M.J. Hollows - Goodbye for Now

‘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.’