the crowd. The only sound apart from that was the occasional sniffle of a nose or the sound of stifled weeping. Heads were still bowed and would remain that way for some time, some years perhaps.
At first he hadn’t understood his brother’s decision; they stood on opposite sides. But as the war dragged on and on, past its first Christmas and into a new year, year after year, he had started to understand his brother a lot more. He begun to understand the need to fight for something, to believe in something and to not give up. No matter what life would throw at you. That was a sentiment he could agree on, and he guessed it was something their father had managed to instil in them both, despite their differing opinions. It had been a clear dividing line at first, but things were less clear now. The world had changed for all of them. The horror of the war had left no family unaffected. They couldn’t change their decisions, but they could make sure that they counted for something. That things hadn’t just changed for the worse but would be allowed to change for the better too.
He just wished his brother was still around to say this to, but he would never have the chance now. Their paths drifted apart, on what was to be a fateful day for millions of people…
‘It’s war!’
George Abbott would never forget where he was that day, when those very words were spoken. He was sat at the family kitchen table, a roughly cut dark wooden frame, with an off-white cloth draped across it to hide its wear and tear. He leaned over a bowl of oats, playing them around with his tarnished spoon. Beside it was an enamel plate with some bread and milk.
His sisters, Catherine and Elisabeth, sat either side of him. Catherine was looking over at George to see if he would eat his bread, or if she could take it. Her hair was a deep black mess of curls, the same as their mother’s, framing a pale, chubby face, whereas little Elisabeth’s hair was a distinct copper colour, more like their father’s. At the other end of the table, across the other side was George’s brother Joe, gaunt and long like their father, although with a growth of unkempt curly black hair. He wore the deep brown suit that he always wore to work, even at the breakfast table. He was careful not to get any food on it.
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
