‘Why is it so dark in here?’ he asked Anne.
‘Atmosphere. Here we are.’
The seats folded down from the backrest. Comfortable rounded cushions wrapped around his body. Despite the curvature of the seat, Anne was very close to him. He could feel the warmth of her body and feel her breath as she leant over to whisper to him. ‘We managed to get a good view. Well done,’ she said. He could hear her smile even if he couldn’t see it.
‘With the size of that screen, I wouldn’t think there was such a thing as a bad view.’
She chuckled softly beside him. The lights dimmed further, disappearing to darkness. There was a hum and crackle of the projector behind them. ‘Here we go,’ she said.
A white rectangle appeared on the screen curtain then changed to black again. It took a few more seconds for the film to start. He hadn’t wanted to admit to Anne that this was his first time. She was such a modern woman, he didn’t want her to think less of him.
The main film didn’t start straight away. Instead, the grainy image cycled through the projector, phantom lines and spots hovering across the screen. Eventually newspaper front pages began to appear, showing the big images and headlines of the large London papers. The Daily Mail, the Daily Mirror, the Daily Telegraph and various others, all explicitly condemning the actions of the ‘Horrible Huns’.
Joe squirmed in his seat, trying not to get annoyed at the outrageous headlines he was seeing. They weren’t new, but that didn’t make him feel any better. The headlines were off-putting. There was some murmuring amongst the crowd, which only added to Joe’s discomfort. Then the poster of Lord Kitchener was put up on the screen with the now familiar slogan, ‘Your Country Needs You’. There was a great cheer from the audience, and Joe pushed himself further into his seat. The list of casualties flashed through his mind. He could only marvel at the number of names that he remembered. It made him feel nauseous.
Once the names had rattled through his head, he noticed that the film had started. The rest of the audience was laughing. From the rocking of the chair beside him he could feel that Anne was joining in. She lay the palm of her hand on the back of his. The little man on the screen did something silly and the actress, an older woman, looked at him, disappointed.
Joe was sweating, droplets running down his brow to build up on his cheeks where they sat, irritating him until he brushed them away. They itched and itched without end. It was as if he had turned ill in a matter of minutes. He felt his cheeks turn red. He wasn’t sure if it was hot, or just his imagination. He shuffled in his seat, trying to get more comfortable and hoping to find more air, but it didn’t help. He was getting angrier by the second, and he couldn’t push away the mental image of the dead soldiers’ names.
He had seen enough. The message at the beginning had done its work on him, but the opposite of what was intended. His body was rebelling against the easy, unwitting humility of the room and its idle viewers. Who were they to sit here and cheer for war, when they could happily sit by and watch a film without a care in the world? He wanted to be anywhere but in that room at this moment in time.
Anne sensed his discomfort and removed her hand. He shuffled more, but it didn’t help. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to leave Anne. What would she think of him? He wanted her company, but he was angry. He just wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere less charged. She leaned over and whispered, ‘Have you seen this one before?’
He could see her looking at him through the dark, nervous worry etched on her face. Joe was the only person not laughing. What was wrong with them all? He tried to force a smile, but he was sure he could only manage a grimace. The sweat was back on his cheeks. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said. He couldn’t focus on it. The war news had ruined his evening. ‘I guess I’m not in the mood. I’m sorry.’
He could have lied, saying that he was fine, but she would see through it. In the darkness her brow furrowed, and she pursed her lips. He shuffled his backside on the seat again, which caused a squeak from the cheap cotton. Someone behind them shushed. Anne turned to see who, but Joe put a hand on her arm to stop her. ‘It’s not worth it,’ he said, whispering. ‘It’s all my fault, I’m sorry.’
‘You keep apologising, but I don’t know why. What’s wrong? Don’t you like the film?’
‘No, it’s not that. I’m just can’t concentrate. I guess my mind is elsewhere. Look, could we leave? I’m causing too much commotion, and you’re not having a good time thanks to me. We could come back another day?’
‘If you want to, I suppose we could rearrange. I wouldn’t mind seeing the beginning again, I’ve missed most of it now.’
Joe never wanted to see the beginning again, to have to sit through the recruitment video. ‘Yes, another day. You just tell me when and we’ll come back. I promise I’ll be more focused then. I might even laugh.’ He smiled at her, and when she smiled back he relaxed a little. They worked their way back out of the crowd, awkwardly trying to see in the dark. There were a few tuts, but no one dared to speak. In the foyer, the staff looked at them in surprise. One man, presumably the manager going by the fact he was dressed in a freshly pressed suit, started in their direction. Before he could reach them, Joe ushered Anne out of the front door and onto the street. The cool air hit him and eased his nausea. The freedom helped put him at ease.
He couldn’t help but notice the disappointment in Anne’s eyes. She had been so excited about the film and kept looking over her shoulder back in the direction of the picture house. Not for the first time in his life he felt guilty, but he couldn’t haven’t stayed in there. It made him so sick. The recruitment film had made him think of his brother George, knee deep in the mud of France, and the claustrophobic nature of the picture house hadn’t helped.
He took hold of Anne and looked her in the eyes, assertive for once. He brushed the back of his hand on the side of her soft cheek. ‘I truly am sorry, Anne,’ he said. ‘I can’t apologise enough. I didn’t want to ruin a perfect evening. But I couldn’t stay in there. I couldn’t sit there laughing like everyone else, as if everything was perfect with the world. It just wasn’t right.’
‘Why not? What was wrong?’ He noticed that she didn’t pull back, or move away from him. Her closeness felt completely natural, and not for the first time he felt like kissing her.
‘That war movie, trying to recruit young men like me to fight. It’s all so wrong, and the lies they print to do it. I couldn’t sit there and accept it. It’s not right.’
She finally pulled away, and all he felt was disappointment. ‘You really are against the war, aren’t you? I know you changed Barnes’s article, but I didn’t think you were this serious.’
‘I’m a member of the No-Conscription Fellowship, Anne. Completely against the war and everything it stands for. I won’t do anything to prolong it nor help to cause any more deaths to our lads, or the Germans.’ He paused, expecting her to be shocked, but she just regarded him with a cool stare. ‘I’d completely understand if you never want to see me again.’
‘No, not at all.’ His heart sunk and he almost turned away. ‘What I mean is, that wouldn’t make me not want to see you again. People like us need to stick together. I told you before that I admire you, and I meant it. You have strong beliefs and you stick to them. Like me, you want to make the world a better place.’ She stepped closer to him again, not embracing him, but close enough that he could smell her hair, and it warmed him to his soul. ‘I did so want to watch that film though.’
‘I promise you, we will come back. You have my permission to drag me back if need be.’
‘I will hold you to that,’ she said, smiling at last. ‘We had better go. People might start to gossip.’ She gave him a wink and pulled him after her by the hand. As soon as he moved he bumped into something.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, as he let go of Anne and looked into the face of another woman, about the same age as Anne. The woman, however, was a different build to Anne; an inch or two taller and
thinner of frame, whilst more gaunt around the face. She didn’t look like she had forgone eating, more that she disdained the very thought of it. She was dressed in a shabby coat, and her cold eyes looked almost directly into Joe’s, barely concealing a hatred that shocked him to the core. He thought he had possibly seen her around the office, but he couldn’t imagine why she would hate him so, until she opened her mouth. ‘This is for you,’ she said, almost spitting the words at him. He looked down at her outstretched hand and in it she held a solitary white feather. He involuntarily started to reach for it but managed to stop himself.
‘Coward,’ she said, this time spitting in his face, and forcing the feather into his unresisting hand. She walked off at a brisk pace, before he could give her back the feather.
All he could think was where she might have got one feather from, but she must have already given out many others to men, like him, who she considered to be cowards. He reached up and wiped the spit from his face with a handkerchief that his father had given him. He wondered then whether the woman had been waiting for him. It was too much of a coincidence.
‘Are you all right?’ Anne asked, for not the first time that day. She put a hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes. ‘Let’s find somewhere where you can wash that off your face.’
‘I’m all right,’ he said, without meaning it. ‘Although I don’t think I’ll ever be clean again. You know, over the years that’s never happened to me. I’ve been bullied. I’ve been ridiculed. I’ve often been ignored, but I’ve never been spat on before. I’ll have to be more careful I think, if this is how I’m treated when I am not outspoken.’
She moved in closer. ‘Horrible woman. What was she thinking?’
‘I know exactly what she was thinking. That I’m a coward. That I won’t fight. Well, she’s right about one thing. This war is bringing out a lot of new experiences for everyone. I wouldn’t have met you without this war.’ He smiled at her and crooked his arm for her to hold on to.
‘Don’t give up,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Chapter 19
The dock was like arriving at home for George. He guessed every port was similar, from the sounds of industry, to the smell of salt water, and the hard-worked look of the people. The thing that gave up the illusion was the accents. There was not a single Liverpudlian accent to be heard.
A group of men were manhandling crates from a ship onto a cart, and it reminded him why he’d signed up in the first place. Tom smiled, but didn’t say anything. He knew exactly what George was thinking.
‘Come on, lads,’ he called over his shoulder and walked off.
A ship was waiting for them at the end of the dock, the white paint of its hull peeling back and revealing the bare metal framework underneath. It looked sick, the peeling paint like a rash on its skin. On the stern its name was painted: SS City of Edinburgh.
‘She looks like she’s got character at least, eh, George?’ Tom said, grinning with enthusiasm. He had always liked ships, it was what had drawn him to work on the docks. George shook his head, not liking where this was going. ‘Come on, let’s see what the old dear has got for us.’ Tom urged George forward. He had taken to his new rank without effort.
They walked up the gangway as they had done so many times before. Many other soldiers were piling onboard, while the officers yelled at them to use every available space. There was straw all over the floor, which stuck together in globules of brownish, yellow muck. The stench of shit was everywhere and the men shied away trying to find a less fragrant part of the ship. George tried not to gag. Cleaning the ship had just involved moving the excrement around the deck. ‘I’m not sure how long I can take this, Tom.’
‘What? Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a farm before?’ He was still acting the officer. ‘Jolly good show! Just pretend you’re on a day trip, dear fellow.’ He grinned his effusive grin and burst out laughing. George tried to glare at him but ended up exploding in a roar of laughter himself. The others looked over to see what they were laughing about.
‘The likes of us do not turn our noses up at shit, George.’ Tom pulled out a cigarette from his webbing and handed it to George. ‘Here, this will help with the smell. It’ll also calm your nerves. Go on, lad.’ George had never smoked before, but now was as good a time as any. They were leaving the country for the first time, and he suspected today would be a day of firsts. He accepted the light from Tom as the match crackled and threatened to go out in the coastal breeze, then took a large drag. It burnt and he felt like his throat was going to close. Resisting the urge to let the smoke out only made things worse. As it reached his lungs he burst and blew the smoke in Tom’s face. He felt like he was on fire. Tom laughed and patted him on the back as if he was helping to dislodge a tricky piece of food.
‘Don’t worry, it gets better after the first one,’ he said.
They both tried to find somewhere to sit for the journey, so they weren’t pressed up against everyone else. As the ship weighed anchor, steam bellowed from its funnels and mingled with the stench of excrement, forming an even more unpleasant smell. The passengers lurched with the ship as it begun its journey, grabbing on to each other to steady themselves. George threw himself down on a steel cross section, opting to sit before he fell over. The swaying of the ship was already intense and it unsettled his stomach. He took another drag on the cigarette, feeling much better with each pull.
‘What a fine cabin we’ve found for ourselves, George,’ Tom said, sitting next to him. For once he wasn’t grinning at George and stared ahead at the other soldiers. Rain started to fall and pooled between the railings. The deck resembled a straw-covered marsh. Another soldier pushed through the crowd to lean against the bulwark. He threw up over the rail, his body wracked in a violent spasm. No one moved to help the man. As he threw up over the side again, George put a hand on the man’s shoulder.
‘Are you all right, lad?’ he said.
‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Never been on a ship before.’ Despite the rain, the man wiped the spittle of his lips with the back of his sleeve. ‘Thanks, though,’ the man said, looking up at George. It was only then that George recognised him.
‘No problem, Fred. I didn’t recognise you in the rain.’ He took his hand off Fred’s back. ‘I’d hardly call this a ship. More like a rust bucket.’
‘Aye that’s true, but she’s got character all right.’ Tom had joined them at the bulwark, still smoking despite the rain. He offered George and Fred a cigarette and they smoked together.
‘I’ve never been on a boat at sea either,’ George admitted.
‘I thought you were both dock hands?’ Fred was shocked, but then he already looked as pale as a man could.
‘Oh, been on a boat, yes. But they were always moored up safe and sound. They were never like this. Never covered in shit neither.’
‘How long do you think this will take?’ Fred asked, keeping a hand near his mouth in some poor attempt to stem the need to throw up.
‘You’ve got me,’ Tom said. ‘The way we’ve been going, it could be days. I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody sick of all this travelling. I just wish they’d sent us straight out there. Knowing our luck, we’ll probably get there and be sent to some other bloody part of the country as far away from the front line as possible.’
Every word was interrupted by the swell of the water as the boat rose and fell, and Tom had to force it all out. The fact that he had begun swearing, like the Lance-Sergeant, wasn’t lost on George. It seemed that it was the way most soldiers talked. He wanted to get off this boat as soon as possible, and if he could vocalise that, he would swear his head off too. At least the endless trains had been comfortable. He may have complained, but now he wished that he was back on a train, and not on this stinking, rusting boat. He wasn’t even sure it would make it to France, as it crested a wave and fell forward, causing the confined soldiers to fall into one another. The seamen ran around checking parts of the ship and keeping obse
rvation over the waters. Every few minutes a crew member eyed the water with a frown. George had heard there were U-boats operating in the area, and they couldn’t be too careful. A cruiser sped past them, on its way out to patrol the Channel and their ship rocked from side to side in its wake. George wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.
*
The ship was finally pulling into a harbour. They were in France. It had been a long time coming, almost seven months since they had signed up. They had been through a lot together already, but they had yet to fight. The war had reached a critical stage and the reservists were being moved to the front.
They were lucky, George thought. Some of the men he had spoken to before leaving Blighty were being shipped out to Turkey. They were going out there to fight the Ottomans, an altogether different war. He had signed up to stop the Germans rampaging through Europe, and he didn’t fancy the heat of the desert. It was hot enough for him pressed together with other men in a ship on the channel.
As they sailed closer to the dock he could hear what he thought was the sound of thunder in the distance. The sky was clear and, apart from a slight gust of wind every now and then, the weather was quite calm. The closer they got the more obvious the sound became. Over the wind the dull crump of artillery was booming across the landscape and reflecting off the buildings that ran along the coastline. It was a rolling sound that didn’t so much bang as provide a background din to the world. The workers on the dock didn’t seem to notice the sound and George and the other soldiers disembarked. They just went about their work with their heads down. They didn’t even acknowledge the soldiers.
It took George a few moments to get his land legs back; he rocked as his boots touched the firm surface and almost pitched over. A worker put out an arm to steady him. When George turned to thank him, he didn’t meet his eye.
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