George scratched his head and squinted up at him. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice thick and croaky.
‘Do you want to go fishing?’ Frederick whispered.
George sat up, surprised that his father should suggest fishing on a Sunday, which was usually kept for church, rest and reading scripture. He glanced towards Ted but Frederick shook his head and pointed first to himself and then to George to indicate that it should be just the two of them this time. He went downstairs to the kitchen, leaving George to get up and gather his fishing rod and reel.
Frederick opened a tin of corned mutton and made sandwiches. He wrapped them in paper and packed them into his knapsack amongst a jumble of spare reels, scraps of line and tins of fishing flies. When George came down, Frederick picked up the rod and landing net that he had propped by the door and they slipped out into the back yard.
Dew still lay on the path and on the straggle of onion leaves and ferny carrot tops in the vegetable bed. It glittered on the webs that stretched from plant to plant making the invisible work of a thousand spinnerets suddenly appear in plain sight. Frederick took a deep breath of the cool damp air. It gave him the same pleasure that he found every evening when he came up from the mine and filled his lungs with air so clean it made him heady. He would walk down through the ramshackle scatter of rusty-roofed mill buildings, leaving behind him the slopes of dusty scree that surrounded the mine, and rest his eyes on the greenness: the comely form of the fells and the long straight valley of Coledale.
‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ he said. ‘Makes you feel like the First Man, getting up this early.’ He turned to look at George with a smile. George nodded but without conviction. Frederick thought that he looked worried sick and his heart went out to the boy. He was hopeful that, with careful handling, he would be able to make him see sense.
They walked down to Blencathra Street and past the curtained houses shuttered in sleep, the Sunday quiet punctuated only by the noise of the sparrows and the sweet fluting call of blackbirds from gardens and yards. George glanced surreptitiously at his father. Why was he not saying anything? The look of sympathy in his eyes as they had left the house was far worse than if he had been angry. The great weight of his decision to enlist hung between them as if they were carrying a heavy trunk with each of them waiting for the other to suggest they lay it down and unpack it.
They emerged on to the road that ran parallel to the river, on the other side of which were the green lawns of the park. ‘Once everyone’s up and about, it’ll be noisy near the park,’ Frederick said.
‘Shall we go upstream a bit?’ George said.
‘Up by the bridge then.’ They walked on, accompanied by the busy noise of water over stones, past the wide shallows where the ducks stood, still with their heads under their wings, the slight breeze lifting and parting their feathers. They crossed the bridge and Frederick led the way down the steep incline at the side, grasping on to the shrubby growth to avoid slipping on the sandy soil. At the bottom, they reached the flat pebbly shore that was one of their favourite fishing spots. From this point, it was possible to stand with a firm footing or even cross to the glacial rocks that littered the shallows, and cast a line out into the deeper water. The far bank cut away steeply and trees overhung the water, casting a deep shade beloved by brown trout.
‘Water’s down a bit,’ Frederick said quietly, seeing the tangle of roots that was exposed above the waterline. He sat down on a boulder and opened the knapsack. ‘Shall we have some breakfast before we start?’ He passed George the packet of sandwiches. Frederick, who had wanted George to broach the subject, decided that he needed a little help after all.
‘Your mother tells me that you’re considering a big decision,’ he said tentatively.
George chewed on his bread while he thought what to say. ‘I have decided,’ he said, at length. ‘I know that you’ll say I’m wrong and it’s against Bible teaching to take up arms but I think it’s right and I’m going to do my bit.’
‘I think you’d be ill advised to go on with it,’ Frederick said mildly. ‘You know, I’ve always taught you and Ted to be peace-loving and to treat others as you’d wish to be treated yourself. It’s a philosophy I’ve always found to stand me in good stead.’
George snorted. ‘I don’t believe the Germans are following the Golden Rule,’ he said with spirit. ‘They even have a book, you know, called World Dominion or Decline. We can’t just stand by and let them get away with it; besides, everyone says they’re doing awful things in Belgium.’
Frederick pondered on the fervour of his son’s response. Whatever Maggie had assumed about George joining up merely to go to training camp, Frederick felt sure that George was considering active service overseas. His own heart ached with worry. ‘That’s exactly my point,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you have any idea what you’d be getting into, what it’ll be like, the brutality and butchery of war …’
George seemed not to be listening. ‘We can’t let them have it all their own way.’
‘It’s not a game, George!’ Frederick said, more sharply than he’d meant to. He took a deep breath to muster up the calm resolve he had gained through prayer in the long hours of the night. ‘There’s a reason why the Bible warns that “those who live by the sword, die by the sword”, and it goes beyond a warning of the bodily risks.’ He leant forward and looked George straight in the eye. ‘It’s not a small thing at stake; it’s your immortal soul! What kind of father would I be if I didn’t steer you from that path?’
George dropped his eyes. ‘It’s too late. I signed the papers.’
Frederick nodded slowly, taking this in. ‘But you’ll not go overseas. They haven’t signed you up for that, at least? Your mother’s terribly worried – understandably so.’
‘I can’t see any point doing it if you’re not going to fight, and I told them I would.’
Frederick, seeing the stubborn jut of George’s jaw, grew frustrated. ‘George! We’re talking about taking up arms against your brother, your fellow man … decisions like this can’t be taken all hot-headed in the heat of the moment and certainly not in the sway of strong drink!’
George looked up quickly.
‘Your mother smelt it on you when you came in, but that’s by the by. Look, I’m asking you, please, to reconsider. I’m not blaming you: we all do foolish things when we’re young; but you have no experience to draw on, no knowledge of injury or death. You have no idea …’ He stopped, overcome by the ferocity of his desire to protect his son, and fought to control his emotion. ‘You needn’t decide now. Just say that you’ll give it some more thought. Eh? To please me.’
George felt alarmed to see his father close to tears, as if the rock on which he was sitting, so deeply embedded in the soil, were suddenly about to shift and slide away from him. He nodded.
His father patted him on the shoulder, saying, ‘That’s the spirit. We needn’t talk of it again for now. Let’s do some fishing, shall we?’ He took the rods and landing net and led the way a little downstream to where he had seen the brief disturbance of the water: the bubble and ripple that showed there were fish rising. Putting the net down on the stones, he said, ‘We’ll leave this here between us just in case either of us needs it!’ He handed George his rod and walked back a little way upstream leaving George in the spot where he had seen the fish jump.
Frederick used the rocks scattered in the water as stepping stones to reach a large flat stone a third of the way out into the stream. The water gurgled and frothed around the obstacle and the rushing sound of the river filled his ears. He balanced his stance, braced his knees and cast his fly into the quieter water where it would be carried slowly downstream. He watched as George cast short at first; then reeled in and got his line in a tangle. He fought off the reflex urge to go and help him. He turned his attention to following the fly, half closing his eyes against the glitter on the foreground water; the sun was well up now and he could feel its warmth on his back. He tried to r
elax a little into the peaceful scene, his usual respite from the dark and dirt and ugliness of his weekday life, but the gifts of clear water and clean air weren’t enough to quieten his sense of foreboding, the worry that sat like a block inside him. He thought that perhaps he had not been eloquent enough and that he should have spoken to the Elder and sought counsel and strength.
Suddenly, his line jerked, loosened and then pulled again. ‘George! Fish on the line!’ he shouted. George began to wind in his own line furiously whilst walking backwards towards the spot where the landing net lay. Frederick let the fish go for a little spell, then reeled in, then let it run again. It felt as though it was a good size. George laid down his rod, grabbed up the landing net and came galumphing over, slipping from stone to stone in his haste to get to the scene of action and ending up stepping right into the water up to the ankles. The fish began to tire; its runs were shorter and feebler. Frederick stopped playing out the line and the end of the rod bent down as he held the fish steady and then began to draw it in. George scrambled over the last few rocks and reached his side with the net at the ready.
‘Is it a good one?’ he said.
‘It’s lunch for all of us, I think,’ his father said, the reel making a ratcheting sound as he wound it steadily in. They got their first view of the fish: a glint in the yellow brown water, then a flapping, flipping, silver shape as it was drawn out of the shallows and up above the rock. Falling into the familiar sequence of movements that they knew from long practice as fishing partners, George caught the fish neatly in the net and Frederick propped his rod against his shoulder and leant over to detach the fly from its jaw. Both heads bent together as he retrieved the barbed hook and vivid blue and yellow feather strands; then George took the rod while his father killed the fish with a sharp tap on the surface of the stone slab.
‘It’s a whopper,’ George said with delight.
Frederick looked at George’s broad smile, the very same that had won his heart from infancy, and felt his love for his son well up. ‘You landed that very well, George, he’s a big one all right. Now let’s see you beat it.’
As they walked home, George felt overwhelmed by the enormity of his decision. How could he know whether he or his father was taking the righteous path? He tried to put aside his desire to escape from the events of the last few days and all their complications, but could not. It was too late to go back on it all now and too uncomfortable; he wanted to get right away. He needed to make a new start, make something of himself.
It was a just cause, he told himself, and there was no question in his mind that they would send the Deutschers packing. It might take months, now that no quick victory had been possible at Mons, but the BEF would prevail, everybody said so, and he would be back in a few months with just the experience that his father had talked about under his belt. His father had Mother and the children to think about, whereas he was a free agent, that was why their decisions were different. His mind was made up.
As they reached the back gate, Frederick paused with his hand on the latch and turned to look at George enquiringly. George’s bullish expression told him all he needed to know.
‘I want to do something to be proud of,’ George said, wishing that he could go with his father’s blessing. Instead, he saw how his father’s face fell and how he struggled to recover himself.
‘I was already proud of you, son,’ Frederick said and turned away.
The rest of the day passed in its usual Sunday pattern, yet for George it seemed different, as if a bright light had been turned on to a picture that you usually passed with barely a glance. The knowledge that he was to leave home tomorrow seemed to heighten his awareness of all around him, as if he was unconsciously trying to commit everything to memory in the same way that he had tried to memorise the scene at the lakeside the night before. At chapel, he looked with a strange new fondness at the familiar faces of the congregation and the light from the high windows falling on to whitewashed walls and plain wooden lectern.
George had expected to see Kitty and hoped to make amends for upsetting her but she wasn’t with her parents. He sought out Mrs Ashwell, who told him that unfortunately Kitty had been forced to stay at home with a headache. Mrs Ashwell’s manner was formal and so different from her farewell to him the day before that George wondered if she was angry with him too. Perhaps she had witnessed Kitty coming in feeling upset. He didn’t know how to respond and mumbled something about passing on his best wishes; then he excused himself and returned to sit with his mother. Father had asked him not to speak to anyone in the congregation about his departure the next morning to save his mother answering questions that she would find distressing. George took her gloved hand and gave it a squeeze.
After chapel they dined royally on the fish, and then George helped Ted with his homework and played ‘bear hunt’ with Lillie, who squealed with delight when he roared until she crawled under the table and hid. His mother reproached him, saying that he was getting Lillie over-excited and that she’d never get her off to sleep, but Father looked sad and said, ‘Let them be a while longer.’ Eventually George caught her, gave her a smacker of a kiss on both cheeks and handed her over to Mother for bath and bed. Later in the evening, instead of Bible study, they all played dominos. Father read a Charlie Chaplin story from The Pluck Library and they all laughed too long and too loudly at the jokes. Ted started yawning so Father suggested that they all turn in, as George would be up and away early in the morning to catch the milk train, and they all said goodnight with faces suddenly become serious.
In the bedroom, George’s uniform was hanging on the back of the door together with a clean shirt that his mother had pressed and his father’s knapsack, now filled not with the paraphernalia of fishing but with underclothes, comb, soap and towel and a photograph of the family. The photograph was one taken before Lillie was born, when he and Ted were several years younger. George looked at their grumpy expressions and remembered that their faces had been scrubbed until they tingled. George added pencils and writing paper, his smallest sketchbook and a few tubes of paint wrapped up in a cloth. He thought about taking some books but decided they were too heavy. As he was falling asleep, Ted asked him if he would lend him his best flies as well as his rod and George said yes.
George got up while it was still dark. Downstairs he found his mother cooking sausages and eggs for breakfast and Lillie, who had been fractious all night because of the sunburn, was hanging on to her skirts and grizzling.
‘You need something that’ll stick to your ribs when you’re going on a journey,’ his mother said, putting a plate down in front of him and plonking Lillie on his lap where she moaned and wriggled. George tucked her into the crook of one arm and told her that if she were very good and still he would make something for her. He took out his clean handkerchief and started to roll and knot it until it bore a passing resemblance to a sausage with two floppy ears. ‘It’s a rabbit,’ he said.
In the corner by the stove stood his boots, stuffed with newspaper to make sure they dried out properly. Unable to settle down to eat, his mother picked them up, got the polish out and began to black them.
‘Thank you for doing my uniform.’ George began making the rabbit peep out at Lillie from behind his teacup while shovelling in his food with the other hand.
‘Well, if you have to go, you’re going to go well turned out,’ she said, looking down and brushing the toe of a boot with unnecessary vigour.
‘I’ve packed writing paper,’ he said.
She nodded and said, ‘Let me know you’ve arrived safely, won’t you?’
Frederick came down in his work clothes, sat down in silence and started on his breakfast. He gave George some money. ‘For the train and miscellaneous expenses,’ he said gruffly.
Mention of the train made George feel nervous and he checked the clock. Father mopped up the fat on his plate with some bread and then said that he needed to water the vegetable bed and would be outside when George was ready.
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His mother hefted Lillie from his lap on to her hip and handed him the boots, which were now gleaming, and he put them on and laced them up. He stood up and put his arms around them both and she pressed her face against his shoulder.
‘Take every care,’ she said. ‘And always remember that I love you.’
George bent and kissed her on the cheek. He picked up the knapsack, saying, ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ and did his best to produce a smile as she walked with him to the door. Lillie, picking up that something unusual was afoot, began to grizzle again and to reach out her arms to George. He gave her the rabbit, saying, ‘For you to look after while I’m away,’ quickly kissed her on the top of the head and turned away.
He followed his father down the paved path. At the gate, he turned for a last glance at his mother standing on the top step, and Lillie clutching the rabbit and staring after him. He raised a hand to wave but dropped it again because he could not bear to see Lillie waving back.
They let themselves out of the back gate and into the shadowy alley between the rows of terraced houses, and then walked at a smart pace through the quiet streets, down to Station Road. George felt queasy now with nerves and wished he’d not eaten such a hearty breakfast. As they reached the station approach his father said, ‘You know how I feel about this, George, so I’ll not say any more about it, but there are two things I will ask you to promise me and they both relate to your mother.’ He looked keenly at his son.
The Moon Field Page 10