The Moon Field. Judith Allnatt

marching feet through the town. An image from one of the recruitment posters came into his mind: a woman and child at a window, and suddenly the woman’s anxious face was his mother’s and the child clinging to her skirts was Lillie.

      His father said it was best to stick to simple principles: ‘Thou shalt not kill’, that all should ‘beat swords into ploughshares’. George knew his own view: that he would protect Mother and the rest of his family with his life. He had heard his father preach at the Convention last year on the text of ‘turn the other cheek’. He imagined how badly such a sermon would be received in this changed world, against a backdrop of flags and posters, and men in uniform on the move, singing en route to the war. A piercing doubt about his father caught him for a moment before he turned its shaft away. Surely, if the enemy were at the door his father too would defend them all – turning the other cheek would be the same as turning your eyes away! Feeling disloyal, he comforted himself with the words he’d heard his father speak to his mother: that it would soon be over, that Europe didn’t have the gold reserves to fund a modern war, that it could only last months and that they should trust in the Almighty.

      Turland, who had also obviously been listening in to the conversation of the older men, suddenly turned to Haycock and said, ‘I’ve been thinking of going.’

      ‘Signing up?’ Haycock stopped playing.

      ‘Someone’s got to do something, don’t you think?’

      ‘But you’ve got a good place at the paper. Not like me, poking about in machinery innards all day at the risk of losing my fingers. Now I have been thinking about having a bit of a jaunt. What on earth would you want to go for?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Turland said. ‘I want to do something worthwhile, I suppose, and we’re needed: we can’t let the Germans go striding around Europe picking up countries to put in their pockets, can we?’ He rested his elbows on the table and leaned in. ‘Doesn’t seem honourable somehow to know the army’s in retreat for want of men whilst I’m swanning around covering sports days and grand-opening sales.’

      Rooke, who had been quietly gathering more of Haycock’s matches, his voice a little slurred, said, ‘Well, if you’re going, I’m going. We’ll be like the heroes in Valour and Victory. Champions to the rescue!’ He put his hands up in front of his shoulder as if cocking an imaginary rifle, jerked them upwards and threw his body backwards as if taking the recoil. An older man with baggy eyes and a well-trimmed beard twisted round on his stool from the adjacent table saying, ‘Well said, young man; that’s the spirit! Give those Deutschers what for.’

      Haycock looked at Rooke sceptically. ‘Harry says they measure you, how tall you are … your chest and what-all before they let you in.’

      ‘Who’s Harry?’ George asked.

      ‘His brother,’ Turland filled him in. ‘He was in the Territorials so he’s already been mobilised.’

      Haycock asked Rooke, ‘How old are you anyway?’

      Rooke flushed: a blush that reddened his cheeks and rose to the tips of his ears. He shot a swift glance at Turland as if to refer the question to him, which George thought very curious.

      ‘Leave it, Haycock,’ Turland said.

      ‘It’s just that you have to be eighteen to join, nineteen if you want to serve overseas …’

      Rooke stared fiercely at Haycock. ‘I don’t know how old I am.’

      ‘Don’t be daft.’

      Turland said quietly, ‘Shut up, Haycock. Now’s not the time.’ He tapped his cards on the table whilst he thought. ‘We should go up to the castle together,’ he said. ‘Rooke might have more of a chance if they see us as a job lot.’

      George imagined the three of them in khaki, swinging their arms as they marched together and suddenly felt awkward sitting there in his postman’s uniform. The role he’d been so proud of was safe, civilian. He felt reduced to a mere message-taker, little better than an errand-boy, while the others would be part of something huge, a glorious endeavour, taking their places as men. He was tipsily aware that somewhere beneath the muddle of his feelings about England and honour and protecting one’s family lay the unease he felt about seeing Violet again: a troubling mixture of deadly embarrassment that he had revealed something of his feelings, and shame that he hadn’t behaved with more gallantry. He felt an unbearable awkwardness that he had no idea how to overcome. Then his mind flipped unaccountably to Lillie and the fragile feel of her small bones as he lifted her that morning, and he felt a lump form in his throat.

      At the next table, the bearded man was nudging his neighbour and drawing the attention of his drinking partners so that all turned round to look. One of them, who had a kitbag slung on the back of his chair, said, ‘You shouldn’t have too much of a problem. You’ll soon shape up, even the young ’un.’

      Haycock spat on his hand and held it out over the jumble of glasses and cards.

      ‘Are you in, Farrell?’ Turland asked.

      George hesitated. The scrutiny from the table behind had spread and even the men standing at the bar had turned to see what had caused the dramatic gesture.

      ‘Soldiers in the making!’ the bearded man called out, and with that, Turland and Rooke spat on their palms too and the three of them joined hands, fist over fist, to a chorus of approving voices. George leant back on his stool as if to move out of the bearded man’s eyeline.

      ‘Three soldiers and a postman!’ the man shouted and the swell of congratulation died away into laughter as George hunched his shoulders and stared into his pint. Rooke bent beneath his downcast face and grinned up at him, saying, ‘Cheer up, mate, plenty of time to change your mind.’

      George shrugged and downed the pint in huge gulps until there was nothing left. He saw that he’d fallen behind the others; there was a full glass set ready in front of him. He tried to focus on the task of stretching out to pick up the glass but his hand seemed to move independently of his will, jerking forward and nudging the full glass so that it slopped a pool of beer on to the table. He stared at the beer still frothing on the dark wood.

      ‘Steady,’ said Haycock, setting the glass in his hand.

      ‘You shouldn’t have bought him that last one,’ said Turland.

      ‘Needs cheering up, doesn’t he?’ Haycock said. ‘Spot of woman trouble.’ He winked at Turland and dealt the cards again. Turland and Rooke picked up their cards and another game began.

      George took a sup and put his glass down very carefully but waved Haycock away when he tried to give him his hand of cards. ‘I’ll pass this one up,’ he muttered.

      We must have been here a while, George thought, as the girl who had been collecting glasses reached across a table to open a window and he saw her reflection in the pane and realised that it was now fully dark outside. He hoped that there was a moon and wondered how he would make the ride home without mishap otherwise. A cool draught of air reached him. He breathed it in deeply and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach and the sensation that if he didn’t concentrate very hard on the three of spades which lay abandoned in front of him, the room started to waver slowly on the borders of his vision.

      The girl reached their table and began to gather up the empties. She had coarse features, hair the colour of brass and the high colour that often goes with it. Strands of her hair had escaped her pins and stuck to her brow and neck.

      Haycock said, ‘Where’s Mary tonight then?’

      ‘She’s ill; I’m just filling in this once,’ the girl said. She paused to roll her sleeves up, revealing plump, freckly arms. She leaned across the table to pick up the empty glasses in front of George, and Haycock tipped his stool backwards so that he could give her posterior a long, appraising look. ‘Bottoms up,’ he said and drained the dregs of his beer. George thought this uncouth. Haycock sat forward again and put his