it hung down her back rather than being pinned in a coil in her usual manner. George noticed the dull grey hairs that were curlier than the brown and had escaped to form a soft edge to the silhouette of her head against the light from the window. Her apron strings were coming undone and the bars of her shoes were unbuttoned as if she’d slipped them on in haste. Such was George’s scrutiny as he hesitated to speak that, as if she had sensed it, she made a small sound of irritation and paused to slap at the back of her neck as though she felt a midge bite.
George steeled himself. ‘I’m back,’ he said.
His mother wheeled round. ‘Where have you been?’ Her face looked pinched; the two worry lines between her eyebrows that he knew so well were drawn tight. ‘You stayed out all night!’
George, unable to tell the truth without eliciting further questions that he didn’t want to answer, simply said, ‘I’ve joined up.’ He walked into the room and put his folded uniform down on the table.
‘Mind! Crumbs,’ she said automatically, moving it further over, away from the breadcrumbs and smudges of butter on the oilcloth. ‘What do you mean? Whatever did you want to do that for?’
‘I … I lost my wages. It was careless of me; I must have put them in my trouser pocket so they fell out when I was riding the bike. I know you always tell me to put them in my breast pocket. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, that was foolish, but never mind that, George. What do you mean you’ve joined up? Not enlisted?’ She looked again at the folded clothes on the table; then she reached out and touched the cloth as though trying to believe that it was real.
George said nothing.
‘It’s not right,’ she said. ‘We’ve taught you that since a baby.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘You know better than to get involved. Think how your father will feel about it; it’s not Christian!’
George shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, I’ve done it,’ he said. ‘I’ve signed the papers.’ He reached into his pocket to look for the shilling.
‘But it’s dangerous!’ A plaintive note came into his mother’s voice. ‘Surely you’re too young … They won’t send you overseas, will they? How long have you signed up for?’
‘The duration.’
She sat down at the table and pushed away the breadboard, which chinked the butter dish and the muddle of plates together. ‘That’s good, better than signing up for years, that’s not so bad … it’ll be training,’ she said as if to herself. ‘It’ll all be over soon – before you’re old enough to go. Well, that’s something …’ She rested her forehead on her hand, her action belying her words of self-comfort. She looked as though she was about to cry.
George said, ‘Oh, don’t, Mother, please don’t.’ He touched her shoulder but she wouldn’t look at him. ‘I’m very sorry about the money.’ He produced the shilling, saying, ‘Here, I know we’ll still be short but I’ll get this every day so we’ll soon catch up again.’
He held it out to her but his mother just shook her head and looked away from him.
George was unsure what to do; he wished that his father were at home. Even if it meant facing his disappointment, it would be worth it to have him know what best to say to Mother.
‘Well, I suppose you must just look after it for me until I come back then.’ He put the shilling down on the table beside her elbow. He kissed the top of her head, picked up his uniform and went slowly upstairs.
It was stuffy in the bedroom with its sloping ceiling under the eaves. George changed out of his postman’s uniform and put on a clean shirt and trousers. The uniform would have to go back to Mr Ashwell but he didn’t feel that he could ask his mother to sew up the ripped pocket and he knew he would make a mess of it if he tried to do it himself. He put it on a clothes hanger, opened the window and hung it from the sash to air. He wished he had asked Mother for some of that bread.
Ted’s bed was unmade and still had the dent in the pillow where he had slept. George lay down on the smooth coverlet of his own bed, his head propped against the wooden headboard that his father had made for him when he was a child. He had been so proud to have this crude piece of carpentry from his father that he had scratched his initials in the corner. The marks were there still, though dulled by age and polish. It felt strange to look around the little room that was still so full of his childhood and know that he would be leaving it in just two days. All his things had been handed down to Ted so the shelves still held his old games: Ludo, Railway Race and Magnetic Fishing; his eye wandered over the boxes, their cardboard lids softened and dog-eared with use. Piles of Boys’ Best Story Papers and Funnybone comics, which he had reread time and time again, were stuffed higgledy-piggledy between a book on scouting and a pair of shin pads. George thought that he hadn’t taken Ted to play cricket for a long time and felt a pang of regret.
On top of the boxes was Ted’s newest acquisition, a ‘panorama’ of Captain Scott’s expedition. The little theatre had a scarlet proscenium arch decorated with gold acanthus leaves and inside was a snowy scene with tiny stand-up figures. In the foreground, Scott himself shouldered an ice pick while behind him fluttered the English flag, and men, horses and dog sleighs crossed the snow between the spread of tents and the mountains. He thought of the boldness of the expedition, how courageous it was to brave those unknown wastes. He thought of the aching cold, the labour of moving all the equipment and making camp, the fear of breaking ice. How arduous the enterprise and how glorious the attempt! He felt a shiver go through him at the romance of it all. Soon he would be starting out on an expedition of his own that was equally serious in intent, and which would demand just such manly qualities. He got up, retrieved his sketchbook from his jacket pocket and tucked it under his pillow. He closed his eyes and let all the strain, and the events of the last two days, drift into the background. He daydreamt of the time when he would return from the war. He would visit Violet, upright in his uniform, perhaps with stripes on his sleeve, and with his own tales to tell of distant countries …
Ted shook him by the shoulder to wake him to tell him that tea was ready. He groaned as the movement made his tender ribs ache. He could hear the clatter of plates and his mother’s voice telling Lillie to wash her hands at the tap.
‘Are you really going for a soldier?’ Ted said. ‘With a rifle and everything?’ He bounced down on the end of the bed.
George groaned again and said, ‘Te-ed.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Is Father home?’ he asked.
‘Not until around ten. I heard him tell Ma at lunchtime that he’s going on to choir practice after the meeting with the Elder. Where’s the rifle then? Go on, show us it.’
‘I haven’t got it yet and anyway it wouldn’t be safe to have it lying around in a bedroom,’ George said in an authoritative tone.
Ted, rather stung by what he saw as George acting ‘above himself’, said, ‘Huh, not much of a soldier then; you haven’t even got a proper uniform.’
George shuffled up the bed and slowly lowered each leg to the ground, wincing as he did so. He had stiffened up and his ribs felt as though someone had taken a hammer to them whilst he slept.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Ted said grumpily. ‘When you’ve gone, I’ll be able to use your fishing rod. And your cricket bat,’ he added meanly.
George said, ‘If I show you, will you promise not to tell?’
Ted nodded.
George pulled up his shirt and Ted said, ‘Holy Mother!’ – an expletive that he didn’t fully understand but knew to be Very Bad.
George pulled his shirt back down again. ‘Not a word, now.’ He gave Ted a nudge. ‘And I don’t mind if you use my rod and my bat as long as you catch all three-pounders and only hit sixes.’
At teatime, the atmosphere was strained. Lillie was fractious after having spent too long in the