slowly drowning.’ Mick was silent for a moment, contemplating the answer.
‘And you know I get bloody sea-sick!’
That finished Mick off. Molly laughed and Tomas parroted to the whole tram-load.
‘Would you be an infantryman or a gunner?’ Mick asked.
‘I’ll knock your bloody block off, Mick!’ Joe exploded. ‘See that!’ He pushed back his hair from the wound on his forehead.
‘That’s as close as I’ll get to warfare. Class warfare,’ Joe said. ‘And I’ll do my fighting here at home. I’ll fight to get the war ended and for decent wages and fair conditions for workers. This is the real war!’
They both fell silent. Joe knew he’d raised his voice, but Molly’s eyes smiled. She loved his passion. But she was the real warrior. Mick had no chance.
‘You know, Comrade,’ Mick said quietly, emphasising the word comrade unnecessarily. ‘For all your brains you’re boring. At least with me it’s a different answer every time. With you, all the answers end up the same.’ He laughed aloud, in Joe’s face. Molly joined with him. Her laughter stung like a slap.
Why do they do that? Aren’t we all in the Peace Army? Don’t we all agree on Socialist principles? So why? Joe smiled weakly back at them, trying not to let his feelings crawl across his face. He was tired and today was his big day and no one would ruin that for him.
Tomfool changed seats so he could pat Molly’s hair, as though she were a dog.
‘Besides,’ Molly continued. ‘It’s all fine to be having the answer “in theory” but like your mother says we’re needing practical solutions to people’s problems not just high falutin’ talk.’
She was right of course, but the criticism still hurt.
Joe tried not to let it show but it must have, because she added,
‘Not that we don’t need the speechifying too.’ Joe bit his lip.
‘Well,’ he concluded quietly. ‘Maybe that’s just the difference between you two and me, you’re frightened of ideas. Frightened they might be real and they’ll hurt you somehow.’ Joe wanted it to be spiteful, but Mick just shrugged his shoulders.
‘What? More real than my old man?’
Joe retreated, returning to his own thoughts.
Perhaps that’s the truth, ideas don’t hurt, not like a thump in the head. Or, at least, no one thinks that’s it’s the idea that’s hurting them when someone is thumping them in the head. But isn’t it the idea of love that made Mick’s old man the way he is. After his Mum got the typhoid and died the real world changed but the idea of love stayed the same … it’s just he couldn’t work out how to deal with the real world not matching the world in his head anymore … just like me and Molly.
Or Babushka? Her idea that no one could be as perfect a man as her husband was when he was leading strikes in Russia. The scorn she pours on Old Nik if he so much as opens his mouth about Socialism. No one could live up to her idea of perfection.
Joe thought hard, staring at his friends. Mick and Molly were quiet. What’s the idea behind us all?
No more unanswereable questions, Joe, he agreed with himself. The tram clattered on in silent contemplation.
Only Tomfool was bored and started his games again, sticking his head out through the window and squealing in the ear of the person sitting in front.
Joe ignored him.
The tram lumbered off the bridge. The winning shouts from the men playing two-up behind the Terminus Hotel could be heard clearly above its clatter.
‘Come in spinner!’ a voice called in Irish brogue. Cockatoos were on lookout at both entrances to Fish Lane. To be sure! To be sure!
Tomas had stopped frightening people and sat chatting to himself and gesticulating with a shake of his index finger.
‘The Doctor’s going away! It’s not right! It’s not right! We need him to look after us!’ Tomas turned towards the other passengers,
‘You like my story?’ A young rowdy told him to pull his head in. Two girls whispered and turned away. The drunks ignored him. Most of them knew him, at least by sight, from around the streets. A child stared hard at him until Tom rolled his eyes back to show the whites. The child began to cry.
Joe glanced up to find Molly also looking at Tomfool.
‘Tomas,’ she admonished, shaking her head gently and smiling at the kid’s mother. She has a smile for every occasion, Joe thought, but always the second best for me.
‘My stop,’ Mick called. He jumped down from the seat to the running board to trot beside the slowing tram.
‘I thought you were coming to the meeting?’ Joe protested. Mick shook his head. ‘Better make sure the old man makes it to bed,’ he said, his voice dispirited, ‘or he won’t be able to work in the morning.’ He turned to Molly.
‘But I’ll be seeing you at Babushka’s after work tomorrow won’t I, Molly dolly?’ he asked.
‘Right you are then,’ she answered, waving. ‘We’ll be expecting you for tea. And be behaving yourself when O’Hagen’s at the table. There’s the warning!’
‘You behave yourself when you’re anywhere near that Winterson nark,’ he advised, ‘and that’ll be an order!’
Molly pouted as she waved her red handkerchief, like a damsel from an old fairytale. For a moment she seemed infinitely high and infinitely sad as though she knew the woes of the whole world in that moment. Mick stared hard at her before shifting his gaze to Joe. His face swung shut.
Joe had seen that gate close a thousand times.
‘Come to the meeting!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll wait for you!’
‘Maybe, all right,’ Mick replied and Joe smiled. In spite of all, they were mates.
Mick stood on the corner watching the tram clatter up to the Merivale Street stop where the three of them jumped down. He waved one last time before turning to walk back to the room he shared with his father above the Anchor Inn.
Mick knew it’d be unlikely he’d get to the meeting. The Peace Army sandwiches at lunchtime were good but that was all he’d eaten all day. He knew better than to try and keep his earnings back from his father on a Friday, even if it was only so he could buy something for weekend night’s dinners, and he would never ask for charity. But he also knew he wouldn’t be able to work a full day without a feed and he’d never hear the end of it if he ran out of steam.
I’ll ask for some washing up work then, maybe the meeting, he thought. Old Montague Miller’s worth an hour of anybody’s time.
Mick sauntered up to the back of the Plough Inn. He loitered there for a few minutes, kicking at rubbish bins and poking aimlessly at anything of interest. It seemed less like he was expecting a handout if he didn’t knock. Finally the back door opened and a small bird-sized woman in a starched
