‘You?’ Jimmy’s eyes widened. ‘Perhaps you can help me then.’
‘Listen, Jimmy.’ Joe gestured roughly at the pamphlets again. ‘I could lose my job over this if anyone found out. We could all lose our jobs, or worse if we’re not careful.’
‘So you won’t help me then?’
‘I can’t, Jimmy. I want to, but I can’t. I disagree with the war too. We can both make a difference but turning people against you won’t help.’ He checked to see if anyone had overheard, while Jimmy examined his shoes. ‘We shouldn’t even discuss this here.’ He put some distance between the two of them. The police could get funny ideas about two men talking closely on the streets. ‘We’ll talk again. But you must promise me something.’
‘What?’ Jimmy’s voice was a whisper.
‘You must not come by the newspaper.’
Jimmy nodded. A spark of light had returned to his eyes.
‘If you do, Jimmy, people will ask questions. They will want to know why you’re there, and that wouldn’t end well for either of us.’
‘How shall I c-c-contact you? If not at the newspaper?’
Joe didn’t want Jimmy coming by his home either. That was another conversation with the family that he wanted to avoid, even if he could pass Jimmy off as a mad old school pal. He had never mentioned Jimmy to any of them. ‘I don’t think that you should contact me, Jimmy. I’ve too much to lose. Some of us aren’t as well off.’ It was cruel, but he wanted to make a point. ‘I will contact you. I have your address.’ He pulled the crumpled piece of paper out of his coat pocket and straightened it. ‘I will keep this safe… until I need it.’
Jimmy was still as tense as he had been when they left the shop. A couple of gentlemen wearing long coats walked towards them, talking and swiping their walking canes with each step. They visibly perspired in the summer heat, their long moustaches keeping the sweat out of their mouths. They tutted at the pair of them, bemused that their way was blocked.
‘Excuse us,’ Joe said as he doffed his cap and dragged Jimmy to the side. He waited till they were out of earshot before talking again. ‘You should go now,’ he said, realising that he still held Jimmy by the collar of his jacket. He let go and brushed the other man’s collar. ‘We’ve been here too long, and I’m late for work.’
Jimmy finally put the leaflets away, carefully folding them in his pocket. ‘Yes, you are right. Of course. I have things to do.’ He took a big breath and reached out to shake Joe’s hand. ‘I will await your convenience, Joe. We shall look forward to having you up at the house, whenever you are free. No notice needed.’
Joe returned the gesture this time. It was a strong handshake, full of emotion. It was unexpected. Joe watched Jimmy walk away and felt a fool. He didn’t think he would see the man again. They were from different worlds. From behind he could just imagine Jimmy having one of those long, tapered moustaches, and swinging a cane. Even if Joe did go to the Sutcliffes’ house, he would feel entirely out of place, and his presence would serve no purpose, but to make him more anxious. Joe wanted Jimmy to succeed, to stop the war before any more needless deaths, but he would do things his own way. He would help to change public opinion. People could be made to see the war was wrong. He was sure of that.
Chapter 7
George was in a hurry, and he had left before breakfast. He would tell everyone later, of course, but he couldn’t face their questions now. They might harm his already fragile confidence. He wore his best Sunday suit, which was reserved for special occasions. Today was definitely one of those. Tom had tried to convince him it would be all right, but he was sure that he would have trouble convincing the recruiting officer he was old enough. He hoped that they would think the two of them the same age.
Tom’s eyes widened as he saw George. He was also in his Sunday best.
‘Woo, look at you,’ he said. ‘Off to charm the girls in Belgium, are we?’
George wasn’t in the mood for Tom’s jokes, the butterflies in his stomach made him feel like being sick. It took all his effort to even speak.
‘We’ll be in uniform by the time we get out there, Tom.’
Tom chuckled heartily and patted George on the back with a couple of thumps. ‘Don’t be so matter-of-fact,’ he said.
It was a ten-minute walk to Gwent Street, where they would find the local recruitment office.
‘Did you tell your ma?’ George asked Tom.
‘Nah, she’d only worry about me, and what’s the use in worrying her? I’m gonna do it anyway. What other option have I got?’ An odd darkness crossed his face in contrast to his usually jovial attitude. ‘Besides, you’re with me, and she likes you. You’ll look after me, won’t you, George?’ He laughed that familiar laugh, as George scowled at him. ‘Did you?’
‘No,’ George replied. ‘I left early to avoid it. I hope they’ll think I just went to work.’
‘Why not? I mean, ya old fella was in the army. Surely he’ll be backing you?’
‘I hope so, but I didn’t want to find out. It’s my decision, not theirs. A part of me was worried what they might say. I am under-age after all. I should wait, but I want to go now. I want to do my bit before I’m no longer needed.’
Tom gave George another pat on the back. ‘Me too.’
On Gwent Street they met a group of men, chatting in excitement. Everyone was dressed smartly, in various brown suits, waistcoats and caps.
‘What’s all this then?’ asked Tom, speaking to no one in particular.
A short man turned. ‘We’re queuing up, lad. Tha’s the recruitment office.’ His Lancashire accent was stronger and more rural than theirs. He had the look of a farm hand, with dried mud around his face and in the corners of his nails. ‘Here’s back, if you’re looking to join.’
George heard the shout of a more familiar voice.
‘Hello, lads!’ Patrick smiled as he walked towards them, pushing through the crowd. ‘What time do you call this? We’ve been queuing for a good while now.’
‘We?’ Tom asked, with a frown.
‘Yeah. You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you? The other lads are up front, waiting to go in. I saw you come round the corner and thought I’d come say hullo. Henry’s keeping my place. He’ll start worrying if I don’t get back soon.’
‘I didn’t think you were signing up?’ said George.
‘What made you think that?’ Patrick flashed his smile again. ‘We couldn’t leave Tom and you on your own, could we?’
‘If you’re about to be called in you had better go back,’ Tom said, his usual good humour missing.
‘Not gonna join us, lads?’
‘Well now, cutting the queue wouldn’t be a very good start to military life now, would it?’
‘See you on the other side then, lads,’ Patrick said, as he jogged back to the front, disappearing into the crowd. ‘Don’t want to be the last one in,’ he called over his shoulder.
The queue took quite a while. As time went on George and Tom edged closer and closer to the recruitment office, and the single open door that would admit them to their new world. The queue twisted up the front stairs like a snake hunting its prey. Every now and then some unlucky men came back out and disappeared down the road in a hurry. Two of them passed George and Tom, muttering, ‘… ’king doctor. What’s ’is problem anyway? There’s nothing wrong with me. Who’s ’e calling short anyway? I was looking ’im right in the face. Could have nutted ’im. Bastard.’ They disappeared the same way as the others.
It didn’t help George feel any less nervous. The sweat caused by the late summer sun was building up on his brow, and he wanted ever so much to scratch at it, but he knew it would only make him sweat more. Everyone else appeared happy to be there, excited, but he could only worry. Why were men being turned away? Would he have to walk in shame past the assembled men, hanging his head and trying not to notice the looks of pity? He lifted his cap and wiped a hand across his brow.
‘Are you all right, George?’ Tom ask
ed.
‘Yeah. I just keep thinking, what if they reject me?’
‘Stop worrying. That’ll only make them more suspicious.’ Tom flashed his teeth.
‘That’s easier said than done.’
‘I know. Just put it out of your mind. Remember what we agreed yesterday? Tell them you’re almost nineteen. They’ll fret that you’re not old enough to go overseas and that’ll make them forget you’re not old enough at all.’
Tom had it all worked out, but George wasn’t so sure. The army didn’t send eighteen-year-olds overseas. George would have to train for a month, but so would everyone else. By the time they were ready to be shipped out it would be his birthday. They didn’t have to know it was his seventeenth birthday. ‘Shush,’ George said. ‘I don’t want anyone to overhear you.’
‘It’s all right, George. It’ll all work out. Just do as I said.’
Tom made George go first so he could back him up if anything went awry. They got in just in time to see another nervously walk through a different door at the back of the room.
‘Next!’ called a commanding voice.
Tom gave George a nudge in the back and he stepped forwards. The recruiting officer was sitting behind a table, wearing an army dress uniform. His cap lay on the table, facing the potential recruits, showing off its badge. The table was a simple temporary affair, placed there for the purposes of enlistment, draped with a white cloth, and paper piled up on top.
‘Name?’ the officer asked, without looking up from the forms. His accent was not local, but rather that of an educated, wealthy man. His manner made George even more nervous. George took off his own cheap woollen cap, folding it in his hands.
‘George Abbott, sir.’ George stared at the back wall of the room and tucked his feet together; his father had taught him the standard army way to be presented when he was a small boy.
The recruiting officer finally regarded him. ‘Abbott, a good name, and you address me well.’ He wrote a few notes on the form and looked up again. ‘Do you know what arm and which regiment you are joining, son?’
‘Army, sir. The King’s Liverpool.’ George beamed with pride at the name of his father’s regiment.
‘Good man,’ the officer said. ‘Let me sort out a few other things.’ He stood and came around the desk to have a closer inspection. George kept his feet together and pushed out his chest, resisting the urge to salute. Somehow, he thought, that would be pushing it too far.
‘How old are you, son?’ The officer raised an eyebrow.
‘Eighteen, sir. Nineteen next month,’ he replied, as he had been practising internally since leaving the house. He was really two years younger, but they would never accept a sixteen-year-old into the army no matter how big and strong he was. He was still sweating and the questioning gaze of the recruiting officer made it worse. Neither of the men said anything for a few awkward moments. George hoped the sweat didn’t show on his brow. It took all his mental strength not to reach up and brush it away.
The officer picked up the form and pen from the table and made a couple of fresh notes in black ink. ‘Date of birth?’ he asked.
George breathed for a second before replying, not realising that he had been holding his breath. He scrunched up his cap further in his hands. He would probably never be able to get the wrinkles out. ‘Fourth of September 1895, sir.’
‘Are you sure?’
He tried not to panic and ran a hand over his hair to help keep his breathing steady and give him time to calm down. ‘Absolutely, sir,’ he said.
‘Very well, so be it,’ the officer said as he ticked a box on the form and laid it back on the table, then grabbed his cap, placing it under one arm. ‘Wait here.’ He went out of the door at the back of the room. The sweat now dripped off George’s brow and ran down into his eyes. He finally gave himself a chance to wipe it clear with his sleeve. He relaxed, but the stance felt forced. Why had the officer left? He turned to Tom for an explanation, but his friend just grinned back. Sometimes it was a welcome gesture, at other times it was infuriating. He was trying to help calm George’s nerves, but it wasn’t helping. He wanted Tom to say something reassuring, but he just stayed silent. The other men in the queue didn’t appear to notice his distress, and were quietly talking amongst themselves. ‘What do I do now?’ he said to Tom, losing his calm. The beat of his heart was thundering in his ears.
Tom shushed him with a wave of his hand. ‘Don’t worry, lad, He’ll be back.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Probably gone for his tea. Keep on as you were, nice and confident like.’
As soon as Tom finished speaking the officer popped his head back around the doorframe. ‘This way, Abbott,’ he said, beckoning George. George gave Tom one last long meaningful look, which was returned as a smile, and walked into the other room.
This room was slightly smaller than the first. A metal-framed bed was set to one side with cleanly pressed white sheets and various instruments laid out beside it. The officer handed him over to a male doctor wearing a white coat over his khaki and holding a notepad.
‘The doctor here will perform some tests, to clear you for service,’ the officer said before he left the room. George wondered if the officer was humouring him. He couldn’t have believed that George was eighteen. Now the doctor would scare him off and they would have a good laugh. George would see this through, whatever may come.
‘Good morning, son.’ The doctor’s tone was a lot friendlier than the officer’s. ‘Undo your shirt.’ He was busy at the other side of the room. ‘All the way down to the waist please.’
George quickly took off his jacket, laid it on the unused gurney and undid the buttons of his shirt. When it was down, it fell to the sides of his waist, held into his trousers by its tails.
Without warning, the doctor reached around and pressed the cold pad of a stethoscope to his back. ‘Breathe in deeply, please,’ he said. ‘And out. Again, please… and again.’
He was polite, but he stood too close and there was a stench of stale alcohol on his breath as he too breathed in and out. As George tried to put some more space between them, the doctor tutted and shoved him back. ‘Stay still, son. This won’t take much longer if you don’t fidget.’ He finished checking George’s heart. ‘If you could stand with your back to this, please,’ With his hand he indicated a wooden standard against the wall with increments of height painted along one side and a wooden joist that came down to rest on the patient’s head. He placed his notepad on the bed and examined George. ‘Stand with your feet together, placing your weight on your heels. There we are.’
George did as he was bid and once again stared ahead, avoiding the gaze of the doctor who proceeded to gently bring the joist down to the top of his head.
‘Now just take a deep breath and push your chest out, while still keeping your weight on your heels.’ He picked up the notepad and pen again, making some notes. ‘Hmmm,’ he said after a moment. He crossed to the other side of the room, leaving George with the joist laying on his ever more sweat-sodden head, and pulled down a chart from the wall. It rolled down with a clatter and hooked on a spike that jutted from the wall. Various letters of differing sizes were printed on it, becoming smaller further down the page. There was a mirror next to the chart. George’s reflection, distressed by the irregular surface, was not of a face he immediately recognised. It was tanned from hours working under the blaring sun. The reflection looked like him, but older, somehow more confident.
‘Do you need eyeglasses?’ the doctor asked.
George replied with a quick negative.
‘Then could you please read the first line of the chart for me.’
George had no trouble reading the chart. The doctor nodded as George read each line, marking it on his notepad. It was the most confident George had felt in minutes. Although, he still felt as if the officer and doctor were waiting for him to crack.
‘Very good,’ the doctor said, bringing George out of his introspection. ‘Just one final thing.’ He the
n proceeded to push one of George’s arms up so that it was perpendicular to his body and run a tailor’s tape around his chest. George almost resisted being manhandled by the overly friendly doctor, but was determined to show that he could follow orders and stand his ground. No matter what, he would stand proud. If they didn’t accept him, he would keep trying until they had no choice.
‘Good,’ the doctor said folding up the tape and putting it in the pocket of his overcoat. He then took George roughly by the jaw and opened his mouth. He moved George’s head around so he could look at his teeth, as if George were a horse. Satisfied, he let go of George’s jaw and returned to his paperwork. ‘Now you just need to go through to the next room and hand the officer this form.’ He pushed a piece of paper into George’s willing hand and turned his back. ‘Good day,’ he said, finally.
George hadn’t known what to expect; his father hadn’t talked about army life much, except for drilling routine into his boys. Recruitment was nothing like what he may have dreamt; there was a lack of organisation that he, based on his home life, presumed all military life would have had.
Gripping the form, he went through to another room at the back of the house. This room was as bare as the first, like a village hall. A larger wooden desk sat at the right-hand side and another officer stood behind it. The man who had preceded George was busily signing a form. ‘Good, now stand with the other men and await the oath,’ the officer said, and the man joined a line of others waiting on the other side.
George handed the form to the officer who introduced himself as a magistrate. ‘Confirm these details are correct and sign the attestation,’ he said. ‘Once you have taken the oath with these other men you will be given the King’s shilling and will officially be a member of His Majesty’s army. If you wish to change your mind, now is the time. Once the oath has been taken and the King’s shilling received you will be bound to a minimum of three years’ service or for the duration of the war.
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