where Tom is?’
‘Oh, he’s on his way to work, not long gone. You only just missed him. But knowing him, he’s probably off scrumping for apples.’ She smiled knowingly. Mrs Adams always smiled, no matter what happened. It made George feel happy to see it, knowing what she had been through. He smiled back despite the feeling of embarrassment that washed over him. The Adams’ smile was infectious.
She referred to the time that George had first met her son. Before then, they had never had so much as a conversation. After school one day, George had been walking home, and came across Tom, Harry and Patrick loitering at the end of a road. They were trying to climb over the brick wall of the corner house, to get to its orchard, but couldn’t make it over.
Being taller, George was asked to help, but there was a shout from over the other side of the road. The local copper had spotted them and was crossing towards them. They ran, the policeman giving chase. They turned a corner and hid in a hedgerow.
George’s lasting memory of that time was of laughing uncontrollably. The boys had been friends ever since.
George chuckled to himself as he carried on walking. A lady walking up the road glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and took a step around him. ‘Morning,’ he said, still smiling.
He hoped to catch up with Tom, but he had no idea how far ahead he was. He could feel the excitement of all those around him, from the running children, to the busy adults.
He crossed the tramway that ran along Catharine Street, careful not to trip on the rail that was indented into the stones of the road. He always preferred to walk to work, but Tom would most likely be waiting at the stop, hoping to jump on if George was too late.
George turned the corner and there he was, leaning against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette in his usual, cocky manner. Tom didn’t look up as George approached him. ‘Morning, George,’ he said, without looking. ‘You’re later than usual. I was just about to leave without you.’ He dropped his finished cigarette on the floor and stamped on it. ‘Lovely day for it.’ He smiled wryly, and shifted his coat, knowing that the heat would only make him sweat more. ‘Let’s be getting on.’
George carried on walking past the tram stop. Tom sighed, before rushing to catch up with him. ‘Walking it is then.’ Tom smiled wryly whenever he spoke, it was what was so endearing about him. ‘I always enjoy a good walk. Hey, perhaps there will even be some work left for us when we get there too?’ They walked on together down the hill towards the Mersey and the docks.
‘Walking is better, you know the tram takes just as long by the time it’s stopped at every station,’ George said. ‘If we’re lucky we might get there first.’
Both boys had found work down at the docks, like most young men from these parts. George had left school three years before, at the age of thirteen, and he was glad to see the back of it. The old bastard of a teacher still haunted his dreams, his idea of drill was the worst, and you would get a cane if you couldn’t stand up straight afterwards.
It was hard work, unloading ships and carrying box crates of tea, or tobacco, and bales of cotton to another part of the dock. There were hydraulic cranes, but the boys were needed to move the goods into storage, or transport, and as George was large for his age, he easily found work.
‘So, you’ve no doubt heard the news then?’ Tom said as they crossed the dock road, dodging a horse and cart that clattered along without a warning. The coachman shouted back over his shoulder, telling them to watch out. You could easily get killed by a horse and cart if you weren’t on your watch.
‘Who hasn’t?’ George replied. ‘Our dad brought the paper in this morning. It’s why I was late.’
There had been talk of war for a while now, ever since that Austrian got shot. People had been talking excitedly about Britain going to war and he had felt excited with them, eager to join in. The talk was of going to show Fritz that they couldn’t do what they liked. It was hard not to join in with the sentiment, but then there was also talk of not having enough troops to deal with Germany’s warmongering. Talking about the war was fine, but George didn’t really want to talk about why he was late, nor about his brother.
‘My dad reckons they’ll be after more troops before long,’ he continued. Tom hadn’t asked.
Tom paused for a moment, then grinned again in his usual, contagious manner. ‘We should go and sign up,’ he said. ‘We’d be like our dads. Make them proud.’
Tom was always joking around.
‘Aye, it will be like South Africa.’
‘Perhaps, not as hot though. Sounds like they had a great time. It’s what our dads would want. Well, I know my dad would have encouraged me to sign up if he was still here. I bet your brother has already gone to enlist.’
George hesitated. He hadn’t really wanted to talk about it.
‘No,’ he said. ‘He stormed off at the very mention of it. He has his own ideas.’
Tom shut up and stared ahead, not saying anything for the rest of their journey.
The walk took them past the Custom House, that magnificent building glittering in the morning sun, and into the dockyard, through the wrought-iron fences. The smells of salt water and the cargo were strong. Everyone here was too busy working hard to think about any prospect of war. George waved to a few dock hands and they nodded as they carried on their jobs. For now it was time to work, the war could wait.
Joe let the door click shut behind him. He wanted so much to slam it, but in the end he backed down. What point would he make if he crashed about the place like some bull? He liked peace and the quiet protest of knowing wholeheartedly that he was right, no matter what anyone else said. It kept him going.
He had known what this morning’s breakfast conversation was going to hold, he had expected it. They had been edging ever closer to war, and every day he felt nearer to the time his father would ask him what he was going to do. This morning had been the breaking point.
He took a deep breath before opening the front door and walking out of the house. It was earlier than usual to leave for work, but he could always find something to do at the newspaper. It may be early for him, but the bakers on the end of the road were just finishing their morning cycle. The smell of warm bread was somehow comforting.
A horse and flatbed cart went past carrying large steel milk churns. Its wheels rattled on the cobbled road. Workmen were on their way to the factories, wearing heavy, protective clothing.
He forced a smile to them as he passed. Some of them were people he knew well, people he had grown up with, friends and relatives. They lived in such close confines that it was impossible not to know each other.
Already, people were running about and calling to each other, with a cheer that didn’t reach Joe. He was trying to push his father’s words out of his head, but he couldn’t forget how badly the conversation had gone. He had always known that he would refuse to join the army, but that wasn’t how he had wanted it to happen.
He turned the corner away from their little street and on to the main road. Upper Parliament Street glowed in the summer morning sunshine. The further
