passed fit for service, despite their reluctance, Walter alone was refused, and
could hardly affect to be disappointed since he would not have wanted to
spend another minute in such miserable company, whether in Flanders or
France or six feet under the ground.
- as if he were a woman
Refused a second time, Walter resolved to wait until he was older since he
had shown himself willing, no scrimshanker or coward, and while he wasn’t
alone in wanting to go because his pals were all going, and because Kitchener
and the King had invited him to, and because so many young women were
sporting regimental favours in their hats and lapels, and because certain
young women were pressing white feathers on the men who remained, and
because the Germans were slaughtering blameless women and children in
Belgium – and because it might soon be all over – he would have been happy
to ignore the new canvas banner that appeared on the railings outside St
Saviour’s Street Barracks the following spring – STILL OPEN AND
RECRUITING! – and the new poster that went up everywhere a month or so
later – WOMEN OF BRITAIN SAY “GO!” – but that a company of Scotchmen
came to be billetted among them, two hundred Celts in grey kilts who spent a
fortnight living out of the Corn Hall and got around on army-issue bicycles,
tringing their bells as they passed down Riverside Road, their white thighs
flashing by and the children all gawping, their mothers nudging each other
and cackling.
They were a popular sight, an uplifting spectacle, though of course they could
be raucous, gathering in the rowdies around about to fight among themselves
and get drunk and sing such stirring and sorrowful songs, and it was in one
of those dives that something must have been said to his father Eddie Barley –
something friendly – since he came home one evening all smiles and slung a
heavy arm around Walter’s shoulder and drew him into the sour sweet fug of
his breath. ‘Come along with me, son,’ he said, and stroked Walter’s belly as