M.J. Hollows - Goodbye for Now

‘Afternoon, Joe,’ Tom said, upon seeing him. He was always the more friendly of the two, with a smile for anyone he passed – though Joe suspected he wasn’t always the best influence on George. Recognition dawned on George’s face as he came closer, but he simply nodded. ‘On the way to work?’ Tom asked, before Joe had a chance to say hello.

‘Err, well, I have a few things to do first,’ he said, put off by the unexpected conversation. George had his hands in his pockets and looked around the road, seeming disinterested in any conversation. ‘George, could you tell Mum that I will be late this evening and not to worry about food?’

‘Sure,’ he said, nodding slightly. ‘We’re on our way home now. She probably won’t be surprised.’ This was the most they had said to each other in weeks. Sharing a bedroom was one thing, but working different hours meant they seldom saw each other.

‘No, I suppose not.’ The atmosphere was awkward, and Joe felt uncomfortable standing still on the pavement, but he so much wanted to talk to George, to reach out and feel something between them. He never could say the rights words, and it hurt him. He felt as if George believed that he had nothing to say to him, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. ‘The war’s creating a lot of work for us at the paper.’ He scratched at his collar, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. ‘A lot of the men at the paper have already left to sign up, and we’re having to do extra work to make up. I shouldn’t complain. You two possibly have it a lot worse.’

‘Yeah, there’s not much work on the dock at the moment. It could pick up with the war, but who knows?’ Again, Tom was the one to speak. George nodded at his words, as if thinking of something else. How had they grown so far apart? Joe was only a few years older than his kid brother, but the divide was a gulf. ‘We’ve been considering the war ourselves. Everybody is talking about it. We’ve been wondering what’s going on out there, what our lads have been up to. We should read your paper.’

George gave Tom a dig in the ribs with his elbow, and Tom yelped with mock pain. ‘We’d best leave you to it, Joe. Come on, Tom,’ George said, finally finding his voice.

‘Yes. There’s some stuff I need to do before work,’ he said, feeling the newspaper in his jacket’s inside pocket. ‘See you at home?’

George nodded with a slight hesitation as the pair of them walked away from Joe.

‘Goodbye, Joe,’ Tom called after him.

‘Goodbye, George,’ Joe muttered under his breath, ignoring Tom.

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.