M.J. Hollows - Goodbye for Now

The back door had burst open and their father limped in clutching the Daily Post to his chest and calling to the family. If George were to look him in the eye, it would be like looking in a mirror, except his father was older and thinner. Their faces were exactly alike and the resemblance was uncanny. It was only his father’s eyes that looked different, like they had seen a thousand things, and crow’s feet pulled at the edge of his face.

‘It’s war!’ he said. ‘We’ve declared war.’ He carried on as if unheard. ‘Britain has declared war on Germany.’

Everyone stared, not knowing quite what to say. War had been brewing for some time, so they weren’t surprised.

‘Pass your father the kedgeree,’ their mother said to Catherine and she did as bid, passing the dish of flaked fish and rice that everyone but their father despised. He must have picked up his taste for it in India.

‘I thought we were allies with Germany?’ Their mother was ever the practical woman. She carried on eating while the rest of the family grew excited and agitated. George pushed his plate of bread towards Catherine to distract her, but she just stared at it, then at him.

Their father finally found his seat, hanging his cheap coat behind him as he wrestled his body onto the chair.

‘No, no, love. Belgium. They’re the ones. They invaded there, so ol’ squiffy told ’em where to go.’

‘Belgium invaded Germany?’

‘No. The other way round!’

She didn’t appear to be listening and smiled conspiratorially in her husband’s direction, before collecting up more plates.

Joe stared across the room at the news their father had brought with him, wringing his hands in front of his face. Joe was older than George, but in this moment he looked even older, worry lining his face. His hair threatened to grow too long on his head and his feeble attempts to grow a beard in patches on his chin was a constant source of ridicule. The object of Joe’s gaze was a faded photograph of their dad dressed in his uniform, beaming with pride at the South Africa medal pinned to his breast. He still often wore his medal, stroking the silver disc absent-mindedly. Father turned to Joe, putting the paper down.

‘D’you know what this means, son?’ Joe didn’t respond and their father looked around the room, at the rest of them, testing everyone’s reaction. ‘The papers say they’re going to issue a call. They’re gonna need more men.’

George carried on playing with his oats, knowing that this was between Joe and their dad. Joe looked into the middle distance, the edges of his mouth moving as if about to form words but thinking better of it.

After a tense pause, Joe spoke. ‘I won’t do it,’ he muttered under his breath, so quietly that George almost didn’t hear.

Their father banged a fist on the table, and cutlery jingled as it was disturbed.

‘What do you mean you won’t do it?’ he shouted at Joe. He kept his fist firmly on the table, flexing his fingers, but managing to keep it balled. His other hand gripped the arm of his chair and George could see the blood draining away as his flesh turned a pale pink. ‘Every generation of this family has served. As far back as I know, the Abbotts have fought for our country. What makes you so different?’

‘Dad…?’ By simply calling out to him Catherine brought him out of his tirade. His hands relaxed and the blood flowed back into them. She had a way of calming him that none of the others could manage.

The legs of Joe’s chair screeched on the tiled kitchen floor as he pushed it back and stood up. Without taking a step he turned to face their father. His voice was calm despite the speed with which he had risen.

‘I’m not different. That’s not the point. I won’t, I don’t have to, so I won’t. You know exactly what I think about war, and I mean no disrespect to you or our ancestors, but I won’t fight. Not ever.’

He rushed across the kitchen, opened the door and, without looking back, left. The door clicked shut behind him. The room was silent.

The action was completely out of character; Joe was never angry. He never had any reason to be angry, he was always quiet and kind when he needed to be.

His sisters appeared as shocked as George surely did, trying to cover it by intently focusing on their food, and stuffing their faces with whatever was left.

Their father looked over at their mother and shook his head. ‘I told you that teacher had put funny ideas in his head,’ he grumbled.

‘Eat, love.’ She pushed a plate of breakfast in front of him, stroking his shoulder before going back to the worktop.

He ate in silence, as the rest of the family finished their breakfast. He occasionally looked up at them, his eyes resting on George, before he carried on eating. When he had finished he left the room himself, hobbling in his usual manner towards the front room. George waited a few seconds for him to be gone, before getting his mother’s attention.

‘What was all that about, Ma?’ Elisabeth said, before he could phrase the question himself, her six-year-old inquisitiveness winning out.

Their mother continued her meticulous dish washing. Her voice had to compete with the scrape of crockery and the splash of water as she poured more into the sink from the jug she had got in from outside, but she knew well enough how to project. A skill that he expected came from having four children.

‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said quickly, but not without care.

‘But why were they arguing?’ he asked, interrupting his younger sister’s reply. He had always felt close to his mother, she cared for them all well, but she had always been honest with him and spoken to him like an equal.

Another stack of plates clattered onto the draining board. ‘They’ll be looking for young men to volunteer, I don’t doubt. Your father wants our Joe to go and give his name, join the regiment. It’s the family tradition after all.’ She paused as a blackbird flew past the window. ‘But your brother has no interest in your father’s traditions. He has other plans for his life, what with all the things that he’s learnt.’

‘I’ve never seen our dad so angry before,’ Catherine said, finally eating George’s unwanted bread and pushing the words out between mouthfuls.

Mother finished her washing up and returned to the table, taking a look at the sisters then at George where her gaze lingered for a moment.

‘You’re too young, George, or your father would be having the same conversation with you too, love,’ she said as she took a dishcloth to his cheek to wipe away whatever leftover food was lodged there. That would explain why his father had kept looking at him.

‘Now get on with you and get yourselves ready. I need to go speak to your father and try to calm him down. Up the stairs now.’ She ushered the family out of the kitchen with a wet dishcloth, and a smile.

*

Upstairs, the house was a cramped affair, with the rooms close together, leading off from a shared landing. Four children was common for a family around Liverpool, and they all had to fit into what space their parents could afford. George and Joe brought what money they could into the house, but they still slept in a shared bedroom.

George walked into the room that had been his and Joe’s for as long as he could remember, to find his clothes for work. There were three other rooms leading from the landing: their parents’, their sisters’, and a small room that they used for cleaning and getting changed. Having one changing room between six people was never easy, but they made do. There was a kind of unspoken agreement about the order of who got to go in first. Their mother was always first. Their father would shout at them and push them away if they tried to get in before her. The rest was a hierarchy of age within the family. Catherine would usually have to go downstairs and boil a tub of water then bring it up for cleaning. They would often share the same water and rub as much soap as they could afford on their bodies. They had a tin bath that they kept next to the outhouse, but that was only for special occasions.