A Different Kind of Love

by A Different Kind of Love (retail) (epub)

  It didn’t do to dwell and she changed the subject, which was just as well, for the children began to trickle in from school.

  Remarking on the time, the women rose to leave, but with so much to be discussed some were still tarrying on the doorstep when Probyn came home. Flinging him a quick greeting, the stragglers hurried away, but not before he had spotted a package in one of their hands.

  ‘Cleared us out, have they?’ Generous by nature, his wife had become even more so in these exacting times, swift to share some vital commodity with a person in need.

  ‘Behave! They share things with us when they have them.’

  ‘Aye – when! Nine times out of ten it’s you who’s doing the sharing.’ Even as Probyn objected he knew it was useless. ‘I’m all for comradeship, Grace, but nobody expects you to feed the entire nation.’

  ‘Stop exaggerating!’ She gave him a fond shove, directing him indoors where she deflected attention from herself by saying, ‘It’s good about the King, isn’t it?’ An announcement had been made that the sovereign had changed his name to Windsor. Hearing noises of approval from her parents, Madeleine took this as an opportunity to put her own appeal. ‘If His Majesty can change his, why can’t I change mine, Mother?’

  ‘Because I say so,’ answered Grace bluntly. ‘Now, let me get started on tea.’

  A knock came at the door.

  Probyn groaned. ‘Here’s another of your cronies come to take the food out of our mouths.’

  Delivering a quick clip as she passed, a smiling Grace went to answer the door.

  It was a woman from further along the street, of whom she had yet to make acquaintance. She spoke with the native accent, much the same as that of Yorkshire but with a melodic little kick to certain vowels.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Crump, I live up the top end there.’ The dark-haired buxom woman used her head to indicate a house further along the street, her arms occupied by a large, black-and-white cat.

  Grace thought she detected an impending complaint. There was a gleam in the woman’s dark eye that hovered between friendliness and friction, its outcome dependent on the reaction she received. Wanting to curry the former, Grace donned a winsome smile and gave her name. ‘And what can I do for you, Mrs Crump?’

  ‘Do you see anything odd about my cat, Mrs Kilmaster?’

  Though thinking it a strange question, Grace examined the placid-looking feline. There was something not quite right about it. ‘I can’t see—’

  ‘Have a closer look,’ suggested the neighbour.

  Grace made a sound of realization. ‘Oh, it hasn’t got any—’

  ‘No, it hasn’t! It did have when it went out this morning, until your little boy cut them off.’

  Overhearing the bizarre exchange, Probyn came to attend, momentarily drawing Mrs Crump’s attention. Meeting his hypnotic blue-grey eyes, her own dark orbs flickered with interest, then rambled all about him in the manner of a farmer weighing up the local fatstock, before moving back to Grace, who was in the process of apologizing.

  ‘Eh, the little tinker! Probe, our Duke’s cut this poor creature’s whiskers off.’

  ‘Mrs Simpson caught your youngest son in the act,’ said Eliza Crump. ‘He’s as daft as a brush, our Blackie. He’d sit and let him do it.’

  Using his RSM voice, Probyn bellowed, ‘Marmaduke! Come out here.’

  Beata peeped round an inner door. ‘He’s not here, Father.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘On the cobbler’s doorstep.’

  ‘What the devil is he doing there?’

  ‘I don’t know – he always sits there.’ Beata saw nothing strange in it. Told to go and fetch her brother she ran directly to the cobbler’s and dragged home the four-year-old to face three angry adults.

  ‘What did you think you were doing to this poor cat?’ demanded his father.

  Unaware of his crime, Duke spoke innocently. ‘His moustache was too long so I cut a bit off like you do with yours, Father.’

  Probyn joined eyes with Grace, then both looked away so that their son would not think their amusement endorsed his bad behaviour.

  ‘Well, it was very naughty!’ Probyn bent to chastise the little boy. ‘Say you’re sorry to the lady.’

  Twisting one leg of his white woollen trousers between grubby little hands, a frightened Duke apologized, though he had no idea what for.

  Luckily, the cat’s owner saw the funny side too, her black eyes sparkling and her mouth forming a lopsided grin. ‘Oh well, I suppose it’ll save Blackie a trip to the barber’s.’

  Thanking her for being so understanding, Grace and Probyn took their wayward son indoors, his father warning him, ‘You must never do anything like that again. How did you get hold of the scissors anyway?’

  Duke took the question literally and gave demonstration. ‘I just held them like that.’

  Whilst Grace covered her mouth, Probyn fought not to laugh. ‘I meant where did you get them from?’

  ‘Oh, Mother left them on the chair.’

  ‘That didn’t mean they were there for the taking,’ scolded his father. ‘In future, don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you – and that includes cats’ whiskers.’

  When Probyn had gone from the room, a tearful Duke felt safe enough to grumble to his mother, ‘The cat let me do it.’

  Later, when the little boy had gone to bed, his parents were able to express their mirth, such precious incidents as these lending succour in the months of adversity that were to ensue.

  * * *

  Winter came, bringing a recurrence of Clem’s bronchitis and made several times worse by the shortage of food and fuel. Accustomed to having a ready supply of coal through Father’s peacetime work at the colliery, the Kilmasters had become blasé in its use. Now with this commodity rationed, every nugget was treasured, yesterday’s cinders having to be reused the next morning. These barren lumps almost impossible to ignite, the simple act of lighting a fire had become yet another test of reserve, and with matches tuppence a box instead of tuppence per dozen boxes, Grace had suffered many a burned finger rather than waste one.

  Even goods as staple as potatoes were often impossible to come by now, and though swedes were at first an adequate replacement it was not long before demand outstripped stocks. The only recourse was to fill up on bread, but with unprecedented action by U-boats, grain ships being sunk as effortlessly as a boy stoning toy boats in a pond, a campaign was launched to eat less.

  To spare her family’s suffering, Grace as usual took the burden upon herself. In consequence, her health began to deteriorate. Old maladies recurred and, added to a hacking cough, gave rise to bed rest. As ever, at the first sign of crisis, Probyn took charge, deeming it most fortunate to be living at home and thus able to keep an eye on her. The possessor of a master cook’s certificate, it was no inconvenience for him to rustle up the Sunday meal, nor to wash and iron, a lifetime of looking after himself in the army having yielded competence in most fields. The demands of his military career were for once regarded as subordinate and with Gussie to help he ensured that his wife was spared any undue strain. Under such tender ministrations, Grace was soon on her feet again.

  But Probyn himself was jaded. As feared, the conscripts were proving less than a joy to train, most lacking the enthusiasm of the recruits of those first heady days. He found precious little gladness in his role now, knowing to what wholesale carnage these boys were headed. To his last breath he would strive against the Hun, adamant that his friends’ ultimate sacrifice would not have been in vain, yet he could not prevent others dying. They died every day in their hundreds.

  Even today, as he leaned into the cold winter wind, tramping despondently along his street, he saw a telegram boy prop his cycle against the kerb and knock at a door. His heart plummeted even further, not because it was his door but because he knew what the telegram meant for another family. Missing or killed? What would it be? Trying not to stare he could not help but notice the sultry dark-haire
d woman who took possession of the telegram, watched her face crumple almost to the verge of tears, admired her fortitude as she managed to stave off the emotion and merely handed the telegram boy a coin before closing the door. Just before she blocked out the world however, she turned her head and locked eyes with him. Probyn felt a jolt deep in his belly as he recognized the owner of the mutilated cat, who had so boldly stared at him some weeks before. Then she was gone.

  Entering his own house, he called a greeting to his wife before announcing gravely, ‘Mrs Whatsername’s just had a telegram. You know, the one with the cat.’

  ‘Poor soul,’ Grace bit her lip, though with other thoughts to occupy her, nothing more was said on the matter.

  * * *

  Probyn too had forgotten all about it when, weeks later, he was heading to the barracks early one morning. He waved to Augusta as she trundled her empty milk churns across the bottom of the street, back to the dairy. She waved in response.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Kilmaster!’

  He glanced over his shoulder expectantly.

  ‘Could you lend a hand? I’ve been trying to move a wardrobe and I’ve got it jammed in the doorway.’ The speaker issued a foolish laugh.

  Momentarily forgetting her name, he turned and came back up the street towards her, replying, ‘I’ll gladly do what I can, madam.’

  Observed by the woman’s young daughter and two sons, Probyn entered.

  ‘You three get yourselves dressed!’ instructed their mother in brusque tone. On their dispersal she headed up a staircase, inviting Probyn to follow.

  With the minimum of effort he managed to unblock the doorway and, after asking her where she wanted it, shuffled the wardrobe into position.

  Eliza looked impressed. ‘My, you made it look as if you were shifting a feather! Thank you, it’s really kind.’

  Both embarrassed and flattered at the gushing compliment, Probyn tugged his tunic straight. ‘It’s my pleasure. Mrs Crump, isn’t it?’

  ‘You remembered!’ Unconsciously, Eliza mirrored his action by smoothing her white pinafore. She seemed unable to take her eyes off him.

  ‘How could I forget after what my son did to your cat?’ He smiled, the woman chuckling with him. ‘How is it, by the way?’

  She folded her arms under her breasts, this having the effect of shoving them upwards and drawing attention to them. ‘I don’t know, we haven’t seen him for months. Must’ve got sick of being the laughing stock. My Edwin used to say he looked like the Kaiser with his spiky little moustache.’

  Still smiling, Probyn suddenly became conscious that he was standing in the woman’s bedroom and made for the landing. ‘Well, if you’ve nothing else that wants moving…’

  ‘No, thank you for all your help. I shouldn’t have tried to shift it on me own but, well, I’ve no choice now my man’s gone.’

  He lingered before descending. ‘Yes, I saw the telegram boy. My condolences.’

  Whilst he had paused she had moved up intimately close behind him. ‘Thanks. I do miss him – though I should be used to being on my own, what with him being a regular soldier.’

  ‘Oh, a regular, was he?’ Probyn showed cheery approval, though he was made to feel ill at ease by her proximity, and began to go down the staircase.

  Eliza followed. ‘But still, it’s a shock and there’s things a woman can’t do…’

  ‘Well, if you need anything else I’m not far away.’

  ‘Your wife won’t mind?’

  ‘No, she’s always keen to help, is Grace.’

  ‘Yes, she seems a nice woman.’

  Upon reaching the foot of the stairs he turned and smiled. ‘Yes, yes she is.’

  ‘She looks a bit pale, though.’ Eliza tilted her dark head. ‘Is she ill? Tell me to mind my own business if you like—’

  ‘No, no, that’s all right. She has been ill, yes.’

  She nodded as if in thought, allowing her molasses-coloured gaze to pour over him quite brazenly, alighting on his crotch. Albeit briefly, it had a powerful physical effect and Probyn found himself wearing a blush he had not sported since youth. Eliza’s reply was loaded with meaning. ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do for you in return…’

  He could not believe his ears – she was propositioning him, with her husband dead only weeks and his wife just yards away!

  Making a hasty exit into the cold air, he assured her they could manage.

  ‘You know where I am!’ called Eliza.

  * * *

  Disturbed by his reaction to Mrs Crump’s overture, Probyn determined to avoid her in future and sought to make greater fuss of his wife.

  ‘Right, get on your best bib and tucker, Gobbie!’ His announcement came out of the blue that Saturday afternoon.

  ‘Why, where are we going?’ Her back to him, Grace sounded vague as she cut up herbs and added them to a concoction on the stove.

  ‘We’re off to have our photos took!’

  Slightly disappointed, his wife uttered a little moan. ‘Oh, it’s a lot of trouble to get all dressed up just to come straight home agai—’

  ‘Who said anything about coming straight home?’ Probyn spread his hands. ‘Once we’ve impressed the photographer we’re off to the theatre. I might even buy you fish and chips on the way home.’

  ‘You’ll need to take out a bank loan then,’ joked Grace. Still unable to summon the energy to meet his proposal, she gave the excuse, ‘Anyway, it’s too cold, and I’m in the middle of making this.’

  ‘Then turn it off! I’m sure Gussie can warm it up for tea.’

  ‘I’m sure she can’t – it’s ointment.’ Grace chuckled.

  ‘Come on, lass! I haven’t seen you dressed up for years.’

  It was the note of entreaty in his voice that made her turn. Holding her husband’s gaze and really plumbing those blue-grey depths, Grace saw eyes that were haunted by the atrocities of war, a deep-seated exhaustion combined with worry that, normally, he was so good at hiding. Treating him to a deeply affectionate smile, she reached behind her to untie her apron strings and went upstairs to change.

  For the children, who rarely saw their mother in anything else but a shabby all-enveloping overall or lying in bed ill, it was thrilling to see the trim figure who emerged in a cream satin blouse with lace at its collar, her shiny brown hair expertly puffed and padded out and fastened with a tortoiseshell comb.

  ‘You look like Mary Pickford!’ gasped Joe.

  Father too looked capital, his threadbare, lice-ravaged uniform replaced by a brand-new one, two sizes smaller than its predecessor. Beata heaved a wondrous sigh: what a handsome couple her parents made for sure.

  The photographer was to share this opinion, the results of his handiwork consequently displayed on the sideboard some weeks later. Frame in hand, Probyn smiled fondly at the woman beside him in the photograph – Grace as he had not seen her for years, hooded blue eyes sparkling with that seductive gleam that had first lured him – and was glad that he had coerced this transformation. Eliza Crump could not hold a candle to his dear wife.

  * * *

  Apparently Eliza did not share this view, her self-esteem quite evident from the way she deported herself before him whenever he had the misfortune to encounter her in the street. The total antonym of a grieving widow, it was blatantly obvious that she had set her sights on Probyn and seemed to regard it as only a matter of time before he weakened.

  Having done so much to avoid Eliza’s clutches, he was dismayed one afternoon to hear her call out to him just as he was about to achieve sanctuary. Maintaining his grip on the doorknob, he turned to face the buxom figure who was hurrying up the terrace towards him, a basket of shopping in one hand.

  ‘Sorry to bother you again!’ Bosom rising and falling, Eliza put a hand to her side and took a few moments to catch her breath. ‘Eh, I’m all out of puff trying to catch up with you. You can’t half move! I just caught sight of you as I was coming out of the shop and thought I’d beg another favour. I need t
o borrow your strong arms again if that’s all right.’ She detected a look of hesitation. ‘You did say…’

  ‘Oh, certainly! I’ll just… I’ll just let Grace know I’m home, then I’ll be with you in two shakes!’

  ‘Good, I’ll go take this shopping home and get the kettle on.’ Beaming, Eliza hurried onwards up the street.

  ‘Oh, there’s no need. I’ll be having my tea soon!’ Ducking into his house, Probyn said as casually as he could to Grace, ‘Hello, dear. Mrs Crump has asked me to shift something. Why don’t you come and have a chat with her while I do it?’

  Though bemused, Grace was a friendly soul and, removing her apron, picked up Mims from the floor. Feeling much safer in his wife and daughter’s company, Probyn went along the street to do Eliza’s bidding.

  If Eliza was put out that the wife had come too she did not show it and was friendliness personified to Grace, indicating for her to sit down. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Mrs Kilmaster?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ Grace took the indicated chair and perched respectfully with Mims on her lap.

  ‘I’ve got a nice bit of cake too.’

  Grace raised her eyebrows. ‘Cake? That’s a luxury.’ Sugar was almost impossible to get hold of these days, as was margarine.

  ‘Ah, well I’ve got my contacts.’ With a conspiratorial wink, Eliza disappeared for a moment, though after rattling a few cups and saucers in the scullery she crept into the cellar where Probyn was moving the boxes and in the darkness glided up behind him.

  Feeling a hand snake between his legs, Probyn came upright with the shock of it and banged his head on a stone lintel. Eliza laughed softly and, whilst he was still dazed, took his head between her hands and kissed him full on the lips. ‘You can’t hide for ever, you know!’ Shocked but excited at the same time, Probyn did nothing for the moment, just stood there in the dank cellar, his pulse racing, trying to make out her dark eyes but seeing only a devilish glitter.