There was a tap at the door and Rooke opened it a little way and put his head round it. ‘Breakfast’s started,’ he said.
Turland woke, stretched, and scratched his head. ‘Righto, I’ll be down in a minute.’ He glanced over at George and then added, ‘Here, Percy, see if you can put your filching skills to use and get something for Farrell, will you?’
Rooke nodded and withdrew.
George said, ‘Thanks for giving me the bed – very much appreciated.’ He slowly swung his legs down, using their weight to lever himself into a sitting position, and then braced himself by leaning on his hands, pressing his palms down on the edge of the mattress and straightening his arms to release some of the pressure on his bruised ribs.
‘No trouble. Everyone was in bed so we smuggled you in without a hitch. The bike’s down behind the basement railings.’ Turland pulled on his clothes and sat down again to tie up his shoes. ‘If you want to use the lav you should be all right while everyone’s at breakfast. There’s only Mr Anstey on this floor and he always goes fishing on a Saturday so he’ll be out by now.’ He chucked George a towel and hurried off to breakfast.
George crept along the landing to the bathroom where he splashed his hair and face with water and then stripped, washed and towelled himself down briskly. He rinsed the foul taste from his mouth, dressed and tried to make himself look respectable once more. He rubbed at the grubby knees of his trousers with a dampened corner of the towel and disposed of his soiled handkerchief in the bin marked ‘Laundry’.
When he slipped back to the room, Turland and Rooke were standing back to back comparing their height.
‘Turland reckons he’s five foot five. How much smaller am I?’ Rooke asked.
George obliged by putting his hand flat on Rooke’s smooth, well-oiled head. He marked where Rooke came up to with the side of his hand against Turland’s head. ‘Well, you’re about half a head shorter.’
Turland said, ‘Come on, Percy, you have to make five foot three to get in.’
Rooke pulled himself up to stand even straighter.
‘You’re still about three inches shorter,’ George said uncertainly.
Rooke’s shoulders sagged. Turland turned round and gave him a friendly punch on the arm. ‘Buck up, Rooke. Everyone knows our lads are desperate for reinforcements. I bet they’ll take you on, even at bantamweight.’
Rooke looked pleased and straightened his tie and collar.
Turland turned to George, and eyed his height and broad shoulders. ‘How about it, Farrell? Fancy changing your mind and coming along to make up the numbers? They’d snap you up, you know.’
There was a silence. George felt pleased that Turland thought so well of him and that the lads wanted him to come along as one of them. He’d always been outside the gangs at school, just him and Kitty muddling through, never feeling part of a group, never really belonging. Not like this: friends, comrades, brothers in arms. He thought about the extra pay he’d get, a shilling a day, and how it would help him make things right at home. He thought about casting off the self that he saw as grimy, weak, despicable, and replacing it with the aspiration of glory and honour and being a man. It would be like diving into a clear lake and emerging a new person: fitter, stronger. He imagined them all returning together, victorious: bronzed and battle-hardened men. Perhaps he would be able to do something half decent so that he could hold his head high in front of Violet again. His heart beat a little faster and his spirits lifted.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right, I will.’
Turland nodded sagely, affecting a gravitas suitable to the occasion.
Rooke said, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ and brought out from his jacket pocket a square package wrapped in a rather greasy-looking napkin. George opened it to find a round of toast with a thin piece of bacon pressed between the slices.
‘Iron rations,’ Rooke said. ‘Eat up, soldier.’
They met up with Haycock and set off for the castle where recruitment was taking place. As they approached the centre of the town, they could hear the sound of a silver band in the next street. Haycock said, ‘Eh up? What’s this all about?’ and they wandered over to the Botchergate to find out. The street, always busy with shoppers, was thronging with people who had been drawn by the music, a martial tune with a solid drumbeat and a brash melody in a major key. George craned his neck to try to see above the spread of caps and hats but the crowd was four or five deep on the pavement and he was too far back. Rooke disappeared into the press, ducking under a man’s arm, and George followed suit, slipping through behind a nursemaid who was trying to manoeuvre a baby carriage.
He reached the others at the front and saw, coming towards them, a military band in navy dress uniform, striped with red ribbon: trumpets and trombones in front, polished to a glaring brightness in the morning sun, a euphonium and the huge bass drum behind. The drummer beat the taut skin with gusto and the sound reverberated as if caught between the high buildings. The rhythm was underwritten by the sound of the marching feet of the soldiers who followed on behind, carrying placards that read: ‘Will You Answer the Call? Now Is the Time’ and ‘Take up the Sword of Justice. Enlist Today!’ A wave of cheering from the crowd followed their progress. Behind the soldiers followed a mass of ordinary men in civilian dress, looking a rag-tag group in comparison with the orderly men in khaki. Some were laughing, some waving at friends in the crowd, while others made self-conscious efforts to fall into step with the marching soldiers. Every now and then, a man or two would break from the crush on the pavement and step out to join the procession and the volume of the cheering would rise as if to carry him forward on a swell of sound.
The band drew level with George and the others. A group of young women applauded but the sound mingled with the music, drowned out as the people all around took up the cheer. Turland plucked at George’s sleeve. Haycock was watching with a broad grin on his face. Rooke took off his cap, smoothed down his hair and put his cap back on again. ‘This is it, then,’ Turland mouthed at George over the ear-splitting noise. The band passed and the rows of marching soldiers followed, four abreast. ‘Ready?’ said Turland.
George pulled at the bottom of his jacket to straighten it. As the volunteers came level with them they all stepped forward. The cheering seemed to George to echo around him. As he came forward out of the shadow of the buildings, he was intensely aware of the heat of the sun on his head and the clear blue of the strip of sky above him. Everything was shining: the glittering instruments; the plate-glass windows of the shops with their fancy goods; the boots and belts of the soldiers they were to follow. They fell into line amongst the men; someone clapped him on the back, others moved to make space for the four of them to march together. They passed on into Lowther Street. The tram wires above them seemed to vibrate with the sound of the band, men raised their hats from the steps of the Royal Temperance Hotel and everywhere people stopped what they were doing to listen to the music. A group of young women, gathered at the upstairs window of a tearoom, leant out and waved and Haycock waved back. One of them took a flower from the vase on the table and tossed it down to him and Haycock caught it.
‘Who’s that?’ George yelled at him over the din.
Haycock shrugged and turned round; walking backwards, he held out his arms to the girl and made a great show of tucking the flower