Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (3 page)

‘An apprentice barber?’ Horace whispered in astonishment.

‘A three-year apprenticeship, Horace, 12 months as an improver…’

‘But…’

‘Twelve months semi-qualified and one more year fine-tuning thereafter.’

‘But… but…’ Horace objected, but somehow his father didn’t listen.

‘You start next week. Norman Dunnicliffe’s in the High Street.’

The following week four wages went into the Greasley household and Horace’s involuntary career as a gentlemen’s barber was under way. The two years’ training soon passed and as he honed his skills in the third, his wages rose to ten shillings a week. 1936 was going to be a good year, Horace thought, as his newfound confidence gave him the nerve to ask a pretty young girl called Eva Bell to the pictures. While they wrestled with each other in the back row of the local Roxy on Saturday night, a Pathé newsreel showed footage from the Berlin Olympics with Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini parading in their finery for the world to see. Horace did not see them; his hand was up the jumper and down the skirt of his new girlfriend.

Eva was a year older than Horace but a hundred years wiser. Several weeks into their courtship she suggested he bring to their next date a packet of French letters sold at the gentlemen’s hairdressers where he worked. Being a barber definitely had its compensations.

Eva persuaded her mother to let Horace stay over in the spare room one Saturday night as the dance they were attending in her village of Coalville came out after midnight, far too late for Horace to catch the bus home. Mrs Bell liked Horace so she and Eva convinced Mr Bell that no shenanigans
would occur. Nothing was further from the truth. Eva liked Horace; it was time to make a man of him.

About six o’clock on that special Sunday morning Horace lost his virginity. Eva’s father was a miner and had left for his Sunday morning shift at 5.30. Twenty minutes later Eva crept through to the spare room. Before she had even slipped out of her nightie Horace was standing proud and as he fiddled with the rubber sheath, Eva gave him her undivided attention, so to speak. Once the rubber was firmly in place, Eva took over, straddled him like a jockey, gently easing him inside her. Horace looked on bewildered as Eva groaned and moaned and pushed herself to a climax. Each thrust and grunt convinced Horace that it was only a matter of time before the girl’s mother would hear and make an unwelcome appearance, so he kept one eye on the door and the other gazed at Eva’s beautiful heaving breasts inches from his face. But her mother slept on and Horace achieved his own orgasm in double quick time. No matter. They would practise this wonderful act of nature wherever, whenever and as often as they could. The Saturday night stopover at Eva’s house would become a regular event.

Horace stayed with Norman Dunnicliffe until 1938 when he was persuaded to jump ship to Charles Beard, Gentlemen’s Hairdresser. What a great name for a barber, Horace thought, and the money was better too. Of course he would still have an unlimited supply of ‘dobbers’ as they were comically known, and without the cost and embarrassment his friends had to endure. There were worse jobs, he thought to himself.

Although the money was good, Horace had to face an unenviable 28-mile round trip to Leicester every day. Even though his bike was equipped with the latest technology – an AW Sturmey-Archer three-speed gear hub – the old bike was heavy and on some days strong head winds made for
impossibly slow progress. Horace didn’t mind; his young body coped and developed well, and his added strength and stamina pleased Eva in the bedroom.

Towards the end of 1938 Horace was transferred to Charles Beard’s shop in Torquay, the first time he’d ever left home. A little overawed at first, he settled in quickly and enjoyed life to the full. He missed Eva, sure, but there were plenty of pretty distractions to take his mind off his girlfriend in Leicestershire. He was also keeping an eye on events across the Channel.

The country breathed a sigh of relief, for a while at least, when Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain returned from Munich after meeting Adolf Hitler and announced in a speech at Heston aerodrome that there would be ‘Peace for our time’. Hitler had signed the agreement containing the resolution to commit to peaceful methods. Horace heard Chamberlain’s statement on a radio in the backroom of Charles Beard’s shop. Somehow he wasn’t convinced.

He was to be proved right. The fun on the English Riviera lasted only six months for Horace and he was recalled to Leicestershire as the government announced conscription for all 20-and 21-year-olds. It was only a matter of time before Horace and Harold would be called upon to do their duty. War, it seemed, was looming.

Horace resumed work in Charles Beard’s Leicester shop and sure enough, within two weeks the letter lay waiting on the kitchen table, unopened, as he returned from work on a wet Wednesday evening. The letter informed both brothers they had to report to a church hall in King Street, Leicester in seven days, where the 2nd/5th Battalion Leicestershire Regiment were handling recruitment. Harold had returned from work somewhat earlier in the day and sat at the table looking distraught. Horace’s first thought was for his twin. He
would not cope. In all the years they’d played and grown together on the farm Harold have never once attempted to fire the gun, skinned a rabbit or pulled the neck of a hen, or picked up a catapult or a slingshot and fired a stone in anger. He couldn’t bear to knock a fly from a bread roll, his father had once commented. Harold was visibly shaking at the prospect of picking up a rifle and pointing it at a fellow human being.

By this time Harold had found God. He was deeply involved in the church, something Horace – as an atheist – couldn’t relate to. Horace couldn’t figure out how an intelligent man could simply believe that an omniscient supreme being sat on a cloud up there somewhere, seeing and hearing everything every person in the entire world said and did. It was just too preposterous for words, almost laughable.

Harold didn’t drink or smoke and Horace was damn sure he had nowhere near the kind of fun he’d been having in Torquay with the ladies. While each weekend Horace had made sure he carried his ‘pack of three’ – sometimes two packets – his brother had reached for the Bible. Harold was now a practising lay preacher and every Sunday he pontificated to the converted masses at the local Wesleyan chapel. Harold’s religious convictions preached goodwill to all men… even Germans. Horace preferred a few beers with his pals and an afternoon out with Eva.

At that moment in the kitchen all Horace wanted to do was take his twin brother out, get him dead drunk and convince him things weren’t as bad as they seemed. He couldn’t. Harold was teetotal. Drink was the scourge of the working man, the root of all evil. Horace couldn’t quite understand his attitude but never looked to challenge or change his brother’s beliefs, even though Harold had tried to preach the gospel to him on more than one occasion.

‘You realise he’s bloody shitting himself, Horace, don’t you?’ his father said when Harold eventually went to bed.

Horace nodded. ‘We’ll be together, Dad. I’ll take care of him.’

Joseph reached across and squeezed his son’s hand.

‘I know you will, son. I know you will.’

They made a pact. Or rather Horace made a commitment. The following evening he sat down with Harold and told him they were in this together. They would join the same unit, bash the same square, shoot at the same targets – and if it were possible to get through this damned war unscathed, they were just the two to do it. Horace gave the greatest speech of his life, far more sincere than Chamberlain at Heston aerodrome, and at the end of a long night, having downed half a dozen whiskies to Harold’s cups of tea, Horace was pleased with his performance. He went to bed happy, determined to do what was right for his country and in particular, his family and his twin brother Harold.

Harold seemed to appreciate his brother’s commitment, glad of his protection. Or so it seemed…

Two days later Horace was finishing off one of his clients in the salon of Charles Beard.

‘You don’t seem with it today, young Horace,’ the customer commented.

He was right. Horace was miles away from his scissors. He was with Harold, and in the head of his mother, his sisters. He was wondering how his father would cope on the farm and what it would be like to shoot a gun at a German.

Horace explained to Mr Maguire in the chair that he’d been called up, had to report to 2nd/5th Battalion Leicesters next week and how he was convinced that a major war was just round the corner.

‘I thought that might be what it was, Horace. I saw the article in the
Leicester Mercury
. “Ibstock twins for Militia Army,” it said in the headlines.’ He grinned at Horace in the mirror. ‘You’re quite famous, Horace, one of the first lot round here to get called up.’

‘I’d rather not be, Mr Maguire. I’m 21 years of age and about to be shipped off for some basic training, then to the war. I like my life here – I’ve a good job and a nice girlfriend. Why can’t the politicians sort it out?’

He wanted to say how concerned he was about Harold, how he thought his brother just wasn’t up to it. He bit his tongue. He was lost in his thoughts when Mr Maguire reminded him of his occupation as a chief inspector in the fire service. He informed Horace that a fireman was a reserved occupation and stayed home in the event of war, and that the selection process to recruit firemen was taking place at his station that week.

‘You could always apply, Horace. We’re taking in the new applicants on Wednesday, a 30-minute exam, a little fitness training, then seeing how hard the buggers shake up a 30ft ladder.’

Horace caught the gentleman’s gaze in the mirror. Scissors poised, he pulled at a strand of hair ready to be clipped. Mr Maguire winked at Horace.

It was a wink that turned his blood to ice. Horace was aware of a trembling sensation in his legs. He pulled the scissors away from the gentleman’s scalp, afraid his shaking fingers might do some damage. He knew exactly what that wink meant. Mr Maguire was throwing him a lifeline, a get out of jail free card. Mr Maguire had the power to prevent Horace from going to war, to protect him from the horrors he would no doubt encounter.

‘Are you saying you’re giving me a chance to be a fireman?’

Maguire shook his head, looked up into the mirror and smiled.

‘You’re a good lad, Horace. I’ve known you for some time, you come from a good family and you’re fit and intelligent too. What I’m saying is that if you can climb a ladder you’d make a great fireman.’

Horace stuttered. ‘So I’d stand a good chance.’

Maguire shook his head again, confusing young Horace. The next few words John Edward Maguire released from his lips couldn’t have been any clearer. They were to turn Horace’s world upside down.

‘The job’s yours, Horace. I’ll make sure you’re selected, it’s my decision.’

Maguire left soon after. His hair hadn’t been cut to the normal high standard. Horace sat in shock.

No war, no guns and a £2 increase in wages. He’d still be fighting for his country, still with a risk of injury or worse, but he’d be at home, not in some far-flung field in France or Belgium or Germany. He’d still have the farm, see his parents, and continue with his nocturnal activities with Eva. Perhaps the French letters would be a little bit more difficult to get a hold of but no matter, he’d cope. And he’d asked Mr Maguire if there would be a similar position for Harold. Mr Maguire had shaken his head, explained that people may suspect some favouritism. It wouldn’t look good; the answer was no.

A day later Horace walked into the fire station in Leicester city centre. By coincidence John Maguire was walking through the front office. He looked up, a frown on his face.

‘Horace,’ he said, then took his hand and shook it warmly. ‘You’re a day early: selection isn’t until tomorrow evening.’

Horace shook his head as the £5 weekly wage, the moments of passion with Eva, the Sunday morning breakfasts
with his family and the precious moments on the farm with his father flashed before him.

‘No, sir. No, Mr Maguire, I’m not early. I’ve just come to thank you and say I won’t be applying.’

‘B… but…’ Maguire stammered in disbelief.

Horace left the man speechless, turned his coat collar up and walked into the fog-dimmed light to the muffled chime of a church bell somewhere in the distance. A light rain had started falling and a shiver ran the length of his spine. All he could think of was Harold and that pact and how he had made the right decision.

The following Friday evening Horace was strangely subdued as he walked through the front gate of the only home he’d ever known. The scullery light shone brightly against the dark of the night. He peered through the window. Strange, he thought as he made out the figures of his parents and Harold sitting around the table. Dad doesn’t usually sit down at this time of night; Mum is usually by the kitchen stove preparing the evening meal. Why are they all sitting down as if… as if in a conference?

As Horace entered the room his father stood. His mother reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of her eye. Any other time Horace would have expected news of the death of a relative. Not this time.

Horace knew… just knew… and the look in Harold’s eye confirmed his suspicions.

CHAPTER
TWO

H
arold had gone, with his Wesleyan minister for moral support, to a specially convened panel set up for conscientious objectors. Horace had never even heard the word conscientious until Harold had almost whispered it across the table that ill-fated Friday evening.

By all accounts Harold and the man of God had presented a most convincing case and the panel had agreed that Harold would not have to fight on the front line, point a gun at a human being nor attend the enlistment procedure. Instead Harold had agreed to take up a non-combat role and had been put forward to join the Royal Army Medical Corps. The RAMC did not carry a regimental colour nor did it have any battle honours. It was not a fighting unit and under the Geneva Convention, its members could only use their weapons in self-defence.