Instinct had steered his path this morning. Rather than heading into the paper, he had come here instead. He knew that the Liverpool regiment were shipping off, his brother with them. He was determined to keep an eye on his brother for as long as he could. He hadn’t wanted to join in the parade, he disagreed with its very existence, but this was his way of saying goodbye, at least for the time being.
From his jacket pocket he pulled out a notepad, made from the cheapest paper he could find. The first chunk of pages had been torn out and thrown away when he had read back through the rubbish that he had written. It had left a rough edge of paper on the inside and some of the back pages were falling out. Editing the war article for the paper had given him incentive to write again, some inspiration that he had been lacking for a long time. That was why his subconscious mind had determined that he would come to the station rather than heading into work as usual. He wanted to write an accurate report of the men and boys heading off to war, knowing that not all of them would come back. There hadn’t been a reaction to his previous piece yet, but he knew he was doing the right thing. Even if the piece wasn’t originally his.
‘Move it, lad.’ An officer shouted at him as he led a line of four soldiers past the place where Joe was standing. Joe didn’t hesitate to move out of the way again. It seemed the army always took precedence when there was a war taking place. The officer didn’t give him a second glance.
Joe followed the officer, wanting to get a better idea of the man, the professional soldier. He was the only one of the group wearing a uniform. The other men were dressed in a mix of khaki and Kitchener blue uniform, with their own clothing to replace what they hadn’t been issued. Joe opened a page on his notepad and in pencil wrote the words, ‘Army cannot afford uniforms?’
He carried on scribbling more notes about how the men formed up, what they were travelling with and how many there were, until he recognised a face in a crowd of men coming his way. His younger brother was the image of their father, only younger and with a larger build. He hadn’t seen Joe yet, as he was blending amongst the crowd, so he moved out of the way, careful not to draw any attention. He wasn’t avoiding his brother, but he didn’t think that his brother would want to talk to him right now. He was in his own, new world. The world of soldiers and camaraderie, and Joe wasn’t part of that.
As the column passed him, he stepped backwards behind a concession selling newspapers, keeping his eyes on George the whole time. As he did so he felt a resistance against his heel and a grunt of pain. He turned to apologise.
‘You?’ the other man replied, oblivious to the apology.
‘Hello, Albert. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.’
‘What are you doing here, Abbott?’ Anger was stretched across his face and his bushy brown eyebrows were raised. The apology wasn’t enough. ‘You’re not a soldier. Why are you here?’
Joe was confused. ‘This is a station, it’s not just for soldiers.’
‘You know what I mean, Abbott. Stop trying to be clever.’ Barnes pushed Joe in the stomach with a long index finger. The pain was sharp, but fleeting. He squashed his notepad away in the inside pocket of his jacket, not wanting to draw any attention to it.
He had to think of some way to diffuse the situation. Albert had never been this hostile before, but to say they had been friends would be a lie. In fact they had very little to do with each other, even at work. They worked in different departments and only knew each other in passing.
‘I’m sorry for stepping on your foot, Albert. Truly, I am. I didn’t see you behind me.’
‘Do you think that’s why I’m angry? Could be you’re not a clever bastard after all, you’re just stupid.’
He had the feeling anything he had to say would only make matters worse and make Barnes angrier, but he had to try anyway. He had a sinking feeling. He knew why Barnes was being aggressive towards him, and he knew that by asking he would only make things worse. But how could he know that it had been Joe? He was making a huge presumption. Joe knew though, that it was better to get it out in the open, than to try and pretend his innocence. Sometimes in life, you just had to take the plunge.
‘I’m not stupid, Albert. I just don’t understand why you’re so angry with me. I barely know you.’
Barnes scoffed and poked another finger in Joe’s sternum.
‘I know what you did. Don’t think I don’t.’
There it was then. It was as he had expected. Barnes had every right to be angry with him, how could he not be?
‘What do you mean?’
He couldn’t help himself. Pleading ignorance had almost become a natural response; a defence mechanism. Barnes could probably see his guilt though, and Joe regretted asking straight away.
Barnes, frustrated, turned on the spot and blew out a violent puff of air from his lungs, as if he had been holding his breath. A small group of women, clothed in their Sunday-best tunic-dresses, walked past. One of them, a pretty woman with ebony hair that fell just below her shoulders looked at the two men in the corner before averting her gaze. Joe was trapped.
Barnes bunched his fists and relaxed, before turning back to Joe. There was less agitation in his body language, but his eyes still showed the flares of anger.
‘You edit at the paper, right?’ he said, in a near-whisper.
Joe nodded but said nothing. Barnes was almost on top of him and saying anything might risk making him angry again.
‘An article of mine was published a few weeks ago, only it wasn’t my article. That idiot Gallagher wouldn’t have thought to change anything. I’ve seen him let basic mistakes pass through. Besides, I saw him on his way to sign up the other day, looking all proud of himself. He wouldn’t say something against the war, even if someone told him to.’
More groups of people walked past, but they paid the two men no notice, not now that Barnes had lowered his voice.
‘No, he wouldn’t.’
‘Which leaves you; you’re the only other person who could have rewritten my article. The only other person with the means and the inclination to do something like that. No one else would bother. They would just get on with their job. Like you should have done.’
There was no way out now for Joe. He had to make his peace.
‘I’m sorry, Albert. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘You’re right, you weren’t. Have you any idea how much trouble you have caused me? Not to mention the amount of trouble you’re going to be in yourself. The least you could have done was change my name on the article. No, the least you could have done was stay well away. You could have cost me my job.’
He didn’t think it was a good idea to mention that Albert had already cost himself his job by signing up for the army. Still, Barnes continued berating him.
‘Why’d you have to change my article anyway? What gives you the right?’
‘You were wrong.’ It was a whisper.
‘What?’ Barnes, if it was even possible, moved closer to Joe.
‘The stuff you put in the article. You had no proof. You made it all up from what you heard from other people. You were wrong.’
‘How dare you? You can’t stop yourself, can you?’ Albert was furious, a vein bulged on his forehead. ‘I’m the reporter, not you. You’re just there to tidy things up. Judging by what you wrote in my place, you couldn’t write a good article to save your life. You’re nothing.’
Barnes pushed him with the palm of his hand with a force that surprised Joe. He fell backwards over a breadboard and landed flat on his back with a bump that forced the air from his lungs. The pain this time was lasting. He was too winded to talk. He just stared up at Barnes, exasperated, trying to force apology onto his face.
‘You can’t even stand up for yourself.’ His eyes searched the station for something. ‘Listen, I’ve gotta go,’ he said. ‘But when I get back, either on leave, or when the war’s done, I’m gonna come and find you. Then, I’m gonna make you pay for what you did. Understand? You’l
l pay all right.’
‘Hey, what’s going on here?’ A train station employee rushed over to where Joe sat on his backside, trying to calm his breathing.
‘Nothing. Joe here tripped. Didn’t you, Joe?’
Joe hesitated but knew it wasn’t worth disagreeing. That would only make things worse for himself. He nodded, stifling a sob as his head throbbed. The porter frowned at Barnes, then helped Joe to his feet. He thanked the man for the help with a smile, but the frown didn’t leave his face. Joe felt dizzy and his vision was a little bit cloudy, but he felt better for being on his feet.
‘Must be going now, Joe. Don’t forget what I said.’
Without further ceremony Albert Barnes turned and strode off in the direction that the other soldiers were heading in.
‘Are you all right, lad?’ The porter was a kind old gentleman, and he dusted Joe down.
He nodded. It didn’t hurt so much now. The porter, having to get back to work, left him to his pain. But first he handed Joe the notepad that had fallen out of his pocket when he fell.
He looked at the note he had made before. He would always fear the day that Barnes came back from war. Not knowing when that might be only made it worse. The butterfly of panic would always flare in his stomach every time he saw a man in khaki. Perhaps Barnes would forget by the time he returned. Anger had a way of dimming over time. Despite that, the worry wouldn’t fade, and he wouldn’t forget Barnes’s anger.
Despite his wishes to help people, he had never intended to make someone so openly angry, and the thought truly saddened him. Some men were quick to anger. That was why war happened in the first place, but Joe had always believed that things could be resolved. This time, however, he didn’t think Barnes would be welcome to any talking.
He stood still for a while, watching the soldiers depart and the station become emptier and emptier. The sounds and the smell of smoke waned as the trains departed. All the while Joe made notes in his notepad. Most of them weren’t even about what he was seeing, but thoughts that went through his head about the injustice of the war.
He had initially thought that his confrontation with Barnes would discourage him from writing anything else. Instead it had spurred him on. He had never had so many ideas at once. He had come here to write an article about the boys going off to war, but that wouldn’t do it justice now. The focus of his thoughts had changed from how men interacted with each other, to whether man could ever have peace. He didn’t think that Mr Harlow at the paper would like where he was going, but if the rest of the employees were going to go off and fight, then they would need him. Sooner or later he would have enough readership to get people to think about what they were doing. Sooner or later, someone would listen to him.
With a final sigh, he put his notepad back in his jacket pocket and left the now quiet station.
Chapter 13
The train pulled up at a station and hissed with steam. It hadn’t been like their first journey away from Liverpool when the excitement had threatened to overwhelm them and the officers had to be on their guard. This time it was a more sombre affair. Their time guarding the London South Eastern railway in Redhill had dimmed their spirits. A few men were excited to be moved on, George saw the smiles and the glow in their eyes, but others were growing unsure of what they were supposed to be doing. He had used the time to explore and draw more landscapes, but like the others he was now growing restless. They were supposed to be out fighting the Germans in France.
Tom had slept for the entire journey. ‘You’ve got to get as much sleep as you can, George,’ he had said. ‘You never know how long and how far they’ll march you for when you’re awake.’
He was right. When the lads were on duty they were required to do any number of backbreaking tasks, and Tom had developed a knack of sneaking a quick sleep in between any work. When he was awake, he was as wide-eyed and as keen as any of the others. Perhaps more so, especially after being given his stripe.
He woke now and looked for George with glazed eyes.
‘Morning, Tom.’
‘Mornin’. Where are we?’
‘No idea. Yet another English town.’
‘That’s unusually pessimistic for you, George. It could be a nice town.’
‘Sorry, Tom. I haven’t had much sleep.’ He couldn’t sleep on the clattering, jolting train, no matter how hard he tried. He had taken to staying up and reading whatever he could find until exhaustion took over. Then he would wake a few hours later in a cold sweat.
‘So, let’s have a look at where we are then.’
Tom unfolded his long legs from under him and pushed himself up from the seat, disturbing another sleeping man.
‘Easy, there!’
‘Sorry, John,’ he replied without looking.
‘We’re in Canterbury, lads. Look. It says right there.’
Martin was a small man, only just tall enough to sign up. Most of the other men made fun of him for his height, but he never seemed to mind. He pointed a finger in the direction of a station sign and the others followed his short, stubby finger.
‘Canterbury, eh?’ Tom mused. He thought it was under his breath, but George heard quite clearly.
‘They’re gonna make us pray before sending us out to fight Fritz.’ Martin laughed, but stopped when none of the others joined in.
They all huddled round the windows, pushing into each other in order to get a view. Some of their initial excitement had returned and George was just as interested as they were.
‘Is that the cathedral?’ one man said. George couldn’t see who it was, with his face pressed up against the cool glass. He could just about make out a stone structure in the distance. It wasn’t like any building he had seen before, the large stones were rounded and cracked in places. One half of the building seemed to have crumbled and fallen away to dust. It had no windows, which he thought was odd for a church, but then he had never seen a cathedral before.
‘It’s not much,’ another man joined in.
‘That’s not the cathedral, you idiots.’ Tom was always the voice of reason and, since he had got his stripe, their senior officer. ‘That’s some ancient ruin. Pull your heads together.’
‘Come on you lot, get off the bloody train.’ Corporal Campbell walked past their compartment and banged on the door to hurry them up. ‘Everybody off now!’
‘I guess we’re here to stay, George,’ Tom said to him as they moved away from the glass.
George just nodded in return. He knew nothing of Canterbury, but he knew it wasn’t in France. There were grumbles from the other men as they realised their situation. Some of the grumbles were from those men being woken up after having fallen asleep on the journey. George ignored them all, he just wanted to get to wherever they were going and settle in. The idea of yet another new home was unsettling. They were being moved around like cattle and all they wanted to do was get to the front. He followed Tom off the train.
The station was empty except for the loitering men in khaki.
The Corporal pushed his way through the crowd, swearing under his breath. When he got to the front of the group he turned around and shouted at them.
‘Come on, you bloody fools. Form up, form up!’
The men moved into formation, four abreast, without talking. It was now almost second nature to them, and apart from a bit of shuffling they formed a column easily. It was enough to stop Campbell bawling at them.
They were led through the town, past the houses to their billets, where the numbers dropped off one by one, and in some places in pairs. The sun had started to set as they passed one small cottage by the railway line, with a thatched roof. The adjutant called out George’s name with a clipped bark and carried on walking.
‘Have fun, George,’ Tom said as the rest of the column carried on.
George lifted the brass knocker and dropped it against the door twice. The door was painted a bright, royal red, with obvious care to detail. There wasn’t a brush line to be seen in the thick,
enamel paint. After a few awkward moments of looking off into the distance to see if he could see the rest of his section, the door opened.
‘How do you do?’ he said to the woman who opened to door, who was in her late middle years with greying hair. Her face was gaunt but turning to fat with age and she stooped over as she held the door handle.
‘I’m Private George Abbott, I believe I am to be billeted with you.’
He held out his hand to shake hers, unsure of what else to do in the situation.
‘At least you have a proper name,’ she said, without taking his hand, or even shifting from her position. She appraised him with hawk-like eyes.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, trying to be polite and to emulate the conversation of a gentleman.
‘I said, “at least you have a proper name”, like His Majesty. Are you deaf?’
He shook his head, taken aback.
‘Well, don’t just stand there gawking. Get yourself inside, you’re letting the heat out.’
With that, she withdrew inside the house, leaving him with only one option: to follow. He took off his cap and crossed the threshold.
Inside, the house was well decorated. Again, the white paintwork was exceptional and there were a couple of dark wood side tables with white porcelain vases on top. He put down his pack by the door after closing it to make sure that he didn’t break anything, and rested his rifle next to it. The landlady had disappeared into the kitchen and so he took off his jacket and put it on a peg by the door.
The landlady came back out of the kitchen again and scowled at him.
‘I guess you will have eaten.’ She looked at his pack, still by the door and then back at him, a frown etched on her face. She didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘A proper soldier never leaves his equipment unattended. You’d best take that upstairs rather than leaving it there cluttering my hallway.’
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