LITMIR.BIZ

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One day, Joe would own his own home and bedroom.

      Getting up early and reading was his usual morning pattern, but today he just got dressed. He tripped over George’s boots on his way downstairs. He had done enough reading last night for a few days, and his head was still sore from the concentration.

      Halfway down the staircase he heard raised voices coming from the kitchen and stopped.

      ‘How dare you?’ his mother shouted, just loud enough to be heard through the walls. Joe didn’t hear the reply, mumbled as it was. ‘How dare you?’ his mother shouted again, loud enough to wake the house if anyone had still been sleeping.

      There was silence for a few seconds, and Joe tried to relax. He daren’t go further down the stairs, should anyone realise he was there.

      ‘No, George. Not this time. You shouldn’t have done this.’ The anger in his mother’s voice had more control this time. Then he heard an unexpected voice, that of his Uncle Stephen; a voice he hadn’t heard in some time. He didn’t visit their home often. His uncle was how his parents had met. He and Joe’s father had served together and at a regimental dinner George’s mother and father had been introduced. He had heard the story many times. Joe’s heart raced as he thought of all the possibilities of what they were arguing about. He kept coming back to the same conclusion, and the thought made him sick. He hesitated, one foot on the bottom step and a hand on the banister. He dearly wanted to go upstairs and avoid the conversation, but his curiosity and his concern pulled at him. One day he would have to start confronting things.

      ‘You’re too young.’

      The beating of his heart grew louder in his ears, and he still didn’t hear George’s response. Joe put his other foot on the stair, praying they wouldn’t creak.

      ‘Hello, Joe. What are you doing?’ enquired a young voice, followed by the click of a closing door. She made him start. He had been so engrossed he hadn’t heard his little sister creep up on him.

      ‘Shush, Lizzie. Not so loud!’ He waved his hands, but she only smiled in return and came closer. ‘I’m just thinking. Why don’t you run upstairs? And don’t tell anyone you saw me!’

      He was getting in the habit of lying recently, and he hated himself for it. If he told her what was happening then she would no doubt tell her parents at some point. She was too young to understand. By now, he could no longer make out much of the conversation in the kitchen. His mother was no longer shouting, but he could feel the tension as she moved around the kitchen. Still, his sister stood and smiled at him, craning her neck to see what he was doing, mimicking him.

      ‘What are you thinking about? Is it to do with stairs?’

      ‘It’s not important, Lizzie. Now come along with you, up the stairs. Mum will be calling you down soon, and if you’re not ready she will be upset.’ Again he bent the truth to suit his needs, but Lizzie didn’t need to know what was up – not knowing was better at her age. She would find out soon enough. She stopped smiling and stomped up the stairs, her curls bouncing with each step.

      ‘Shush,’ he said again, in a whisper up the stairs. He would rather not know himself for now. Once again, he was running away from things. If George had signed up for the army, it would rip the family apart. His sixteen-year-old brother was far too young to be going to war. The thought made Joe sick, and he rested his head against the banister, closing his eyes. No one was old enough to go to war. It didn’t matter who they were. No one should have to kill another or be killed for their country. George was brave, not stupid, but Joe couldn’t help but feel he had made the wrong decision. He felt guilty. Guilty that he had never reached out to his brother, and now it could be too late.

      He went back upstairs, leaving the conversation behind. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. As he walked past one door he could hear Lizzie singing softly to herself and the sound brought a warmth to his heart. She had a sweet voice, the voice of innocence. He re-entered the room that he and his brother shared, the two iron framed beds on each long wall, like a school dormitory. Kicking his shoes off, he fell backwards onto his bed with a creak of springs. A wave of tiredness hit him. He was tired with the world, with the constant conflict. He turned to the bookshelf that ran alongside his bed. His eyes fell on Tolstoy, amongst others. His collection was meagre, gathered from a second-hand bookshop in the city centre with what money he could spare, but the books were his. One day he would have his own library, full of books on any number of subjects. These took pride of place on the shelf, their battered covers only serving to highlight the quality of names presented on them. A couple had been given to him by his teacher, Fenning. They were both philosophy texts, to encourage him to higher thinking. Not today, he thought. Today wasn’t the time to reach such works. He wasn’t in the mood for opening his mind to possibilities and ideology. He was already weary of thought.

      His spotted a copy of the Labour Leader. The same issue that he had used to help edit Barnes’s article. He didn’t usually leave the paper out, the writings of Brockway and the rest would not be welcome in this house. His father wouldn’t appreciate them. Even his books were a risk. The newspaper was incriminating evidence when Barnes returned, and if he accused Joe of tampering with his article. Joe didn’t want to think about the possibility now.

      It was proving to be a bad kind of day, and it hadn’t even really started yet. He was exhausted from work at the Daily Post, where others were leaving to join the war effort and everyone else had to gather round and work harder. Now he suspected that there was going to be some consequence of his editing of Albert Barnes’s piece. Worst of all, was the news that his brother had signed up to go and fight – the very thing he was trying to convince other boys not to do. There was nothing he could do to stop that now. He could help others, but what good would that do if he couldn’t even help his family? The least he could do was support his brother, give him confidence. He couldn’t stop him going to fight – he would never listen to Joe, he never had – but, short of signing up himself, he could do everything possible to make sure George would come home.

      He pulled out his notepad from the drawer next to the bed and began writing.

      Dear George.

      A door slammed downstairs, the kitchen door. With nothing short of instinct he jumped up from his bed and rushed to the top of the stairs. He was only just in time to see his mother’s back. ‘Come on, Lizzie,’ she said and walked out the front door. His sister had gone back to listening at the bottom of the stairs, and now followed their mother from the house.

      He rushed down the stairs to see what was happening, and peered out the front door. His mother and little sister were nowhere to be seen. Wherever they had gone, they had gone in a hurry. He decided not to follow. His mother had done this a couple of times before, but she would return later as if nothing had happened. He guessed that she just needed to calm down, and that Lizzie’s presence would help her.

      He turned back into the house and clicked the front door shut behind him. A moment later the kitchen door opened and Uncle Stephen walked out into the hallway. Stephen was a tall man, half a head taller than Joe, and always wore his uniform. Joe was fond of his uncle, but he wouldn’t exactly call them close. He was a warm and friendly man, but the two of them had nothing in common. Joe had never been boisterous, or particularly adventurous, and his uncle was a classic example of what a military officer should be.

      ‘Ahh, Joseph. Good to see you,’ he said, in his clipped, proper accent. The sound of his voice reminded Joe of everyone at his first school, the sound of the upper classes. Uncle Stephen stood to attention, even in the Abbotts’ small hallway. He always smelt of cigars and faintly of wool from his uniform. The smell that Joe always associated with the army. ‘I don’t suppose that you saw my dear sister on your way in, did you?’

      ‘Only on her way out.’ Joe almost stammered, feeling like a school child again, afraid of that new world. ‘She didn’t say where she was going.’

      ‘Ah, yes. Well, I will find her. I can put all that expensive army training to the test and track her.’ He winked, and moved to the doorway, easily gliding past Joe who was rooted to the spot. ‘I’d best go and

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