr Ashwell snorted. ‘It’s all very well, everyone gallivanting off, but why on earth couldn’t you go about it in the proper manner, like Arthur? You could have applied to the Post Office Rifles. We could have had time to plan!’
Mrs Ashwell opened her mouth to suggest that she make a cup of tea but Mr Ashwell held up the flat of his hand and continued: ‘As it is, I’ll now have to take the cart to the station as well as all my other responsibilities, and from tomorrow we shall have to put two of the younger boys on to your duties until we can get a replacement, that’s if we can get one at all.’
George made a great study of the rug. It was a proper woven one, not like the lumpy rag rugs they had at home but smooth and with a trellis pattern and twining, stylised roses.
The lack of an answer from him seemed to annoy Mr Ashwell even more. ‘You realise that your hot-headed decision will mean extra work in the sorting room for Mabel and for Kitty?’ he asked.
George shot a quick look at Kitty, who had her hands clasped in her lap and was looking miserable.
Mr Ashwell, feeling that he had scored a winning point, said, ‘And what if I’m ever ill? Are we to send Kitty out with the horse and cart? Whatever next?’
Mrs Ashwell felt that her husband had breached the bounds of propriety in speaking in that manner to a guest in their home. Seeing that her husband had worked himself up until his eyes were staring and his face was red, and knowing that these signs meant that she would be treated to a reiteration of these arguments until bedtime and probably beyond, she stood up. ‘Kitty,’ she said in a louder voice than she had meant, ‘perhaps you and George should take the opportunity to have a walk, as the evening is so lovely and George’s time with us so short.’
Kitty and George both rose. Mr Ashwell, still watching George with a hawkish expression, picked up his pipe from the mantel and began to tamp tobacco into it. Mrs Ashwell ushered them to the door and George turned back into the room to mutter ‘Goodnight, sir’, as they left. Mrs Ashwell nodded. ‘Give my best to your parents, George.’ She glanced back at Mr Ashwell, who had lit his pipe and was now sucking so hard on it that he was working up a fearsome glow in the bowl. She said, ‘And we wish you the best of luck in your endeavours,’ loud enough for her husband to hear. ‘Keep safe,’ she said, quietly, as she shut the door softly behind them.
The Moon Field Page 8