at Tom, who was still stretching his back, visibly uncomfortable at the pain. ‘What did you do? Why are you slacking?’
Tom shrugged. ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘The cart’s full, and we’re going back for more.’
The dock master wasn’t appeased.
‘Don’t lie to me. I heard a commotion, what’s going on? If you’ve caused any damage…’
It was at that moment that he noticed the destroyed brandy barrel. It was a wonder he hadn’t seen it sooner, the stench of brandy was strong in George’s nostrils. The dock master’s eyes widened as he took in the broken wood and the precious cargo draining away through the cobbles.
‘You damaged the cargo,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘What?’
The dock master grabbed Tom by the collar, even though Tom was a good foot taller than him.
‘Do you have any idea how much that barrel was worth? More money than you’ll ever have.’
‘What?’ Tom said again, unsure. ‘I didn’t do anything. You’re mad.’
‘Damn right I’m mad. How are you going to pay for that?’
George moved to help Tom, but couldn’t see how without angering the dock master further. Instead he tried to calm him down.
‘Tom didn’t do anything, sir. The tail board on the cart broke and the barrel rolled off. If you ask the coachman he will vouch for us.’ The coachman wouldn’t be back for a while, but at least it might buy them some time.
The dock master turned to George, still holding Tom by the collar.
‘Who asked you? As far as I know you’re just as much to blame as this idiot is.’
Tom used that moment to break free of the dock master’s grasp. With a lurch, he pushed the smaller man away with both hands. He moved backwards and tripped over a cobble, but thanks to his low centre of gravity, managed not to fall.
‘I didn’t break the barrel, sir. In fact, it almost broke me.’ As a gesture of goodwill, Tom checked the man over to make sure he wasn’t hurt. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, my friend and I would like to get back to work. There are plenty more barrels like that that need moving and if that doesn’t get done, then I guess you’ll lose even more money.’
The dock master trembled, in shock from Tom’s shove, then nodded.
‘Fine. I’ll chase that coachman for this. But if either of you lads does anything like this again, if you put one finger where it shouldn’t be, then I will make sure that you never work anywhere on these docks again.’
He walked away, his pace slightly quicker than a walk like someone trying to escape a confrontation with an enemy without drawing attention to himself.
‘Now get back to work,’ he called over his shoulder, as if it was his idea and not Tom’s.
‘That was close,’ Tom said, grabbing George by the arm and leading him away. ‘Come on, let’s get this over and done with.’
They went back to work, but before long the conversation had returned to the war.
‘Well now, I think they’ll take me,’ Tom said out of the blue, and George rolled his eyes at him, even though Tom wasn’t paying attention. ‘They need more men, they’ll take anyone that can hold a rifle at the moment. Besides, what have I got to lose? I’ve not got much here except my old mum. It’s gotta be better than this. Anything is better than this.’ He stopped and gestured at the barrel he had been rolling towards the new cart. The previous coachman hadn’t come back.
He stretched his back and groaned at the pain. Injuries were common around the dock, and Tom was lucky it hadn’t been worse. Every week one or more of the lads working on the dock ended up in a ward, or sometimes worse: a mortuary.
George grunted. It wasn’t so much that he agreed with Tom – he resented the fact that he had only thought about his mother and not his friends – but Tom had that way of getting you to see his point of view.
George thought about Tom leaving, and about working on the dock alone. It didn’t appeal to him. They made a good team.
‘If you go, Tom, I can’t go with you,’ he said.
‘Sure you can, if that’s what you want. Why not?’
‘For a start, I’m not old enough. You have to be nineteen before they’ll send you abroad, eighteen if you just want to stay at home doing something boring.’
He saw the dock master prowling along the path and gestured to Tom to resume their work. ‘At least, that’s what my dad always told us. He’s been counting down the days.’
‘Ah, come on now, George.’ Tom shook his head as he always did when he thought George was being unreasonable. ‘If you want to sign up, they’ll take you. By the sounds of it they’ll take anyone. That old dock master over there might even be in khaki soon. You’ll see.’
They both laughed at the thought. It was a welcome relief to the melancholy that had settled on them during the day, and finally Tom was smiling again.
‘You don’t want to wait till eighteen or nineteen to go down the recruitment office. You’ll be sat twiddling your thumbs, hearing about all the heroic deeds we’ve been up to out there. It’ll all be over by the time your eighteenth birthday comes, then what’ll you do? Start another war, just so you can fight in it?’
He was poking fun at George, but the smile was so warm it was difficult not to get dragged along in his wake.
‘Perhaps I will. It’d show you.’ George thought for a moment. ‘They’ll know I’m not old enough and I’ll get turned away from the office. It’ll be humiliating watching you and the rest of them get your khaki and being told to come back when I’m a man.’
‘Ah, that won’t happen, trust me. You’re bigger than any eighteen-year-old I know. You even look older than me and don’t forget, I’m two years older than you. Besides, you’ll be with me. That’ll be enough to help you out. They won’t want to turn away any of the famous Tom Adams’ army.’
George laughed as he pushed the final barrel onto the cart and fastened the rear hatch, eyeing it suspiciously. Tom gave it a big thump and was satisfied that it wasn’t going to come loose. ‘Ready,’ he shouted to the coachman. He then stood with his hands on his hips, like George’s mother often did when he was in trouble. ‘If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t believe you were any less than nineteen,’ he said.
George pushed Tom away and they went to find some more work.
Tom was right. George was unlike his father and brother, who were both thin and gaunt. His broad shoulders and chest may have come from his mother’s side. Uncle Stephen was a much larger man. George had more in common with him than his father. His uncle was like a giant when stood next to his father, even if his father didn’t have a crooked leg. His father always stood as tall as he could when Stephen was around. His mother always argued that George looked just like his father had done in the army, and pushed old, brown photographs in his direction to prove it. Back
