* * *
The next day after breakfast, leaving the little girls to squeal over the beetles that had been hiding under their damp wash flannels in the scullery, Probyn accompanied his son into Mexborough to help him find work.
When they returned Grace was pleased to note that the tension between husband and son had lifted. Clem even mustered a smile as he told his mother that he would be starting a new job on Monday. It was nothing special – the position of junior clerk in an office – but was more than he deserved.
‘I was considering visiting Mr Kaiser to ask if he had any work for the lad,’ said Probyn, ‘but I noticed his shop was closed. Clem told me about the trouble.’
‘He did reopen but when that Zepp killed all those people in Hull they had another go at him – just an excuse for violence if you ask me. Anyway, he’s decided to stay closed for now. Poor man, I do feel sorry for him. He went to court to try and claim compensation for the damage, and apparently he needed to provide his naturalization certificate. He didn’t have one so they fined him five pounds.’
Probyn threw up his eyes. ‘I suppose that’s the end of my favourite pork pies then.’
‘You’re so altruistic,’ teased Grace. ‘Oh, by the way, I got Maddie to post the letters to my sisters and Charlotte about the christening.’
‘You’re sure you’ll be able to make it to church by then?’
‘Look!’ Grace lifted her skirt to reveal a leg much reduced, the strap of her shoe once more meeting the buckle. ‘It’s gone right down overnight.’ Her hooded blue eyes twinkled.
Enjoying the memory of last night too, Probyn did not of course make reference to it with their son in the room. ‘Best keep resting it as much as you can. Did you send Aunt Kit an invitation?’
‘Yes, though I don’t suppose any of them will come.’
She was to be right in the main about this; apart from Charlotte, only sister Millie and her husband were to witness Mims’ baptism, turning up mainly in honour of the namesake, for it was a fair distance to travel from York.
Though still encumbered by a limp, Grace looked quite elegant that Sunday in a long flared skirt and white yoked blouse with a gold crucifix, her brown hair pinned up in glossy coils. Starved of female affection for the last nine months Probyn found it hard to keep impure thoughts from obscuring the holiness of the occasion and tried instead to focus on Mims, who looked most comically cute in a boy’s cap with a veil that had been brought out of tissue paper at various intervals since Clem had worn it fifteen years ago.
Joyous days amongst his family were to follow. The children now off school for the summer, they went for the occasional outing, Grace’s leg permitting, and their evenings were dedicated to games of housey and patriotic songs around the piano that Father had bought Mother before the war. It was a lovely, lovely time … and yet, the newspaper forbade complacency, its pages warning of a fresh crisis in Poland. The Russians still held Warsaw but the Hun was getting perilously close to smashing a way through. Were their sacrifices of the last year to be in vain?
‘Good heavens, a year ago today it started,’ murmured Probyn, perusing the gazette whilst his children washed and dressed on what was his last morning of leave.
‘What did, dear?’ Folding her husband’s shirts ready for packing, Grace sounded distracted.
‘The war! Where have you been, missus?’
With a mound of household chores still to be done and seven children to look after, it was sometimes easy to forget. ‘Sorry, I’ve been trying not to think about it.’ The week had seemed to fly past as it always did when her husband was on leave. He would soon be getting on a train and Grace did not know when she would see him again.
Probyn gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
Joe emerged from the scullery, his face pink and clean, russet hair neatly slicked down with water. ‘The Australians have taken the Turks’ position at Gapil – Gallipoli.’
‘Oh yes, Mr War Correspondent, and how do you know that?’ asked his father, casting an amused look at his wife.
‘It’s in big writing in the paper – Why have you chopped the ends off your tash, Father?’
Disconcerted, Probyn fingered the moustache that he had trimmed right back, knowing from experience that there was no way he could keep it neatly waxed on the battlefront. ‘Your mother complained it was tickling her.’
This appeared to satisfy Joe and he went about his business.
Beata came in. ‘I had six blackclocks hiding under my flannel. I killed two but t’others ran away.’
Probyn merely chuckled. Catching his wife’s gaze, he locked eyes with her for a wistful moment, before returning to his newspaper, Grace to her folding. But no amount of occupation could take their minds off the coming farewell. It was perhaps worse for having to be done in stages; he had been forced to issue a separate goodbye to Clem before the boy went off to work this morning. Weighing his words, Probyn had tried to make amends for his belittlement over Clem’s sacking; lackey was not a tag to hang on one’s son and Clem had behaved impeccably during the last week. Nevertheless, a degree of warning laced his parting sentiment: he knew Clem would not let him down and he expected to hear only good things about him in his mother’s letters.
The moment all had been dreading finally arrived. With his valise packed, Probyn gave last-minute instructions to the children. ‘You’ll notice I’ve put up new Battalion Orders.’ This was a list of household chores he had devised years ago, each child making daily contribution. It had been revised, he explained, to include Beata who, due to her recent birthday, was old enough now to take her turn.
‘But she can’t read,’ protested Maddie.
‘Then you’ll have to relay the information.’ Probyn patted her head. ‘Think you can manage to wash the windowsills, Beat?’ Her eager nod gained praise. ‘Good girl. That’ll be your job for today when you get back from seeing me off. Right, fall in!’
At his father’s brusque tone, Marmaduke started to cry as he had done throughout Probyn’s stay. The latter was unable to suppress a groan.
‘Have you put him on Battalion Orders, Father?’ teased Joe, peering from beneath the neb of his man’s cap, which was far too large.
Probyn gave a mischievous tug of his son’s hat, pulling it down over his nose. ‘No, I think we’ll just send Marmaduke down the salt mines and have done with it.’ With the rest mustered for inspection, his keen blue-grey eyes perused the row of little figures, most in white pinafores and black stockings. Looking at their uplifted innocent faces, he could have wept.
Then, with a swift ‘Carry on!’ they were away.
Owing to Grace’s impediment, it took longer to reach the small station and the train was already straining to go when they arrived, its glossy black engine working up a cloud of steam. Planting quick kisses, Probyn got immediately on board, then leaned out of the open window to maintain his link with home. Other soldiers were catching the train too, their families handing over last-minute gifts of cigarettes and chocolate.
Leaning on a walking stick, Grace put a hand to her lips. ‘Oh no, I didn’t get you anything…’
He replied warmly, ‘Doesn’t matter, I’ve plenty of fags.’ Funny, the things that jumped into your mind, thought Probyn, picturing another departure many years ago when his awkward, undemonstrative father, unable to show his love, had instead shoved a box of his favourite sweets into his haversack. God, I hate all this waiting.
His prayers for the train to depart were answered by a shrill whistle.
‘There it is. We’re off! Take care! Write to me! I will! Byebye! ’Bye!’
Amid a great sobbing and chugging and belching of smoke the train eased its way from the station, Grace and the children moving alongside Probyn’s carriage until it became impossible to keep up, whence they stood amidst the crowd and set up a frantic waving. Craning his neck from the carriage window, Probyn looked back at the sea of fluttering hands, trying to focus on his own straining throng until
they became indistinguishable from the rest.
The train receded into the distance and a silence fell. Left with but a whiff of acrid smoke, the mass of women and children on the platform became all at once forlorn. Trying to remain cheerful for the children’s sake, Grace said they would buy some sweets on the way home. It took every ounce of willpower not to cry.
5
Probyn had been gone only a couple of days when the chilling report came that Warsaw had fallen and an urgent appeal for more recruits was sent out. Hence, Bank Holiday Monday was spent in an abnormal state of tension, no one save the very young in the mood to be gay, particularly as hostile airships chose that time to revisit the east coast. There would be no building of sandcastles this year.
The valiant recapture of trenches at Hooge was but a temporary remission. This war was definitely far from over.
If members of the public were not encouraged by these tidings, others were, and none so glad as the young officers and men of Probyn’s battalion, for it meant that they were sure to have a good old bash at the Hun before things fizzled out.
But when? They were almost halfway through August now and still only play-fighting – though not infrequently an air of reality was lent to the combat as the boiling hot weather and an impatience to be off caused tempers to erupt.
Then, at last, came the long-awaited announcement: the battalion had a week’s notice to prepare itself for embarkation. The atmosphere in the barracks was electric, its occupants being even more thrilled on hearing that there was to be precursory inspection by the Sovereign. No one objected to spit and polish now! No grumbles to be heard over cleaning a hundred items of equipment that they would probably never use, each beavering to make himself a glittering example in honour of His Majesty.
Those in command were suitably proud too. ‘Well, this is it, RSM.’ Prior to the review Colonel Addison shook Probyn’s hand warmly. ‘You’ve given us a battalion of which to be proud. The adjutant and I are deeply indebted to you.’
The adjutant underwent a similar gesture. ‘Most definitely, and may I convey my own admiration on a superb feat, Mr Kilmaster.’
Though such accolade was manna to one who thrived on adulation, Probyn was obliged to display modesty. ‘Thank you very much, sir, but I didn’t do it alone.’
‘Yes, and we are most beholden to our NCOs too,’ came the gracious addition from his commanding officer. ‘Please extend our warmest thanks and congratulations. Although I shall, of course, be addressing everyone later, I just wanted to take this opportunity to convey my personal gratitude to you for your own most substantial part.’
‘It’s very much appreciated, Colonel, sir. May I say it’s been a privilege to train such willing young men, truly wonderful.’ It was no lie. Living with them through their struggles, Probyn had become enormously fond of the volunteers. ‘I’ve trained a few in my time but a finer bunch of soldiers doesn’t exist.’
‘Yes, let the critics of the New Army eat their words,’ announced the adjutant.
‘Hear hear,’ breezed the colonel. ‘But our work is yet ahead.’ Smiling, he gathered his reins and prepared to mount his grey. ‘Come, gentlemen, let us go display the results of our endeavours before His Majesty. Then on to the real job!’
Such laudation giving briskness to his step, Probyn went directly to convey the officers’ praise to his CSMs and sergeants, adding his own heartfelt acknowledgement. ‘They said it couldn’t be done but we’ve managed it, lads, we’ve turned a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Look at them,’ he ran his eyes over the troops assembled in full regalia, ‘drink in that sight and give yourself a pat on the back. You’ve done a grand job. Well done.’
Given little time to savour the praise, the recipients were soon off and marching alongside the battalion they had helped to create, sweat beginning to flow almost immediately under the blazing August sun.
Having finally assembled them amongst the vast columns of the 23rd Division, waiting for the King to arrive, Probyn strode up and down the ranks, his eyes keener than ever for a pinprick of rust upon a weapon, a speck of mud or a tarnished button, occasionally tugging a man’s hat to comply with regulations, yet finding nothing overtly slapdash. They had certainly pulled out all the stops today. Even Unthank seemed eager to pay his respects to the Monarch.
Gratified, Probyn issued one last reminder. ‘Keep wriggling your toes, lads, it’ll help to pump the blood.’
He marched off to take up his own position, snatched a quick inspection of the overall view – a stupendous array of weaponry, horses and warriors – before settling down to wait. But his eyes never rested, constantly flitting over the ranks, ready to quell the slightest hint that boredom had set in.
The sun rose higher over the vast acres of men; thousand upon thousand of blushing faces, turning ever more pink as the minutes ticked by, those who had been here longest a dangerous shade of red. Beads of sweat oozed from each forehead, meandering in a steady, stinging trickle around the eye sockets and along the side of the nose to drip, drip, drip from each chin.
Probyn shared their suffering, his own vision blurred by a curtain of brine. One could smell the heat. Whilst others began to topple like skittles, he fought to stay erect, concentrating on his men, some of whom were beginning to sway in ominous manner, willing them with his piercing gaze to remain stalwart. The air became almost too thick to breathe. Too hot to sing, the birds had taken refuge in the leafy shade. Naught was to be heard save the creak of leather as an officer shifted sweaty buttocks in his saddle, the jingling of harness from wilting horses, the thud of another man hitting the ground. The sky bore down on all, an electric blue, the only clouds being those of troublesome flies who buzzed around the twitching rumps of chestnut and grey, pathetic docked tails flicking in vain to remove them.
Probyn saw it about to happen but could not move quickly enough to stop it. Staring vividly from a face the shade of magenta, Captain Guy Postgate’s pale grey eyes suddenly turned from a state of desperation to one of unconsciousness as they rolled up into his skull and he fell back, landing on the bayonet of the man at ease behind him. At the spurt of crimson from his neck there followed a murmur of panic amongst his fellows, some jumping away.
‘Steady! Steady,’ came the gruff warning from their RSM, who had deftly stepped in to minimize the calamity and immediately they moved back into place.
But their eyes kept darting to the gash in the young captain’s neck, reacting with mute horror to the runnels of blood fast congealing under the hot sun, as if suddenly made aware how inauspiciously could their own lives ebb away. With unobtrusive authority Probyn summoned two RAMC men, conveniently parading nearby with their equipment, to remove the unconscious officer from the field, and in no time at all he had the battalion to attention as if nothing had occurred, which was extremely fortunate, for the King and Queen Mary chose that moment to arrive.
The appearance of the royal pair instantly revived flagging spirits, poor Captain Postgate temporarily forgotten. Probyn’s loyal heart throbbed with devotion as, disdainful of the blazing sun, the Monarch rode patiently around each unit of the entire Division taking a keen interest in every one. God bless him, he was always there when his subjects needed him.
* * *
Following the parade, one of RSM Kilmaster’s first acts was to enquire as to the seriousness of Captain Postgate’s injury and, upon being informed that despite the sunstroke and loss of blood Guy was in no danger of expiry, he was much relieved.
But with the additional information that the young officer would not recover in time to travel to France, and imagining his bitter disappointment, Probyn felt obligated to visit the hospital and offer his condolences.
The sight of Louis Postgate at his brother’s bedside temporarily stalled Probyn’s approach, though when Guy noticed his entry to the ward and made an anaemic but welcoming signal, he proceeded forth.
Advancing upon the bed, he overheard Louis’s murmured sincerity. ‘I feel wretched for
you, Guy. You know that if there was any way I could make them send you in my stead I would.’
Fighting his depression, the bandaged invalid nodded in appreciation of his brother’s words. ‘Oh, it’s just such dashed bad luck.’
They clasped hands, then Louis made to leave. ‘I’ll return later.’
Probyn was quick to deter him. ‘Don’t go on my account, Lieutenant Postgate. I’m merely here to enquire after the captain’s health. I shall intrude but a few moments.’
‘Please don’t consider it an intrusion, Mr Kilmaster.’ Louis’s baby-blue gaze held esteem. ‘And, thank you, I will stay if you don’t object. Guy is rather low at being unable to accompany us.’
Probyn interpreted the flicker of annoyance on the young captain’s face at this reminder from his brother: considering himself the superior soldier, Guy was absolutely livid that he had been the one to faint. ‘Keep your chin up, sir. They’re sending batches over every week; you’re sure to be amongst one of them. May I ask what’s the prognosis for your injury?’
The pale grey eyes were despondent. ‘Apparently it’ll take a good few months to get the muscle back into working order. With the luck I’m having it could all be over by then.’
Probyn was momentarily grim. ‘I doubt that very much, sir.’ Then he brightened. ‘And once you’re out of this hospital bed and exercising your way back to fitness the days will fly past. Before you know it I’ll be back here putting you through more paces.’
Guy made a weak joke. ‘Ah well, that is something to look forward to.’
‘I knew you’d appreciate that, sir.’ His face creased in a rare smile, Probyn reached for the limp hand upon the bed sheet and grasped it, trying to restore sanguinity to those tragic features. ‘Never fear, Captain Postgate, you’ll be back amongst us in no time, and until then you’ll be with us in spirit. Well, goodbye, sir, all the best.’ With a quick adieu to the brother, Probyn marched away, too quickly to overhear Louis’s softly uttered sentiment.
A Different Kind of Love Page 9
