Goodbye for Now: A breathtaking historical debut. M.J. Hollows
smoke drift around Joe as he stood above him. He was always smoking; it was as if he had decided that it was something that an editor should do. As a result, it made his voice somewhat distinctive, along with the heavy breathing that accompanied his walking. It sounded like he was trying to talk through the reed of a woodwind instrument. It was a sound that the other men in the office had found especially useful when trying to avoid working. They always knew when he was coming, even if they didn’t smell his cigar first.
‘Good morning, Mr Harlow. How do you do?’ Joe made the pleasantry without wanting an answer. It was just what one did.
‘I take it you’ve heard the news then? You can hardly avoid it round here, what with all the noise and excitement.’ With that he looked over at the other men and then at the still empty desks of the office. They were once again pretending to read the newspapers. Research, they would call it, if pressed.
Joe nodded, not knowing what to say. The news had been coming, but he wasn’t a war reporter, so it wasn’t his responsibility.
‘I’m sorry, Abbott,’ Mr Harlow coughed. ‘The news came through last night, almost immediately after you left. I had to give the article an edit myself when it came through. Priority you see, when it comes to declarations of war. We had to get it ready for this morning, see. The typesetters were about ready to go. “You know how much it costs to stop once we’ve started,” they said, but I had to. If it didn’t go out this morning, the owner would have my neck.’ The apology was unnecessary, given Joe’s position, but characteristic of the man. He wanted to be every one’s best friend.
‘But forget that. It’s happened now, and no doubt we’ll pay the price for it sooner or later.’ Mr Harlow wagged a finger at Joe as if telling him off then paused, thinking about his own words and taking a puff of his cigar.
‘I’ve got this here for you. Something to work on, and I need it pretty sharpish. Forget that other rubbish.’
He pushed the piece of paper under Joe’s nose. ‘Enlist to-day. The Germans pillage Belgium!’ the headline read. If that was how the headline started, then he daren’t read the rest.
Why was Mr Harlow giving him this piece to edit? Could it be because he felt bad about working without him last night? Joe doubted that. It made a change from his usual job of looking through the local pieces for any mistakes or spelling errors, but it wasn’t what he wanted to be involved in. It wasn’t like he had shouted it from the rooftops, but surely Mr Harlow must know of his opinions.
‘When you’re done with that and it goes out, the office will empty.’ Mr Harlow sighed. ‘Seems that some of the lads have already deserted us. That or they’re just bloody well late!’
So that explained the empty desks. He only swore when he was angry and he was giving Joe this piece because there was no one else around to do it. So much for taking his mind off the pressure of the war, instead he had to edit this abhorrent article. Albert Barnes had written it to encourage other young men like him to sign up, whatever the cost.
‘I’m not sure this is my thing, Mr Harlow,’ he said with hesitation. When he looked up, the editor had already gone, the waft of cigar smoke following in his wake.
He looked back at the article, pushing aside his other work. The headline was no worse than the rest. Crammed into the tiny article were all the atrocities that the German army had already engaged in during their short time marching into Belgium. He had no idea where the information had come from; he knew for sure that Barnes had never left the city, he wasn’t the kind of man to go off in search of a story. How could he possibly know that any of this was true?
Joe couldn’t bring himself to endorse it.
Allegedly, men were already leaving their jobs to sign up for the war they had been anticipating for months. To see off the invading Germans and send them home with their tails between their legs. They didn’t need the help of this propaganda and supposition to encourage them, many had already made that decision on their own.
‘Wondering what it’d be like to be in uniform, Joe lad?’
Frank Gallagher liked the sound of his own voice and, seeing as he occupied the next desk, Joe was often on the receiving end of it. Joe hadn’t noticed him come over, but now Frank was sat side-saddle on his chair and smirking. His face was pockmarked with the remnant signs of acne.
‘I fancy me in a bit of khaki, like. Reckon the girls will lap it up.’
He smiled stupidly, enjoying himself, and Joe reluctantly smiled back. He had to admit that even though Gallagher could be annoying at times, he did have a certain charm. He made you want to laugh and join in with his japes.
Joe didn’t say anything and just shook his head in a playful manner. For once he could imagine why people might sign up, with the honest camaraderie of people like Gallagher, but it was still war.
‘Come on, lad. Ya never know, you might find yourself a sweet lass too.’ With that he laughed and punched Joe lightly on the shoulder. ‘But then we’d have to drag you away from your work.’
What would it be like once the war started proper, if everyone went off to fight? Would it be him and Mr Harlow left all on their own to run the paper? How on earth was the country going to cope? He didn’t like the thought, and once again tried to push thoughts of the war out of his mind and press on with work.
‘Is that where Barnes and Swanley are, Frank?’ He nodded over at their empty desks.
‘What? Them two? Lost if I know where they are. They live by their own rules them two. Even the territorials would give them a wide berth.’ He scoffed and shook his head. ‘They’d look rubbish in a uniform. And they already get all the girls anyway. Leave some for old Frank, that’s what I say.’
Joe laughed despite himself.
‘I just saw Mr Harlow, and he gave me one of Barnes’s articles.’ He held up the sheet of paper he was supposed to edit.
‘Aye, I saw him on the way in too, muttering to himself. He didn’t even notice me. Thought it were best to leave him to it.’
‘I don’t suppose you could take it off my hands, Frank? I’m a bit busy you see.’ He pulled the pile of local articles and adverts closer and smiled at Gallagher. There was no point in telling Frank that he didn’t want to work on it himself. He wouldn’t understand.
‘Oh no! You’re not getting me in trouble that easily.’ The big smile lit up his face. ‘I’ve only got a few more days’ work to get through before I can get out of here. Last thing I want is old Ed Harlow coming down on me for doing your work for you. He’s given that to you. I’ve got other stuff to do.’ He shuffled a pile of papers on his own desk. ‘Gotta make this lot respectable. Half them journalists can’t write for toffee. I’d swear on me old gran that they make up some of this stuff. Some of these words I ain’t even heard before.’
Joe didn’t doubt it; Frank was a nice guy, but he wasn’t the most intelligent. Joe suspected the questioned words were in fact real words, but he was better off leaving Frank to it – he had his style, which was popular with the readers.
‘You’ll have to find someone else to pass the boring ones to.’
‘This one isn’t exactly boring, Frank.’
‘I know, just glancing at it has already made me want to sign up.’ He gave Joe a thump on the arm in jest, and Joe resisted to urge to say ‘ow’. ‘But, well, that’s not the point. I’ve already decided I’m going. Perhaps reading what Fritz is up to might give you that kick you need to join in the fun too.’
‘But, how do we know any of this is true, Frank?’
‘What do you mean, true? Of course it’s true. We’re newspaper men, if we don’t know what true is then who does? True…’ He shook his head.
‘But all these horrible things, I can’t believe that they would do that. We have no proof, other than hearsay.’
‘Of