Inside the building many people went about their business. Clerks rushed about holding sheets of paper and telegram notices, ignoring the newcomers. A man sat behind a desk looked up at them, smiled sweetly, then continued with his work without saying a word and seeming to forget that they were even there. By the desk there was a sign with notices attached detailing various meetings. One stated, ‘Military Tribunals – Main Hall, First Floor’.
‘I guess we know where we’re going then,’ Joe said, trying to elicit a response from Anne. She just smiled, put her arm in his and walked them up the staircase. The interior of the building was painted in a brilliant white. Red marble columns held up the first floor high above Joe, and a grand staircase stood in the middle, lined with a red carpet. It broke into two further staircases that rose from a landing that housed a stone sculpture. He leaned in to Anne to get a waft of her smell, and he smiled at her reassuring scent. The building made him think of some stately home. It was exactly how he imagined the inside of Little Jimmy Sutcliffe’s house looked.
Joe stopped in the corridor at the top of the staircase. His heart was hammering inside his chest and he felt as if he wanted to be sick.
‘I just need to use the toilet,’ he said. ‘I won’t be a minute. Will you wait for me here?’
There was a lavatory to one side and a man walked out. Anne nodded and stepped to the side, so as to be out of the way of the people coming and going along the wide corridor. Joe pushed the heavy door and was at once in the lavish lavatory. He guessed the town hall had a lot of visitors, some of them very important people, so it paid to have running water and well-kept facilities.
He checked and he was alone, alone with his thoughts. He hadn’t needed to use the toilet, he just wanted some time to compose himself and to calm his nerves. He had no idea what to expect from the tribunal. He was thankful that Anne was here with him, but he would rather be anywhere else. He had the sudden urge to run away and glanced over at the nearest window. The top panel only opened a crack; it wasn’t enough for him to fit through, and what would he do once outside? He could fall the single storey to the ground and hurt himself. There was no escape that way.
He put his hat down on a shelf and ran a hand through his hair. The room’s single, shining mirror reflected his image back at him. The electric lights shined off the glass surface and made him realise how unkempt he appeared. He ran a tap and, using the water, he tried to smooth down his hair, but it was being particularly stubborn that day and kept flicking back up.
Instead he tried to straighten his suit, but because he was so nervous it just felt uncomfortable. In the end he gave up. They would have to do with him as he was.
He walked back out of the lavatory to where Anne was waiting for him. He tried to force a smile at her, but the feeling of nausea returned and he had to cover the grimace that crossed his face.
‘Ready?’ she asked, with a bright smile. He could stare into those eyes for hours and always feel better.
Together they walked down to corridor towards the hall at the end. He opened one of the heavy doors and held it open for Anne to walk through.
There was a crowd gathering inside. The military tribunals were open to the public and he had no doubt that people would travel far to hear the gossip about these so-called conscientious objectors. He wished he was here as a journalist, but he was the one on trial.
Anne smiled at him again, squeezed his hand, and took an empty seat to the right-hand side of the aisle.
In the middle of the room was a table, and behind it were five empty chairs. He walked to the front of the spectators’ chairs and found himself a seat.
The tribunal panel filed in a moment after Joe had sat down. The first man, Joe recognised as a representative of the Lord Mayor, Sir Max Muspratt, although he couldn’t remember the representative’s name. He was a large bald man, who wheezed as he sat down at the table, and looked disinterested with the whole thing as he regarded his own nails. The Lord Mayor would be too busy advising the war council to attend these meetings.
After him came an elderly man in the dress uniform of a Captain. He was a gaunt man with a serious face. Despite his muscles turning to fat with age, the wiry frame of a soldier could still be seen beneath. His black moustache was neatly trimmed, greying at the edges, and wobbled as he introduced himself and the other men at the table. He was too old to be a serving officer but must have been dragged out of retirement for this.
With him were the clerk in charge of paperwork, a local councillor, and a Quaker from the factories over the water. Together they would be judging Joe and the other men.
A couple of men were called up before Joe. Both were arguing on religious grounds, and Joe grew more nervous as he heard their cases. Sweat ran down his temples and collected around the collar of his shirt. He grew very uncomfortable as it went on, but he had no choice but to stay where he was sat.
As the second of the two men was excused from military service and requested to do work in support of the war effort, the clerk pushed his glasses up his nose, shuffled his papers and looked up.
‘Next,’ the Captain said to him, in a loud voice used to having commands obeyed.
‘Joseph Abbott,’ the clerk called.
Joe stood up and turned to walk along the row of seats. As he did so he caught a glance of Anne out of the corner of his eye. She smiled encouragement at him and nodded, urging him to be brave. He walked out in the centre of the hall and stopped a couple of metres in front of the tribunal, feet together and eyes forward in what he thought, with a certain sense of irony, was very similar to a parade stance a soldier might take.
‘Please state your argument for exemption in front of the military service tribunal,’ the clerk said to him over the top of his glasses, in a bored voice.
Joe cleared his throat with a clenched fist over his mouth. He hoped that he didn’t seem half as nervous as he felt. They would see the sweat running down his face. It was a hot day, he hoped they would put it down to that. He had to speak up at last, he couldn’t play for time any longer.
‘I wish to appeal for exemption from military service,’ he said, ‘on moral grounds.’
There was a hush around the room as people reacted to his statement. It could have been part of his often overactive imagination, but he suspected that at least some of them were already judging him. He had a long-standing relationship with paranoia. Sometimes it was oddly comforting, other times he remembered how much it isolated him from the rest of the world.
‘What are these “moral grounds” of which you speak?’ asked the Captain, all blustering moustaches.
Joe tried to compose himself. He fingered the folded-up sheet of paper in his pocket, trying to recall his argument. His mind had gone blank in the stifling heat of the main hall. The tribunal panel stared at him, already beginning to wonder if he was just stupid or mocking them.
‘The moral grounds, sir?’ he said, unsure how to continue.
The Captain nodded at him, frowning.
‘The moral grounds are that I cannot do harm to another man.’
The clerk began scribbling notes.
‘Are these moral grounds religious, Mr Abbott?’
‘No, sir,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I do not consider myself religious.’
‘So I can enter into the record that you have no religious objection to the war?’
Joe considered his answer.
‘You may,’ he said.
‘You have a brother serving out in France, do you not?’ the Captain asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Yes, sir, I do. His name is George.’
‘And you would rather leave him to do the fighting and cower at home?’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘That seems to me very much what you intend to do.’
‘As I said, sir. Not at all. It is precisely because my brother is out there in France that I am doing this.’
‘He is willing to sacrifice himself for King and Countr
y, unlike you.’
‘His sacrifice, sir—’ he said the honorific through clenched teeth, his patience thinning, but knowing that he had to remain calm if he was to have any hope at all ‘—his sacrifice will serve nothing, but to break my mother’s heart.’
There was a loud gasp from the assembled crowd.
‘Some of us must stand up against this needless war. There is no longer any hope of victory, only death. I wish more than anything that my brother will not lose his life for no other reason than vanity.’
‘How dare you!’ The Captain half stood from his seat before the Quaker talked him back down.
‘I’m afraid, Joseph,’ he said, glancing sidelong at the Captain as he spoke, ‘that you are not yet qualified to talk about the merits for or against the war.’
Joe started to protest, but he held up a placatory hand, palm outstretched.
‘We are not here to discuss whether the war should be happening, or should not. We are here to discuss whether you should be fighting in it, like many of our fellow countrymen, or whether you have any reason by which to stay behind. Such is the letter of the law.’
Joe nodded, the argument dying on his lips. The Quaker gestured to his fellow panel members to continue. The Captain was still red in the face, and he blew out his moustaches before continuing.
‘What would you do if a German walked in that door right now and tried to attack you?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure, sir. It is hard for one to know what one would do in the heat of the moment.’
‘Would you retaliate?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘What if he tried to rape your mother?’
‘I don’t think that is a likely scenario, sir.’
‘Hypothetically then, what if a German was trying to rape your mother? What would you do?’
‘I would try and stop him, sir.’
‘Would you not shoot him?’
‘Certainly not, sir. I would not take a man’s life.’
‘No matter what he did to you?’
‘No matter. I could not take another man’s life.’
‘So you are a coward?’
Someone in the crowd jeered.
‘No, sir. I stand before this tribunal, despite my very best wishes of being somewhere else.’
His response did not have the expected reaction, and the Captain frowned.
‘You dishonour us, as you dishonour all the brave boys out in France.’
Joe didn’t know what else he could say. He had made his case, but it was as if they didn’t care. Something in the back of his mind told him that they were going to refuse him exemption no matter what he said. So he remained silent.
The tribunal took his silence as agreement.
‘You’re a coward, sir!’
Joe didn’t answer. There was no way that he could convince them that he wasn’t a coward. By refusing to go and fight he was a coward in their eyes. No amount of philosophy or principle would change their minds. Still, he couldn’t let it lie.
‘Your honour, this isn’t a matter of cowardice. I would not be standing here if I were a coward. I would have run away.’
‘Lies! Outright lies. How dare you lie to us?’ The crowd grumbled in sympathy with the judge. They had already condemned him as much as the judge. ‘If you stand there and say you have no religious reason for not joining our brave boys in France, then you must be a coward. It is as simple as that, young man.’ He gave Joe a stern nod, as if he were telling off one of his children.
‘You want complete exemption? Therefore you say you will not accept any service in France, whatsoever?’ the clerk asked, interrupting the Captain’s outburst.
‘No, sir. I will not.’ Joe held the judge’s gaze, determined not to back down.
‘Then you leave me little choice. If you will not so much as lift a stretcher, then you will spend the rest of the war in prison. You will have an opportunity to report for military service. If you continue to refuse then you will suffer the consequences of your actions.
‘Based on the declaration of no religious objection to the war, and working in the letter of the law, I am left with no choice but to order you to report to the local barracks for service within the army.’ The clerk in charge of proceedings brought a stamp down onto a piece of paper. With that final bang it was all over. He had been dismissed. The tribunal had forgotten all about him, men were moving around and the panel themselves were discussing the next case, whilst the clerk shuffled and organised his papers. They had decided his fate in only a matter of minutes and without listening to his case. How could he have lost so spectacularly? He had been mentally planning his arguments for so long that the tribunal itself was a short disappointment. It wasn’t supposed to have gone this way. Not for the first time, he thought that he should have claimed religious grounds after all, but as soon as he thought it he knew that he couldn’t bring himself to lie.
They called the next man forward, who shuffled past Joe, trying to catch Joe’s attention with a downcast look on his face.
In defeat, Joe turned and walked away. Anne caught up with him outside the main hall and grabbed hold of his hand.
‘What am I to do now, Anne?’ he said, not wishing to look her in the eye lest she see his inner turmoil and disappointment. He felt on the verge of tears in horror and frustration at his impossible cause.
She didn’t answer right away, but just rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand, trying to comfort him.
‘You could lodge an appeal?’ she suggested.
He shook his head.
‘You heard them in there. They didn’t take me seriously for one moment. They would laugh me out of there if I tried to appeal. I’m afraid I’m somewhat of a lost cause.’
‘Not to me, you’re not,’ she said, throwing her arms around him and hugging him close. He breathed in the scent of her hair and it helped to relax the sense of fear that was rising within him. ‘You have to keep on fighting. I know you, you won’t ever give up. Don’t let this small setback defeat you.’
Chapter 29
Liverpool was different. George could tell from the moment his boot touched down on the stone of the platform. His newly issued steel helmet clattered against his back as he stepped down from the train.
The hubbub of the station had disappeared since the last time he had been here, and there was a sombre, melancholy air to the place. He also felt that the station was darker, but that could have been the winter gloom, or his mood. People were still catching trains, but no one smiled, and they were seldom in pairs, or in groups. Even he was on his own for once. Tom had been left back in France. His leave was due soon, but George’s had come through first. It felt unusual to leave Tom and the others behind. They were a sort of family to him now, and he missed them dearly. As for his real family? He couldn’t say. Of course he missed them, he always would, but the experiences he’d had over the last eighteen months had driven a wedge further between them. His mother still wrote regularly, but he had less and less to say in reply, as his life grew further and further away from something they would understand.
Leaving Lime Street, he didn’t go straight to the family house. It didn’t feel right just going home as if nothing had happened. What would he find there? Would it now feel cold and empty, with the gaping absence of his baby sister? He would prefer to put off that experience for now and keep the memory of his former home as pure and untouched as he could. He could still imagine walking in the door and seeing Lizzie bobbing along, the curls of her hair whipping against her small shoulders. Then he remembered why he had come.
Instead of going home, he went first to St James’ cemetery by the Oratory chapel. He knew it well, they had played nearby as children, a lifetime ago now. It wasn’t far from his family’s house. He had even at one point sat and sketched out the Doric style chapel and drawn his own imaginings of what the finished cathedral would look like. He walked all the way there. He wanted to see his home city as he had before, wa
lking the streets and feeling the cobbles under his soles. As many things had changed as had stayed the same. The streets still had the same names, but the people looked different. Civilians, as he thought of them now. The sombre atmosphere was not exclusive to the station, the whole city felt oppressed and it wasn’t just because of the overcast sky. There were fewer horses and carts on the roads, and an extra motorcar here and there.
St James’ cemetery was up on one of the hills towards the south of the city. A perfect place for a view of the Mersey. He stopped before going in and looked over at the river he hadn’t seen for well over a year. At least that was still there, he thought. From here, one could see the site of the Liverpool Cathedral, but it seemed, like so many other things, the war had halted its construction. He had missed the funeral, as he had been unable to get even compassionate leave at the time, so short were their numbers. His mother had explained what had happened in the letter she had sent him. It had been the first time he had sobbed since before the war. He still kept the stained paper in his webbing with all the other letters, including the unopened ones from his brother.
He walked into the cemetery through the wrought iron gates, past the Oratory that he remembered from his childhood, and down into what used to be a quarry. Hundreds of gravestones stood in rows. Some were white, others had moss and other things growing on them. One or two of them were even cracked.
He found the grave under a small elm tree at the back corner of the quarry, as expected from his mother’s description in a letter. Both the rich and the poor made use of St James’ cemetery, as the largest place to bury the dead in Liverpool. Being poor, the Abbotts had to find a space for Lizzie at the back of the quarry. Although, his mother had written that Joe’s friend Anne had been kind enough to donate a little money to help find a better plot, and a nice gravestone. He wondered who this Anne was. Had she filled his place in the family?
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