There was an intake of breath. Dismayed, Grace stopped working, floury hands clamped to her cheeks. ‘Oh, poor Kit. Was it the flu?’
Her son nodded dismally. ‘Father’ll be upset, won’t he?’
‘I shan’t tell him yet.’ Blinking rapidly, Grace shook her head, then used the back of her hand to dislodge specks of flour from her cheeks. ‘He’ll be discharging himself from hospital to go to the funeral and I’m not having that. He doesn’t need anything else on his plate.’
‘We’ll be going, though, won’t we?’
Her reply was plaintive. ‘We haven’t the money, dear.’
‘But Aunt Kit’ll be on her own and one of us should go to represent the family – I don’t mind walking.’ There was an emotional edge to Clem’s voice: he had been fond of his uncle.
‘It’s hundreds of miles! Besides, you couldn’t take time off work. We need every penny. In fact you’d better get yourself off now or you’ll be late.’ Ridding herself of flour, Grace came to lay supportive hands on her son’s shoulders, sharing his quandary. ‘I feel terrible about it, but Aunt Kit knows our situation, she won’t expect us to go. I’ll write, of course, to explain that your father’s in hospital and to check that she’s all right herself. I wish there was more I could do, but I can’t.’ She gave a compassionate murmur, knowing how devastating the loss of a husband must be. ‘Poor Kit.’
* * *
Not until Probyn was discharged from hospital looking much recovered did Grace feel able to break the news to him. He was sorrowful, naturally, but had to agree that there was no way any of them could have travelled to the funeral.
With the rest of the family out at Sunday Mass, Grace admitted that, with no response to her letter of condolence nor to the further enquiries as to Kit’s own health, she feared that either Kit, too, had fallen victim to influenza or else had taken deep offence over their nonappearance at Worthy’s funeral.
But within minutes of this admission a letter dropped through the letterbox, the short missive absolving them of guilt and stating the hope that all was now well with Kit’s favourite nephew. The funeral had been a quiet affair, wrote Kit. With Worthy disinherited by his own family who had abhorred his choice of wife, only local friends and villagers had been present. This made Probyn and Grace feel even worse, but Kit added that it was quite understandable that people found it impossible to travel in these trying times.
‘Trying times indeed.’ Guessing what agony lay between those sensible lines, Probyn heaved a sigh and folded the letter, remaining quietly thoughtful.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’
He glanced up to find Grace studying him shrewdly. Looking her in the eye, he admitted, ‘Aye, there is, but it’s nothing for you to get worried about. In fact, I think you might be rather pleased. I’ve been classed as unfit for further service.’
She gasped in concern. ‘Aw, love – but you look so much better!’
‘Oh, I’m told I’ll be fine if I take things easy, live a quiet life. So, no more soldiering for me.’ He gave a tight smile.
‘Aw, Probe, I’m that sorry!’ exclaimed Grace, her face contorted by genuine sympathy. But something puzzled her and she scrutinized him for a while longer before making tentative addition. ‘I thought … well, you don’t look too devastated.’
‘I am, and then again I’m not.’ His words were delivered in monotone, his cropped sandy head lolling to one side as if too heavy for his neck to support. ‘I’d have preferred to go out under more cheerful circumstances when we’ve won the war, but… I’m weary, Grace.’ It showed, both in his expression and his voice. ‘I’m just so damned weary.’
Rarely had Grace heard him so depressed. She came to sit on the arm of his chair, enfolded him in a loving embrace and kissed the top of his head. Neither of them uttered a word for some time, the crux of this matter remaining implicit. The army had been his life; what was he to do now? Unlike her husband, Grace had never entertained the grand dream. Oh, she would not have turned down the offer of a country cottage with furniture that smelled of lavender polish and lupins in the garden, but in the main any ambitions she did harbour were for her children. But that did not bar her from putting herself momentarily in his shoes. ‘Well, at least you can say you’ve achieved the pinnacle you set for yourself. It’s more than most can claim.’
‘Aye, it’s been a good, rewarding job.’ Grateful for her words, he rubbed the feminine knee beneath the apron. ‘Anyway, here’s something that might cheer you. They’ve given me a desk job at the Infantry Record Office in York.’
Grace’s impulse was to exclaim her delight – she would see her sisters and Charlotte again – but, feeling selfish, she swallowed the urge. Nevertheless he read it on her face and spoke of his gladness for her that she was to be reunited with her kin. His wife pointed out that he would benefit too. ‘You’ll be able to see more of Aunt Kit!’
‘Aye, she’ll be in need of family with Worthy gone. She must be scared for her lad too. The Lord willing, with the Americans on our side now it won’t be too long before she has her Toby back safe.’
Grace made a fuss of him. ‘Well, if it gets you out of the Merry Widow’s clutches I’m all for it! I can’t wait to see her face when she sees us moving out.’
He gave a feeble laugh and reached for a cigarette. ‘Nay, she’s not interested in a broken-down old thing like me any more.’
‘Aw! Well, here’s one who is.’ She leaned over to plant a kiss. He looked offended. ‘You’re meant to say, “You’re not a broken-down old thing.”’
Grace delivered an oblique smile. ‘Sorry. So, when are we off?’
‘Whenever we like. I don’t have to hang on the colonel’s permission now. I’m not a soldier any more.’ The thought was bleak, but not unbearable.
* * *
And so the Kilmasters were once again uprooted, home now being a flat above a fish-and-chip shop on the corner of Blue Bridge Lane, so near to the headquarters of Northern Command, yet so far. The fact that it was cramped for nine of them meant nothing, for they were used to living like sardines, and the joy of regular meetings with the lovely Charlotte, still as sweet despite her own tragic loss, overrode any discomfort. Besides, Father said they were only to be here a few weeks until a permanent residence could be found.
Grace wasted no time in taking her children to visit the many aunts and uncles they had previously seen only once a year.
Concerned about his own aunt, one of Probyn’s first acts upon settling in was to visit Kit. Owing to the summer closure, the children would not be starting their new school yet and so were able to enjoy this treat too, though their father felt it expedient to leave them romping in the fields whilst he and Grace had an intimate talk with the widow. However, though obviously sad, Kit seemed to be coping amazingly well and the fact that she had good neighbours who helped with the farm work reassured Probyn that she did not need him. Telling her she was welcome to visit them any time, he and Grace left feeling a lot happier.
‘Well, that was a relief,’ Grace echoed his thoughts on their way home. ‘The last thing you need is another burden.’
‘Aye – not that I think of Aunt Kit as a burden,’ came Probyn’s hurried addition, ‘but I know what you mean. She’s always been resilient, thank the Lord – she’s needed to be.’
Upon taking up his sedentary job, Probyn’s own wellbeing began to show gradual improvement, for which Grace was to give thanks at Mass. As in every other place she had lived, her immediate action upon arriving in York had been to seek out the local priest, only this time it was much easier, Father Murphy being an old acquaintance and keen to enfold her in his parish again. Surrounded by friends and family, Grace had not felt so happy in a long time.
Even so, life in general was to grow increasingly spartan for everyone during that fifth year of the war. It hardly mattered that there was less money to spend, for some foods had become unobtainable and to get the most basic ingredients one had to q
ueue for hours outside the shops. Ice cream was a luxury of the past, there were few sweets, no icing on cakes, it was even against the law to sell a warm loaf. Ration cards were introduced, which helped to cut the queues but did little to improve supplies and in some cases made things worse; no meat except offal could be purchased without a coupon, hence, chitterlings were to become a staple constituent of the Kilmasters’ diet. Never one to complain, upon being presented with such lowly offering yet again at lunchtime, Probyn tucked in stoically, trying not to inhale the tantalizing aroma of fried fish that permeated from the shop beneath and taking his mind off this by chatting to Charlotte, who was there that day to see her friend.
When the conversation petered out he turned to his eldest son. ‘Anything interesting on the work front this morning, Clem?’ Probyn asked this same question day after day.
Clem sounded despondent as he inserted another forkful of offal. ‘No, nothing doing.’
‘Oh well, don’t get too downhearted.’
The seventeen-year-old donned a brave smile. ‘No, I won’t. Anyway, doesn’t really matter if I find a job, I’ll be old enough to join up in a few wee—’
‘Clem! Promise you won’t.’ Grace dropped her knife and fork in alarm. ‘Probe tell him not to.’
After wincing at the clatter of metal on china, her husband was uncooperative. ‘Nay, once the lad’s old enough he can make up his own mind.’
Grace wanted to yell that her son could be killed and didn’t her husband care? But she knew that it would be pointless as well as cruel. Of course Probyn cared, he just did not view things the same way as a mother. Even so, she was not about to give up. ‘How can you even think of joining up after what happened to Aunt Charlotte’s fiancé?’ Meal abandoned, she turned to her friend for moral support, begging, ‘Make him see sense, Lottie.’
Annoyed with Probyn, though not showing it, Charlotte sided with his wife. ‘Your mother’s right, Clem.’ Her tiny emerald eyes glanced up only briefly from her meal but the pain of her loss was still evident even after two years. ‘Don’t go till they send for you.’
Clem turned to his father for consent but Probyn refused to meet his gaze. With female opinion against him, the lad gave half-hearted assurance not to join up.
Feeling partly to blame for her son’s gloom, after Probyn had gone back to the office Grace lifted the lid of her piano. ‘Right, let’s have a hooley! Cheer ourselves up.’
Charlotte fought sad memories and, donning a smile, grabbed Clem’s hands. ‘Well, I’ve got my dancing partner, I don’t know about anyone else.’
Augusta paired up with Maddie, the younger ones happy just to watch as a great deal of joyful stamping and thudding began.
This shenanigans went on for a good half-hour before a knock came at the door.
The others too breathless and otherwise engaged, Beata scampered to open it. It was the woman from the chip shop beneath. ‘Can you ask your mother to exercise her livestock somewhere else, please? You know, that herd of elephants she’s been training.’ Grace uttered a guilty laugh and closed the piano lid. ‘Sorry, Cissy, I didn’t realize it was so loud. We’ll shut up now.’
Cissy chuckled too. ‘Nay, I’m only kidding, I’ve really come to ask if one of your bairns can give me a hand and peel some spuds for the tea-time fry-up. Three ha’pence per tub.’
Augusta was only too keen to offer her services. ‘I’ll do it!’ Grace welcomed any extra cash. ‘Gussie’s a good little worker.’
‘Is she now? Then we might find something permanent for her,’ said the woman as she left with Augusta, then paused briefly to give permission to the rest. ‘Carry on!’
‘No, I think we’ve had enough for the time being.’ A smiling Grace left the piano, ignoring her children’s moans. ‘No, no, you’ve had enough fun with Aunt Lottie. I want to talk to her now.’
‘Yes, I want to talk to you too,’ announced Charlotte, her expression somewhat accusing. ‘You’re looking awfully pale and thin. Are you feeling all right?’
‘Yes!’ Grace skimmed over this blithely. ‘I’m fit as a lop. Come on now, children, out to play.’
‘Aye, I should be looking for work anyway,’ proclaimed Clem and, in a happier mood after his dancing session, duly left. The younger ones lingered to whine about there being nothing to do. Charlotte dipped into her purse and conveyed a handful of coppers to Madeleine. ‘Here, you can get a tram right outside the door. Go to Knavesmire and watch the aeroplanes.’
‘Aw, do we have to take her?’ complained Joe, a disdainful eye on three-year-old Mims, who always cramped their fun.
‘Yes, you do,’ said his mother firmly. ‘Wretched boy, be gone!’
Catching the tram as instructed, the siblings clambered up the staircase to perch on the top deck. But when the conductress had not come upstairs for their fares by the time they got to the terminus, they decided to stay on board and snatch a quick view of the biplanes from up here. Were they to remain quiet enough, they might even get the round trip for free and be able to spend the money on sweets.
If the conductress noticed them slip away without paying then she turned a blind eye as they dashed off the tram. Finding the six-month ban on ice cream had been lifted, they eagerly purchased some.
Passing through the chip shop on their way up to the flat much later that afternoon they found Augusta assisting in the serving of the tea-time fry-up, and proudly told her of their acquisition.
The chastisement they received was totally unexpected. ‘You selfish little monkeys! You should have brought the money back to Mother instead of wasting it on rubbish. You know she can hardly make ends meet.’
Apart from Duke and Mims, who did not understand the extent of their sin, the children were mortified, the conscientious Beata most of all, for she idolized her eldest sister. On the brink of tears, she promised never to behave so again.
Augusta was immediately forgiving. ‘Well, now you know, I’m sure you’ll be a bit more thoughtful in future.’
* * *
With Clem still unable to find suitable work, Augusta herself seemed to have more than her fair share of job opportunities, her days spent behind the counter of a Co-operative Store, her evenings in the fish shop, both becoming sources of free nourishment for her family if the manager was out of the way.
After a few weeks of living cheek by jowl, larger accommodation was obtained and a lorry trundled the family possessions across the city. The house in Layerthorpe might be in a dank, run-down area of narrow lanes, tanneries and soup kitchens, the sour-smelling River Foss and the Derwent Valley Railway, but it was certainly a lot roomier, which was heaven for those who had previously lived so closely packed. The soot-coated terrace was sectioned into pairs, each pair sharing a passage that led into two back yards and each house having its own gate, though there was no lane at the rear, the properties backing on to other yards. There were four bedrooms, one of which was claimed by the parents, another by the boys, the third shared by Augusta, Madeleine and Mims. Beata was given a tiny one to herself and found it unsettling at first to sleep alone, and quite eerie on windy nights when the metal sign that hung outside squeaked back and forth. But on such nights she would pretend that her bed was a ship and by this means transport herself to the far-off sunny places of which Father had spoken and which she longed to visit.
In contrast, for once in his life Probyn wanted to be no place but here and, living near to his office in Colliergate meant that he could be home in minutes. After being away from his family for much of his married life, especially in these last four years of carnage, he was grateful now for the act of fate that had placed him behind a desk and given him the opportunity to spend more time with his loved ones.
They were a well-behaved brood and a joy to be with, apart perhaps from Duke, with whom he could not seem to get on, try as he might. It was as if the child’s tears upon being reunited with his father so long ago had set the scene for the rest of their days together.
The lad see
med to take pleasure in rubbing him up the wrong way – at least that was how it appeared to Probyn. Grace always defended him, swearing that there was no malice in his acts, just a curious nature getting the better of him. Well, perhaps that might be so, and his antics were often amusing, but there was a wilful streak in Duke.
There had been just such an incident recently. Hearing a noise from the front room that should have been empty, Probyn had gone to investigate. ‘What are you up to, Duke? You were told to go outside.’
Duke rotated guiltily, an open tin in his hand. ‘What’s this, Father?’
Probyn looked upon the white unattractive, misshapen slab inside the tin. ‘It’s chocolate sent to me by Her Majesty when I was fighting the Boers.’
‘Can we eat it?’
‘No, it’s a souvenir. Besides, it wouldn’t be very nice, it melted in the hot sun. Put it back now.’ Stern of feature, Probyn made sure that his son replaced the tin in the sideboard before sending him back out to play. But later he was to venture into the sideboard for something and the tin was nowhere to be found.
Duke swore he had not touched it, but his father knew he was lying, and when the tin and its half-eaten contents were later discovered under the boys’ bed he knew it was not one of the other occupants who had stashed it there.
Since the good hiding, the gulf between them had widened. Sad though it was, Probyn had come to accept that the boy would always be his mother’s son.
Joe, on the other hand, was constantly eager for his father’s attention, pestering to hear accounts of his soldiering days. During the hiatus between teatime and bed, when the children would occasionally be allowed to join in the parental conversation if it were not too serious, Joe’s question would invariably be the same. ‘Father, am I old enough yet to know how many beans make five?’
Then Probyn would break into a smile and draw his son to his knee and tell him of the olden days when, as a young recruit the RSM caught him sending his socks home to be darned and had frightened him so much that he had always mended his own socks ever since. And by this method he instilled in Joe and his other children the need to look after one’s self, taught them how to cook and darn and wash and iron as he himself had learned to do.
A Different Kind of Love Page 24
