‘He doesn’t seem very happy with you,’ Joe said. ‘Not his usual self anyway. What have you done this time, Frank?’
Frank’s mouth opened in shock.
‘Why do you always assume I’ve done something? I’m offended.’
‘Because I know you, Frank. You’re always up to something. What is it this time?’
‘I’m not sure if you’ve suddenly developed a sense of humour, or if you’re just being rude, lad.’
Joe fought the urge to smile. He enjoyed getting one up on Frank, but this time he wanted to know what was up with Mr Harlow. Usually, he fell over backwards to keep his staff happy. Joe had never seen or heard him have a go at anyone before. Nor had he heard him bad mouth the owner before. Something was definitely amiss.
‘Perhaps it’s just because I’m leaving,’ Frank said. ‘He’s going to miss me around here, with stony faces like yours.’
Joe lost the fight and burst out laughing again.
‘Frank, your world must be perfect, what with the sun revolving around you and everything.’ He grinned at Frank, who bowed theatrically.
‘I’m gone tomorrow, lad. And the sun will probably follow me too. This place is dark enough already.’
‘It’s not that bad, you’re exaggerating. You’re going to miss out on all the fun, Frank.’
‘Aye, perhaps. I will miss the place. And I did really want to see that new Chaplin film. Guess I’ll have to catch it on leave, if the army can spare me when it is showing. I suppose I’ll let you come with me.’
‘Thanks.’ Joe rolled his eyes, but Frank didn’t notice. ‘Do you think, perhaps, that Harlow’s upset because everyone is leaving. Not just you?’
‘No, it’s not that. Them other lot were useless when they was ’ere. I’m pretty sure he was glad to see the back of them.’
‘How can you be so sure it was something else?’
‘Well.’ Frank leaned over to Joe’s desk and then looked to see if anyone could be listening to their conversation. ‘I happened to walk past Harlow’s office yesterday.’
Joe felt like the two of them were conspiring. It was warm in the heat of the office. He pulled his collar open a little bit. He felt silly for it – there was nothing wrong with walking past Mr Harlow’s office. He couldn’t imagine what Frank was going to say, but it couldn’t be that bad.
‘And? Why is that important, Frank?’
‘There was quite a heated argument going on inside. I couldn’t make out the voices at first.’
‘At first? You mean you stayed to listen?’
‘Well, of course. Wouldn’t you?’
‘No, absolutely not.’ Joe didn’t even hesitate. ‘What business is it of mine, what Mr Harlow may or may not be arguing about? Or yours for that matter.’
Despite the outburst, it brought to mind the time he had stood at the bottom of the stairs. On that occasion he had lingered too long, trying to listen to what his father and brother were discussing. That was none of his business either but it hadn’t stopped him then. He tried to convince himself that because it was family it was different, but he knew he was lying to himself.
‘Oh, will you take that rod out of your backside for one minute and just listen?’
‘Wha—’
‘Don’t forget you’re the one that asked me what I knew.’
‘Yes, but—’
Frank wasn’t listening and just kept talking. ‘As I said before, Harlow was having a big old argument. Or, should I say, someone was shouting at him. It was more the other chap, thinking about it, but that’s not the point.’
‘Get to the point, Frank. Before he comes back and has another moan at you for not working.’
‘I’m trying to, but you keep having to have your say. Just like always.’ Frank sighed loudly, emphasising his frustration, before leaning in closer again and speaking in a quiet voice that only Joe could hear. ‘I think it had something to do with that idiot Barnes.’
Joe tried to hide his shock but knocked his glass of water off the desk as he jumped back from Frank’s words.
‘Damn,’ he said, under his breath.
The water had spilled over some of his papers and he jumped out of his seat in horror. He picked up the papers in one hand and held them over the floor hoping the water would run off.
‘Oops,’ Frank said, not caring about the papers, or what might be written on them. Joe thought he could probably salvage them, but it would take some extra work. He picked up the now empty glass with his other hand, thankful that it hadn’t shattered, and placed it upright on the desk. He then carefully pinned the damp sheets to the partition on his desk, clearing a space underneath them where the residual water might pool. He would find a cloth later, it was too late now. He set back down again, and self-consciously tidied the rest of his papers, attributing the accident to his lack of organisation, though his desk was a far cry from the state of Frank’s.
‘So, where was I?’ Frank said, picking up the conversation and determined to ignore Joe’s accident. ‘Ah yes, why Harlow’s in a bit of an old grump. Do you remember that article that Barnes penned before he left? You edited it, I think.’
Joe could only nod in reply. His mouth had gone dry and he longed for the glass of water that he had spilt on the table. He swallowed and his tongue felt like paper.
‘You know the one, something about whether the war was just and all that rubbish. Just your kind of thing.’
‘Go on,’ Joe said, quietly, trying to pretend that he was eager for the rest of the story. ‘What about it?’
‘I’m coming to that. The other voice I could hear must have been the owner’s, and whew, he did not sound happy at all.’
‘How did you know it was the owner?’
‘Well, he said that we have to “support our brave men and boys”.’ Frank put on an air of superiority and sat taller in his chair as he said it, as if talking down at Joe, who resisted the urge to laugh. ‘So, it must have been him. I can put two and two together and get four, you know.’
‘All right, Frank. I didn’t mean any disrespect.’
‘He was pretty angry himself. Probably could have heard him from here if you was listening. I think he said that Harlow would have to fire the man that wrote it.’
‘You think?’ Joe felt his throat constrict again.
‘Yeah, well, his door’s pretty thick, isn’t it? Bit like him!’ He laughed again and then looked around to see if he had been heard. ‘Definitely heard something like that. Harlow tried to say he wouldn’t do it, but the owner raised his voice again. I heard something break.’
Joe felt incredibly guilty and, worst of all, sorry for Mr Harlow. He was a decent man and didn’t deserve the trouble that Joe had got him in. Still, he couldn’t come clean, otherwise Mr Harlow would have no choice but to let him go. Then what would he do? With the war he might find some other work that other men had left, but without a good reference and a sacking hanging over him that was unlikely. There was also the fact that even though he had done wrong, he was still in the best place to have an influence on the war and to help people realise what it was costing them.
‘Then he flung the door open and rushed out,’ Frank carried on. ‘He nearly bumped into me on his way out, but because he was in such a state he didn’t really notice. It gave me a chance to pretend I was just walkin’ past. Harlow just glanced my way as he closed the door. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but after seeing him before… he must have known I overheard.’
Frank was being uncharacteristically sheepish.
‘You don’t think he thinks that I… do you?’
‘What? I asked you earlier what you’ve done now.’
‘I ain’t done nothing, I told you that.’
Joe was joking, trying to take his mind off his fear, but Frank was no longer in the mood. It seemed that even Frank’s moods could change as quickly as his.
‘I meant, do you think he thinks I wrote it? Me?’
‘No!’ Joe denied it mo
re forcefully than he had intended, and Frank jumped back in his seat. ‘I mean, why would he? Albert Barnes wrote that article. You know he did. Why would he think otherwise?’
He was feeling desperate now and his words came out quickly. Frank didn’t seem to notice.
‘Yeah, but well, he’s disappeared, hasn’t he? He’s gone off to the war. Why write an article saying we shouldn’t fight and then go fight? Something’s not right about that.’
‘Could be he just wanted to question it and then decided that it was what he needed to do after all?’
He felt horrible about lying to Frank, but also that he now seemed to be condoning the acts of war. He was ashamed of himself. Ever since he had messed around with Albert’s article he had felt ashamed. It had been a moment of madness, well intentioned, but madness all the same.
‘Harlow can’t think it was me, he knows I’m off too. Better sooner rather than later, I think. Before I get pushed.’
Joe was glad that Frank was too self-involved to suspect that it might have been him that had written the article. He didn’t have anything else to say, so just patted Frank on the back as he stared into the middle distance.
After a few seconds the wheezing sound of Mr Harlow was back as he walked past.
‘I thought I told you two to get back to work. Don’t make me tell you again,’ he said as he disappeared off out of the main office.
Chapter 11
George turned the corner of Lime Street, with Tom at his side. They had been training solidly now for a month, assembling in Prince’s Park and drilling until they were exhausted, Corporal Campbell forever driving them further and further. Now, they had made the long walk through town from their homes, eager to be off. People lined the streets waving union flags and cheering as the soldiers marched by. He just made out the faces of his family before they were swept away by the crowd. The only one he hadn’t seen was Joe.
The band led them with bugles and drums. It was inspiring. George couldn’t help but smile at the feeling. Most of them were in khaki, but George, Tom and the others hadn’t received theirs yet. Instead they wore the ‘Kitchener blue’ uniform that the War Office had thrown together for them.
The front of the station was an impressive sight, with a number of columns and two large arches chiselled out from white freestone. On top of the columns a large iron-beam roof spanned the distance, curving over the open space. It resembled the sail of a ship, or a wave crashing over the building.
‘Look at that, George,’ Tom said. ‘What a building.’
‘I know.’ George had sketched it many times when he got a chance.
‘I’ve walked past so many times, but I’ve never had any reason to step foot inside.’
The boys had never travelled further than just up the coast. They saw a group of men in khaki heading into the station through the large pedestrian entrance arch, and with a tap on George’s shoulder Tom indicated they should follow them. The arch blocked out the waning summer sun, and the noise of the station hit George. Not only were there groups of men in khaki, but messengers and train company workers rushed around. There was a strong smell of steam and oil, which almost caused George to cough. A whistle sounded, startling George as a train pulled off from a nearby platform, chuffing as it built up speed. Tom laughed at George’s surprise. George saw a group of men he recognised, standing near an advertising hoarding. He waved Tom over with him as he walked in their direction.
‘Morning, lads,’ said Patrick, as usual working his way out of the pack to talk to George and Tom. ‘Any idea where we’re headed?’
‘Hullo, Paddy,’ Tom said with his characteristic grin. Patrick scowled in return, about to criticise Tom.
‘Morning, Patrick,’ George intervened. ‘They haven’t told us where we’re going, but if you’re here too they must have mobilised the whole regiment. They just told us to turn up, and here we are. I’m guessing you know no more?’
‘Naw. We just been standing here like a bunch o’ layabouts, waiting for an officer to come along. And there’s been nae sign of anyone yet. The train lot have been looking at us out of the corner of their eyes. I don’t like it.’ The men walking past them, assembling goods and paperwork for the assorted trains in the station, were giving them sideways glances. They kept a wide berth.
‘They’re probably just a bit wary of us, Paddy. Ignore it,’ Tom said.
‘Or jealous,’ Patrick countered, serious.
Tom chuckled but said no more as an officer appeared and ordered Patrick’s section to form up and follow him. Patrick waved them goodbye and joined his mates. A moment later their Corporal saw them, his permanent scowl etched on his face.
‘What are you doing standing around here? Get on with you,’ he said to George and Tom, his Scottish accent a stark contrast to the other voices. He ushered them in the right direction with an exasperated flap of his hands. George didn’t hesitate and moved off in the identified direction, Tom at his heels. They marched down a platform, alongside a waiting train. The locomotive up ahead was painted in the black livery of the LNW railway and it puffed out steam, like a gently slumbering dragon. George couldn’t see its name from where he was. The carriages were painted in a dark brown, with light cream around the doors, windows and roof. There were also a number of assorted box cars at the rear of the train.
‘Here we go,’ Corporal Campbell said, again ushering the two boys, but this time making them board a carriage. The rest of the section were already waiting for them in a cabin usually designated for the first-class passengers of the train but that today was full of soldiers, some of whom George recognised, some of whom he didn’t. They were making enough noise to wake the dead and had there been any regular passengers on the train then they would surely have complained.
‘Here ya are, lad,’ said one of the other soldiers, a man from his section he knew as Bert, a thickset man, with fluffy black hair and a generous nature. Bert grabbed George’s bags from him, throwing them to another soldier to stow at the other side of the compartment. They took Tom’s bags too, relieving them both of their burdens.
Campbell tutted from the doorway and shouted, ‘Sort yourselves out, soldiers. You’re in the King’s, not the bloody women’s circle. Let’s have some order in here.’ As soon as the men calmed down and uttered a sullen ‘yes, sir,’ the Corporal sighed and slammed their door shut. The men grew excited again, chatting and joking amongst themselves, but with a careful eye on the door in case he came back.
George and Tom took seats across from each other in the cabin, joining in the general conversation from time to time. George could understand why the men were excited. For a lot of them, like George and Tom, this was their first time away from home, even the older men. They were going on an adventure. This train would take them as far as London, then who knew where?
‘Off we go, George.’ There was that flash of a grin, always bringing George back to home, reassuring him in an unusual situation.
George couldn’t help himself and he grinned back.
‘Not before time. We’ve been waiting long enough for this.’
The train pulled off from the station with a lurch and a whoosh of steam. One of the men fell on his backside. The other men laughed, before picking him up and plopping the red-faced soldier on a seat. George stared out of the window. He could see other trains being loaded up and holidaymakers boarding trains. The view disappeared as the train pulled into the man-made tunnel that ran under Edge Hill. George marvelled at the cut stone, the veins that ran through it. George pulled a bundle of papers from his pack along with a pencil and started sketching the line of the rock. The carriage filled with acrid smoke, and some of the men coughed as it grew more claustrophobic.
The navvies had blown out huge chunks of the red stone, and the seams could still be seen as the train moved past. It was impressive. George was amazed that humans had built it. Daylight cut through the surface at various point. As the train left the tunnel and turned, George had a view of
the River Mersey running out into the Irish Sea. The tide was out and George could see the mudbanks at the side of the river, before the sun shining through the wrought iron of the Runcorn bridge obscured his view like the spinning of a zoetrope.
‘What’s the furthest you’ve been from home?’ Tom asked, breaking George’s observation of the outside world. He was drawn to it, finding the landscape rushing by and the beat of the train strangely mesmerising. Tom sat on the edge of his seat, waiting for George’s answer like an excited child.
‘We used to go down to Blackpool sometimes in the summer, but not very often.’ George remembered his family’s time on the beach fondly. He remembered playing with Catherine and Lizzie in the sand and sloshing around in the mud. ‘We had some good times down there. The beach was beautiful, and the sea.’
‘Aye. My old man used to take us to Wales sometimes, if we could get away when he was on leave. Which, as you can guess, wasn’t very often. It would take us bloody ages to get there too.’ He looked forlorn, gazing out of the window. ‘It was a long time ago and all, when he was still alive.’ Tom spoke in a whisper. George only just heard him over the noise.
It didn’t take them long to get out of Liverpool, the train puffing along at a regular pace and clicking over the joins in the rails which gave it a regular rhythm.
‘This is it, George,’ Tom said, joining George in looking out of the window. ‘No more milling about in the park, playing at soldiers. Now we get to the real work. We’re off to war!’
Chapter 12
A group of soldiers passed Joe as he strode under the entrance arch at Lime Street Station. He moved aside so as not to get trampled, then jumped out of the way of a cart loaded with cases that was being pulled along by a porter. The station was a bustle of activity, and the smell of smoke clung to every surface. Goods were being stacked in wooden crates by sweating porters. The porters scowled at the soldiers that filled the station concourse when they thought no one was looking.
Goodbye for Now Page 10