Читать книгу Goodbye for Now - M.J. Hollows - Страница 14

George had been looking forward to a drink all afternoon and he didn’t take any time in pushing open the door of the pub and rushing inside. Clinking glasses, laughs and the occasional cheer filtered through the doorway to the Grapes, their local drinking haunt.

From the entranceway two doors led off, one to the private patrons’ bar and one to the public bar, the latter more brightly lit through the frosted glass of the door. Shadows moved inside. The patrons’ bar, by comparison, appeared empty.

George knew which side they would be welcome in and walked straight through the public bar door, taking his hat off, to where the smell of stale ale mixed with sweat, and the heavy fog of smoking hit his nostrils. The noise was louder inside as men tried to talk over each other and make their orders heard at the bar.

‘Let’s find the lads,’ Tom said, from behind him, raising his voice to be heard as they pushed their way into the pub.

The bar was a loose ‘L’ shape and as they moved around the corner George heard Tom’s name being shouted.

‘Tom! Get over here, lad. Pull up a stool and get your lips around a nice bevvy. Don’t waste any time!’ Patrick waved them over as he shouted.

George could just about see them through the cloud of smoke and the press of bodies. He and their other old school mate Harry had already got themselves a table in the corner and sat around it with pints of ale.

‘Evening, lads,’ Tom said as they got through the crowd. ‘Cains again, is it?’ He gestured to the glasses of thick, brown ale.

‘Aye,’ Patrick said. ‘Harry won’t drink anything else, will he?’

Harry tried to say something but had a mouthful of ale.

‘Everyone has their family pride,’ Patrick continued. ‘The only time I ever got him to drink something else was when he lost at Crown and Anchor. And even then he spat most of it up.’ He took a short drag on his cigarette. ‘Say, lads. Why don’t we play another game now?’

Harry lurched forward and ale spat down his front and across the table. The others laughed, and he joined in with them as the remnants of the ale frothed around his lips.

Patrick was always trying to be the life of any gathering and tonight was no exception. His blond hair was ruffled as if he had just dragged himself through a bush, and his thin, wiry frame would definitely aid in that.

Harry, on the other hand, was exactly the opposite; he cut his brown hair close to his head and his short thick frame would easier knock the bush over than slide through it. He was also slightly slower on the uptake than the others, and found himself lagging behind most conversations and, indeed, jokes.

‘Stop being cruel to Harry, O’Brien. He drinks what he wants to drink and no one should tell him otherwise.’

Tom sat down on a stool next to Patrick and pulled one out for George. Harry handed him a cigarette, and he lit it, taking a long drag, letting the cool, blue smoke escape his mouth.

‘So what news, Tom Adams?’ Patrick asked, puffing smoke while waiting for an answer. Tom put the glass to his lips and waited for a long moment, refreshing the taste of his beer, before answering.

‘Not much to say, Paddy. Work, work and more work for us.’

The others nodded in sympathy. Patrick shot him a look.

‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ Harry asked. ‘Like football or something? Is anyone going along to the match at the weekend?’

‘No, Harry, I don’t think so,’ Tom said, humouring him. ‘I think we have other plans.’

‘Come on, Williams. It’s only a friendly, why bother?’ Patrick put his arm around Harry’s shoulders, who deflated at the response.

‘The season doesn’t kick off for another month, Harry,’ George added. ‘Paddy is right. Besides it’s not like you support a proper football team.’ He tried to flick a cheeky smile to show Harry that he was jesting, but Patrick slammed his glass down.

‘You know I don’t like that name, Abbott. Don’t ever call me that again.’

He leaned over the table and raised a fist at George, a little stylised cross on a silver chain dropping out of his shirt. He reached for it with his other hand.

Tom put his hand around Patrick’s fist and slowly pushed him back towards his own seat.

‘There’s nothing wrong with the reds, George,’ said Harry. ‘Just because they’re not as old as Everton, doesn’t mean they’re not a proper club. You take that back.’

As always, Harry seemed to have missed the undertones to the conversation and the others laughed, breaking the uneasy tension that had built up from nowhere.

‘Sorry, Harry. I’m sure they’ll do better this season, but not if we can help it!’ George pushed another pint of ale in Harry’s direction and gave him a wink.

‘So how’s the rice industry, O’Brien?’ Tom broke his silence, then had another drink. He lit another cigarette from the butt of his last one.

‘Work is much the same as always, I guess it’s the same as down at the dock.’

George very much doubted that, but didn’t say anything.

‘Always back-breaking and sweating buckets without any thanks. I’m sure I constantly smell like rice,’ he laughed wryly.

‘Better than smelling like brandy,’ Tom interjected. ‘My old mum thinks I always come home drunk from work. She won’t listen that it’s thanks to those barrels.’ He sniffed his armpit in mock theatricality. ‘Brandy and sweat, a fine combination, fit for the middle classes.’

George chuckled. ‘Well, at least she’ll be right tonight, when you go home flat drunk,’ he said as he passed his mate another pint from the dwindling row of full glasses on the table.

‘That’s right!’ Harry shouted, and the others roared with laughter.

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Adams.’ Patrick leaned over conspiratorially and covered one side of his face with a hand, as if he was going to whisper into Tom’s ear and he didn’t want anyone else to overhear.

‘Things have not been going well at the millers.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Tom feigned interest, but Patrick didn’t seem to notice.

‘Yeah. The supervisors are getting jumpy. Things have been going badly for a while. We’ve kept on working, doing our thing, but they’ve been getting worried nonetheless. The unions are urging us to strike, and winding up the owners, but we don’t know what’s best.’ He leaned closer. ‘I think Bailey’s going to call a picket any day now, you wait.’ He sighed. ‘There’s too much trouble at the moment.’

‘You’re right, O’Brien, there is. I don’t know what you should do, but you should try listening to the union man. Surely they’ve got your best interest at heart?’

George took another sip of his beer, listening to the conversation between the other two. Patrick was hardly being quiet, despite what his body language suggested.

‘And to add to that, my da is worried about his family. I thought we were his family? But no, he wants to go home, to help out with all the trouble there. He says he’s gotta help ’em.’

‘What’s he going to do in Ulster? What can he possibly do to help them?’

‘I don’t know, but he’s got to try, hasn’t he?’

‘I guess so. Your father’s an honest man, O’Brien. And don’t worry, he loves it here almost as much as he loves Ireland. This is home now.’ Tom patted Patrick on the back in a friendly gesture and stood up. ‘Time to get some more in.’

He pushed his way to the bar, and the conversation died out. Patrick studied the bottom of his empty pint and George averted his attention. The pub was busier now, and there was a group of men by the bar having a heated discussion.

Tom came back, precariously carrying four pints of ale. He plopped them down and beer spilt over the rims.

‘Easy, Adams,’ Patrick said.

‘Well, give me a hand next time then, won’t you?’

He made sure that the fullest pint was sat in front of Patrick.

‘Listen, there’s a group of lads over there getting quite rowdy. Keep an eye out for them. There might be some trouble.’

A glass shattered and Tom cringed. A tall, thin man, with yellow hair came flying through the crowd and almost fell over in front of their table. He was being pushed in the chest by a stockier, balding man.

‘What do you mean you don’t think we should fight, Smith?’ The smaller man was shouting in the other’s face, prodding his front with a finger. ‘Or should I call you “Schmidt”? That was your family name before you came over here, wasn’t it? Taking good, British jobs from good, British workers.’ He punctuated each word with a jab.

The two men were nearly at their table now. A hush had descended across the bar.

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Saying that they shouldn’t be defending their right to work. What gives you the right, you Prussian bastard?’

‘Actually I was… well, I was born here. And our King is cousins wi—’

‘I don’t care,’ the other man said. A great shove propelled the other man into Tom’s back, almost spilling the pint he was holding.

‘Sorry,’ the thinner man said from the floor, but Tom had had enough. He turned to the two men, standing taller.

‘That’s enough,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no need for that in here. Good and honest British workers are trying to enjoy their downtime. You hear me?’

The stocky man looked up at him.

‘Now go and have another pint or go home. Either way, leave us in peace.’

The other man glared at Tom, before he grumbled and pushed his way through the crowd. George didn’t realise that he and the others had stood up to help Tom, and he sat down again, feeling embarrassed.

Tom helped the thin man to his feet, brushing him down.

‘Be careful what you say in here, lad. This is a workers’ pub.’

‘Thank you, I’m sorry. All I said was that it seemed odd that our King had gone to war with his cousin, and that our soldiers should have to fight for it.’

Tom frowned.

‘Well, even still, be careful.’

The other man nodded and walked away, eyeing the customers as he left the pub.

‘See what I mean, lads? Too much trouble,’ Patrick said as Tom sat down.

‘Well, I think the Germans are a much bigger problem than anything else, O’Brien,’ Harry replied, wiping the beer’s head from his lips with the back of his hand, while Tom remained silent.

‘I mean, how dare they try to start a war? Over what, some pompous Duke’s death? What’s that gotta do with Belgium and France?’

‘Archduke,’ George said.

‘I mean,’ Harry continued, ignoring George, ‘I thought their problem was with the other side? Not with the French.’

‘I think they have a problem with everyone in Europe, Harry. Most of the Royal Houses are at war with each other now. What next?’ Tom had calmed down enough to rejoin the conversation and he lit another cigarette.

‘Well, our boys will show ’em where to get stuffed!’ Harry took a large swig of beer.

‘Dad says that their army is much bigger than ours.’ George finally managed to get a word in now that Harry’s mouth was full. However, he was met with scoffs of derision and chuckles.

‘Don’t worry, Georgie,’ Patrick said, with a big grin from ear to ear. ‘The Kaiser may have a bigger army but he doesn’t know how to use it!’

George spat beer across the table, and they burst out laughing.

Tom put his hand on George’s shoulder and smiled before saying, ‘Lad, George’s right. That Kitchener is building a new army, to counter the Germans.’

He paused for breath, weighing his next words, then plunged straight ahead. ‘Listen, I’m going down the office tomorrow, lads. To sign up.’

‘What? You?!’ Patrick and Harry replied almost at the same time.

‘Yes, me. I’ve had enough of trying to scrape something together. I think you lads should join me, but I’ll understand if you don’t.’

‘But you’re a cad.’ Patrick was smiling despite the insult. ‘They’ll never take you.’

‘Then they’ll be losing out.’ Tom grinned back, and slapped Patrick on the arm. ‘I’m not worried, Paddy. Just wait and see, they’ll be begging me to enlist. I bet they’ll sign me up as an officer right away. They’ll give me my own battalion. I’m sure that they’ll let you join it. You can be my servants, lads.’ He held up his arm with his palm outstretched. ‘They’ll even call it Tom Adams’ Army.’ He punctuated each word with his hand as if imagining a hoarding.

‘What about your job, Tom, lad?’ Harry sounded concerned. ‘What’ll you do when the war is over?’

Tom shook his head.

‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, Harry. There’s no use in worrying what might be. Plus, I hear the army pays better.’ George caught the hesitation in Tom, but he carried on, apparently hoping the others wouldn’t notice. ‘It’ll be an adventure.’

‘Besides, he’ll be back soon when it all blows over.’ Patrick was clearly warming to the idea. ‘He might not even get a chance to go over there before our boys have sent them Germans packing.’

‘Aye,’ Tom said. ‘But I might stay on after the war. See where it takes me. I could go all over the world.’

‘When he served in the King’s, my dad was out in South Africa,’ George added. ‘Not to mention Afghanistan and India. Who knows where they might go after this war?’

‘It’s gotta be better than good old Toxteth,’ Patrick laughed.

‘My dad has always said he misses it, ever since he got injured. Though I was too young to remember much about it.’

‘So, that’s why your old man’s so grumpy,’ Harry said, trying to elicit a laugh, but bringing the conversation to a halt. The colour drained from George’s face, his anger swelling. He wasn’t quick to anger, but he couldn’t let someone insult his dad.

‘Come on, Harry, there’s no need for that!’ Tom came to George’s rescue. ‘George’s dad served our country proudly for years. You should show him more respect.’

Patrick drank his beer as if he hadn’t noticed the awkwardness.

‘Sorry, uh, George… lad. I was, er, ah… out of line,’ Harry apologised.

George could only nod, not wanting to open his mouth for fear of what he might say.

‘You can’t go alone, lad,’ Patrick said, returning to what he thought was a more interesting topic, leaving George still fuming.

‘I won’t be alone, the rumours of war have been going for weeks. I’ve heard whispers all over the city about signing up.’ Tom was grinning wider with every word, engaging his audience with enthusiasm in every breath.

George quickly forgot about the insult to his father, and envisioned a great British soldier rallying his troops and leading them into a glorious battle against the despicable enemy. He could see Tom doing that sort of thing, pulling every other soldier along with him in his wake and winning the day, with a big grin on his face. Men would follow Tom into anything. He would, too.

‘Besides, that’s why our George is coming with me.’

That one sentence ripped George out of his daydreaming and back into the present. He tried to hide his surprise by grabbing his ale and taking a swig. He hadn’t told Tom that he would be signing up with him, but as usual Tom had assumed he would follow. They had talked about it, yes, but he hadn’t said that he wanted to sign up. It had all been Tom.

Although, now it had been said, he liked the idea. He couldn’t imagine working down at the dock without Tom to keep him company and get him through a hard day.

‘Oh, you too eh, Georgie?’ Patrick obviously wasn’t willing to let the matter lie. ‘Going to follow in the footsteps of your father? Keep it in the family? Make him proud?’

Without thinking George replied. ‘Yes,’ he said. He very much wanted that, to make his father proud. George’s father was a hard, uncompromising man, but he had always done everything he could to do right by his family. George knew that his father loved both his sons, even if he never showed it, but he desperately wanted to see that sense of pride on his father’s face. His mother always said that the reason he was so sullen and withdrawn was because he was forced out of the army by injury. George wanted to do anything possible to give him some of his pride back. His father couldn’t fight, so he would.

He had tried to make a living, urged by his mother to do something honest and constructive, but it wasn’t working. The dock was its own special kind of hell. Heavy, hard work, and if he was truthful, he hated it as much as Tom did.

‘So, what about the football then?’ Harry urged again.

The others continued talking without George. He didn’t care what they thought. ‘I’m going to enlist,’ he said, more for himself than for any of the others, testing the words out on his lips, to say it out loud. Tom was the only one to take any notice and smiled at him, before turning back to the others, deep in conversation. They were too drunk now to talk about anything serious. George had another drink.