There was a telephone box next to the post office in town, though Bert had never used it. He should have just enough time between dinner and lights out for at least a short call if there was no queue.

 

The bright red kiosk stood defying the blackouts outside Catterick’s post office, and thankfully no one was waiting. Bert dropped a few pennies into the coin box and dialled the number; five rings then a click told him he’d been put through. A young female voice announced confidently ‘Stockbridge 2677, Janet Rowe speaking,’ followed by a squeal when Bert announced himself.

 

‘Bertie it’s you, mother said she’d written but we weren’t sure whether you could phone!’ and then at a deafening volume, ‘MA IT’S BERTIE ON THE TELEPHONE.’  A rustle and clunk of the receiver, and then an older voice with a slight quiver came on, ‘Bertie?’

​

‘Yes Ma, it’s me, how are you? I’ve only got a few pence, and I’m not sure how long they’ll last, so I’m sorry if I ring off sooner than I’d like.’

‘Oh Bertie it’s so good to hear your voice again. Janet, Arthur! Stop that racket, I can’t hear a word your brother’s saying.’

‘It’s good to hear you too Ma, I got your letter and felt I should call straight away, you sounded so worried about father. Is he still in a funk?’

‘It’s like a dreadful cloud has come over him. You know, he didn’t go to the shop at all today, I had Janet help after school. I can’t do it on my own, especially the deliveries from the slaughterhouse, the pigs are that heavy. Oh, I do so wish you were here.’

 

‘Me too, Ma,’ said Bert fervently, ‘but you know how it is. I tried to get leave for Charlie’s funeral but nothing doing, so I’m not sure father’s troubles will persuade the Colonel. Is Pa there? Should I speak to him?’

‘Oh yes please Bertie,’ Ma replied gratefully, ‘I just hope you can buck him up. Bill? BILL? Come here, Bertie’s on the telephone.’  A few more rustles and mutterings, then ‘Bert? Son?’

 

‘Hello Pa, how are you?’ Bert tried to sound upbeat, pre-emptively countering his father’s mood.

‘Oh, well you know. Keeping busy, bearing up.’  Ma tutted in the background. ‘How are you? How is training? Ready for the off quite soon?’ Bill’s attempts at chipper tried, unsuccessfully, to mask a strained tone. 

​

‘They don’t tell us much, Pa, but I think it will be about four weeks. Don’t worry though, I’ll do my best to land somewhere nice and safe.’

‘Well yes, you do that, it would put your mother’s mind at ease.’ The background tutting grew louder.

‘Listen, Pa, I don’t mean to pry but I hear you’ve not been feeling yourself since Charlie…you know? I think Ma is worried about the shop, after all she can’t run it alone and you don’t want the customers to start going to Jones’ instead.’

​

‘Nonsense,’ came the reply, ‘Your mother worries too much, I’m quite alright. It’s about time your brother learned the ropes anyhow.’ The tutting turned into a humph.

‘Pa, Arthur’s ten,’ replied Bert wearily. ‘He can’t see over the counter, let alone do the money. Besides, he needs to get his education first.’

‘That’s as may be, but there’s nothing for you to concern yourself with, your mother needs to stop worrying. I’m fine and that’s all there is to it.’

‘Pa-’ A click, then the dial tone. Bert hung up the receiver and rested his head on the back wall of the kiosk.

 

‘Oi, Rowe, you done in there?’ Private Harris rolled out of The Crown and pressed his nose against the glass.  Bert laughed in spite of himself.

‘Yeah all done Harris – did you need to make a call?’

‘Couldn’t even if I wanted to, have you seen the time?’ Bert looked at his watch – they had eight minutes before the barracks’ gates were locked for the night.

‘Damn, we’d better get back sharpish.’  Bert chivvied Harris in a reasonably straight line back to the camp.

​

‘So Rowe, obviously I wasn’t listening in, but y’know the doors on those boxes aren’t sealed too tight. Are you in in a bit of bother?’

‘Not me, my parents,’ replied Bert. ‘My brother bought it and father’s been…well, not himself. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do from up here though.’

​

‘You’re from down south, yeh?’

Bert nodded, ‘Hampshire, six hours down through London. I’d need at least 48 hours away.’

‘Hmm,’ said Johnny thoughtfully. ‘Have you talked to Walker?’

‘That spiv?’ asked Bert raising any eyebrow. ‘No thanks; he’s always on the make, and I’m all good for cigarettes.’

‘Oh, he’s not just smokes and dodgy whisky,’ replied Harris. ‘He can fix things; you know he sorted a cushy desk job for Cooper just last week. Don’t know how he does it, probably best not to ask, but you never know, he might come through.’

​

Bert had no intention of engaging the services of the shifty Private Walker; goodness only knows how much Cooper was in hock in return for that desk job. Maybe Pa was as bad as Ma said, but he’d sounded okay on the phone, thought Bert. Maybe he should try the Colonel anyway, perhaps show him Ma’s letter?

​

The two privates slipped into the barracks just before the gates were locked for the night. Hurrying to the farthest steel Romney hut, Bert adjusted his eyes to the darkness and tiptoed to his bunk in the far left corner. Kicking off scuffed hobnail boots he rolled onto the insubstantial mattress. I really must shine those up in the morning, he thought, drifting into an uneasy sleep.

 

The mess hall next morning was, as usual, crammed full of chattering trainees attempting to digest moistureless toast. As Bert spread his ration with hopeful margarine and stirred three sugars into the rust-coloured tea, a clatter of cutlery alerted him to Harris’ arrival.

 

‘Okay, Harris? A little the worse for wear this morning?’

‘Morning Rowe, you know me, constitution of an ox,’ replied Harris, though Bert thought he looked a bit green. Nodding hello to the rest of the table, Harris leaned over, whispering conspiratorially, ‘You talk to Walker?’

‘No, I really don’t think that’s the best idea. I’m going to try the Colonel. Hopefully he’s got a better nature that I can appeal to.’

 

Harris snorted. ‘Well good luck with that, though I don’t think you’ve got a cat in hell’s chance. You’d really be better off with Walker.’

‘Who you two gassing about?’, asked a lanky Welsh corporal

‘Walker,’ replied Harris, ‘Rowe might be in need of his services.’

The corporal raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t want to be getting involved with that chopsy beggar, all those shady goings-on are bound to catch up with him sooner rather than later.'

 

Pushing his half-eaten breakfast to one side and shooting a look of vindication at Harris, Bert hurried through the mess hall towards the Colonel’s office. No time like the present, though his resolve was ebbing away the closer he got. Knocking tentatively on the door, he shined his still-scuffed boots on the backs of his trousers as if it would make a difference. A uniformed secretary answered, her haughty look softening at the sight of Bert’s youthful features and rebellious hair.

 

‘Can I help you?’

Bert cleared his throat. ‘Ahem, yes, could I see the Colonel please? If it’s not too much trouble,’ he added hastily.

‘I’m sorry Private, the Colonel’s not here. He won’t be back until next week probably.’

 

Damn. Without the Colonel there was no one to authorise leave, and without leave Bert had no chance of getting back to Hampshire. There would be the standard ten days off pre-deployment, but that was at least four weeks away.

 

After dinner that evening, he hurried back to the town telephone box, but this time was answered by two clicks and a woman’s voice (‘Now I told her to mind what she – ’). Clearly Mrs Cowley was now broadcasting in the evenings.

 

Frustrating, but if he got a letter off quickly, it might just make the second post. Dashing back to the barracks, Bert grabbed a pen and paper and scrawled a few lines of apology.