their decision before signing up. It’s cowardice, rank cowardice if you ask me. Typical of the kind of nonsense that your brother gets up to at that paper. This Albert Barnes should be ashamed of himself. How could they let him write such a thing, let alone publish it?’
‘It wasn’t him, Dad. I overheard him say it wasn’t. He’s even signed up for the regiment. I saw him at the recruitment office.’
‘Odd.’ His father was back flicking through the newspaper.
George had a thought and rummaged in his pocket. He pushed the shilling across the table. His confidence was rising by the second, secure in the knowledge that his father was on his side. He could do anything with his father on side. ‘It’s not much, but there will be more where that’s come from and I’ll make sure it is sent here while I’m out in France, for you and Ma.’
‘We don’t care about the money, George. We get along all right. This isn’t about money.’ He shoved the paper aside again and looked at George. This time his eyes were full of warmth. Gone was the stare that made George feel tiny. ‘This is about doing something right; doing something bigger than yourself. The money is yours if you want it, we’ve no right to claim it. You’ve done the right thing.’
Frank leaned over and dropped a newspaper in front of him, as Joe was crossing out some lines on a piece of paper. It was that morning’s copy of The Times.
‘What’s this, Frank?’
‘You know what it is. It’s The Times. What else could it be? Have you gone blind all of a sudden?’ He cackled and Joe struggled not to give him a stern look that a school teacher might give an unruly pupil.
‘You know what I mean, Frank. Why have you thrown it on my desk? I was busy working.’
‘When are you not busy working, Joe? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you stop. You’re always in here before me, and still here after I’ve gone home for the night.’
That much was true, but often he was just reading, or trying his hand at writing. Every morning he would come back in and go over what he had written, then throw it away in disgust. The only way he would get better was to keep trying.
‘It’s a report on the British Army, Joe,’ Frank said, bringing Joe out of his reverie by prodding the paper with his index finger. ‘It’s not looking good.’
He flicked through the first couple of pages. The grainy pictures of smiling soldiers and waving men at the recruiting offices were a stark contrast to the headlines and articles. Perhaps that was the whole point, Joe thought. The British Army had been heavily defeated at the small Belgian town of Mons, it said. They had taken over a thousand casualties and were on the retreat.
He set the newspaper down and took a sip of water from a glass on his desk. His throat had gone dry.
‘Are you all right, lad? You look pale as a ghost.’
Concern and confusion was etched across Frank’s face, and he could clearly sense Joe’s discomfort. He took the newspaper back when Joe didn’t reply.
‘I just keep thinking of our George going out there.’
‘I didn’t think he’d shipped out yet?’
‘No, he’s not gone yet, but soon they say. With heavy losses like this, they will be sending them all over as soon as possible. See how many they’ve lost, and the war has only just started.’
‘Well, wait, look here,’ Frank said, prodding the newspaper and waving it in his face. ‘It also says that the Germans suffered many more casualties, expected to be in the thousands.’
‘Oh, and that means it’s going to be all right, does it?’ Joe felt ashamed at his outburst, but Frank was unconcerned.
‘It’s war, lad. There’re bound to be casualties. But if we’re inflicting more than them, then we will win. It’s a simple matter of numbers. We’ve suffered defeats before and still won the war, and still looked good in uniform.’ He smiled emphatically, but it had no effect on Joe.
‘It also says here,’ Joe said, grabbing the newspaper, ‘that we’re on the retreat.’ He paused for a second, waiting for it to settle in. He had never thought of the British Army as ‘we’ before. The idea of nationalism was disconcerting. Perhaps the national pride was working its way into his psyche too. ‘The British Army are almost as far back as Paris. That’s something like… like a hundred and thirty miles from where they started. They’re no longer helping Belgium, not anymore. The Germans far, far outnumber the British Army, even if they keep inflicting casualties, it’s unsustainable.’
‘Then they’re gonna need our help, lad. You know it makes sense.’
Joe sighed.
‘Come on, lad. I keep saying you’d look good in a uniform. There may be lots of them Germans, but they’ll take one look at you and run away with their tails between their legs.’
He made a sound like a dog whimpering and ran around the desk. Some of the other men looked up, wondering what was going on, and Joe laughed.
‘Carry on like that, and you’ll get yourself shot,’ he said as Frank sat down again, lazily draping his arm over the back of the chair. ‘They’ll shoot you just to shut you up.’
‘Steady on, lad,’ Frank said, all mock innocence. ‘I have the very vocal cords of a tenor, me.’ He burst into song, singing a couple of lines then stopping. ‘Even the Germans will be rushing over to hear me. Hah.’
‘I’d like to see that.’
He was being honest. It would be quite a sight, and perhaps show some semblance of peace. ‘But, no, not for me. It’s bad enough that our George is heading out there. I’ll not be joining the army, no matter what they say.’
‘Oh well, I didn’t think I’d ever convince you, lad. You knows what you wants. Far more than I ever did.’ He patted Joe on the arm, but this time it was as a sign of friendship, not in a playful manner. ‘This is something I want. I reckon this is my last day, lad.’
‘I was wondering how long you would last,’ Joe said, not knowing what else to say.
‘Then I’m off in the morning to take the shilling and sign an oath.’
He put his hand on Joe’s arm again and turned his body gently so that he was looking into Frank’s eyes. He was serious for a change.
‘Will you do something for me, Joe?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘While I’m gone… will you… will you look after all the girls for me?’
Frank burst out laughing again and pushed back on his chair, whilst wiping a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. ‘You’re a softie you, lad. Had you going for a minute.’
Joe tried not to get angry at Frank’s ridiculing, he knew he was only joking. ‘Oh,
