He could not allow her to witness his shame, nor could he ask for financial help. ‘Actually, Aunt, I’ve already made arrangements for Grace.’
‘Oh, right,’ Kit nodded bleakly. ‘Aye, I suppose the funerals will have to be on different days so’s everyone can attend both, what with us living where we do.’
‘Of course,’ he reached out to grasp her hand, ‘but I shall be more than happy to go with you and help you arrange Toby’s.’
Kit lowered her eyelids to emphasize her gratitude. ‘Thanks, love. I don’t think I’d be able to get my words out without crying.’ Even now her eyes brimmed with grief.
‘Then I’ll be your voice,’ he vouched.
Thus it was that Probyn took responsibility for his nephew to receive the finest send-off a man could have with ebony casket and plumed horses, whilst his poor, dear Gobbie was laid to rest in a pauper’s grave.
* * *
How different was Grace’s funeral even to that of her brother with its military honours. Yet, despite the lack of pomp, hundreds of guests were to pay their respects to this much-loved woman, filling up every pew of St George’s to take part in Grace’s Requiem Mass. Too distraught over the loss of their mother to be moved by this outpouring of affection, it was not until much later in the day that the children questioned the identity of the bunch of strangers who came back to the house along with Charlotte and their father, their mother’s relatives taking old Aunt Mary straight home. Alongside the down-at-heel neighbours, the ageing but handsome women stood out with their well-tailored clothes of black silk and astrakhan and genuine jewellery – though even without these they would have been impressive, for they were very tall, taller than Father, with good carriage, lovely wavy hair that still had tinges of auburn amongst the grey, and large noses like beaks. The children were mesmerized, until the spell was broken by an elderly member of the group who spoke with obvious distaste.
‘I always said marriage to a Catholic would bring him to this!’ Grown even less inhibited with old age, Gwen scarcely bothered to lower her voice these days before applying insult, sounding almost triumphant as she made this declaration. ‘This is what you two can look forward to.’
Ethel and Wyn, for whose benefit this had been said, looked most peeved. Having no children and married to wealthy businessmen they were unlikely to find themselves in such a position. But, however sorely goaded by this aged aunt who, for as long as they had known her, had always dressed in varying shades of black that reeked of camphor, one never voiced opposition to Aunt Gwen, kindness rather than fear preventing their objection. Swift to pass criticism on others, this forthright, opinionated old misery could be destroyed with one harsh word. Trying to stay respectful, Ethel and Wyn’s only response now was to share a look of affront.
Charlotte too looked offended at this slight upon her friend. She glanced at Probyn but he seemed to be ignoring the remark.
Thanking his neighbours for attending Grace’s funeral, he invited them in for a cup of tea but was glad when they refused, knowing that they felt uncomfortable in the presence of such finery. Well, they couldn’t feel as uncomfortable as he. What on earth did he have to say to his sisters after almost twenty years? He had been most surprised to see them here, though touched to learn that it had been Kit who had informed them of Grace’s death; poor Kit who would have to endure this ordeal yet again when her son was buried tomorrow. It must be enough of a trial to have them all staying under her roof, especially Aunt Gwen. He wondered if Kit had needed to persuade them to come and pay homage to Grace, to whom they had never extended friendship in life, or was it merely because they were here for Toby’s funeral and might as well come to this one too, for they would hardly be able to face Probyn tomorrow if they had snubbed this event. But then did it matter? Did anything matter? Grace would still be dead. Oh God, how her loss had devastated him. That he could cook and clean and sew and all those things was not the compensation it had been when she was merely ill; dependent on her spirit, he felt totally helpless.
Feeling a gentle nudge, he looked to his left at Clem and followed his son’s gaze to a picture on the wall; it was lopsided. Imagining an impish Grace tilting the frame, he offered a little smile of appreciation, choosing not to put it straight. Positioned on his right, Charlotte moved her hand to lay upon his, momentarily gripping it, until she noticed that his rude old aunt was watching with eagle eyes, and she quickly severed the affectionate gesture.
Probyn’s older sisters glanced at each other, not knowing whether to raise the delicate subject – they had been appalled to find that their brother had insufficient money to provide for his wife’s funeral – but it was too late now to say he should have come to them. He had come to them years ago and they had shunned him.
In the darkness of that February afternoon, teaspoons tinkled, china cups clinked against saucers, but other than polite murmurings there was no real dialogue. On previous awkward meetings Probyn had always relied on Aunt Kit to get everyone chatting but, struggling to cope with her own grief, she could not be relied upon today. However, Meredith was to come to his aid, diverting attention from Aunt Gwen to the children, speaking to them kindly and showing an interest in their lives. The youngsters beamed up at her, having decided she was the nicest, very like Aunt Kit though not half so fat, and appreciated the way she spoke to them as equals.
‘Does he work?’ Gwen was eyeing Clem, who blushed under her direct stare.
Probyn cleared his throat. ‘Yes, Aunt, he works at the Stores, does the accounting.’
‘Got more sense than his father then.’ Gwen sounded approving. She spoke to Clem directly now. ‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Same as my grandson,’ murmured Rhoda.
Probyn had not seen his sisters for so long it came as a shock to think they were grandmothers. Dear Grace would never have that privilege.
Gwen continued to examine Clem. ‘Oh, you’ll have been too young for the war, then. My boys were too old and their own sons managed to get out of it, thank the Lord.’
Mind in a daze from her own loss, Kit stared coldly at her oldest sister, now well into her seventies, and wondered why she had been spared the awful calamities of war. Gwen had always been a misery, never did anything for anybody, only ever interested in wealth and status, her sons less than pleasant – thank goodness they hadn’t come; she didn’t want them at Toby’s funeral. What sort of a God would take the lovely Worthy and Toby and leave such people? It was uncharitable, but she couldn’t help it.
‘Like his great-grandfather in looks, isn’t he?’ Gwen’s eyes still held Clem. ‘That’s our father, I mean.’
‘We always wondered who he took after,’ murmured Probyn, raising his cup.
Kit tried to recall what her father had looked like but had been just three years old when he died and had only vague memories. She envied Gwen this too.
Charlotte’s big square face smiled fondly at Clem. ‘He’s a good-looking lad, whoever he favours.’
Used to his elder brother having all the attention, a miserable Duke was looking around for something to do. Having taken a liking to one of his aunt’s hats, a creation laden with black cherries, he spotted it now hanging just outside the door and wondered how to lay his hands on it without being noticed. With the adults taking little notice of him he whispered to Augusta for permission to visit the farleymelow and, this granted, he slipped from the room.
Seated in the darkness of the privy, it was quite easy to rip the cherries from their mount and soon he had a handful, popping one of them into his mouth. It took only a second to realize the luscious-looking fruit was inedible, but slightly longer to try and reaffix the rest of them to the hat. Shoving the stalks into the band did not work; they kept falling off. So upon return to the house, the hat behind his back, he quickly hooked it back over its peg, shoved the wax fruit into a convenient pocket and sidled back into the room. No one had missed him.
‘You’re not married then,
Charlotte?’ Gwen had noticed the lack of a wedding ring on the woman’s hand. ‘You’ve left it a bit late now. What with the shortage of men they’ll snap the younger ones up first and you’ll be left on the shelf.’
‘Charlotte’s fiancé was killed in the war.’ Even accustomed to the old woman’s rudeness as he was, Probyn would not have Grace’s friend subjected to it and his face gave warning.
‘One of my poor sons-in-law too,’ said Alice, tears bulging in her clear blue eyes. ‘Eh, dear, nearly every other person you talk to these days seems to be a widow.’
It hit Probyn like a sledgehammer then that this was what he was: a widower.
‘How are you going to cope on your own with all these bairns, Probe?’ The soft enquiry came from Meredith.
‘Yes, where’s your Catholic Church now?’ carped Gwen. ‘I don’t notice them offering to help.’
Seeing anger rise to her brother’s face, the schoolmarmish Ethel interceded. ‘I know we’re a bit long in the tooth but Horace and I could take one of your boys. We’ve plenty of room.’
Meredith, Alice and Rhoda too were quick to volunteer.
But Probyn was still annoyed with them all for the way they had treated Grace. ‘I looked after them well enough when my poor wife was unable to cope, I’m sure I can manage now.’
Meredith gently reproved him. ‘Aw, Probe, don’t let’s fall out again. I’m sorry if I was less than charitable to Grace but you know it was the way we were brought up.’
‘Don’t blame our mother for your actions.’ Grief making him act against character, Probyn was unforgiving. ‘You’re grown women with minds of your own and you made your views clear.’
The middle-aged sisters passed guilty looks at each other, especially those who had gone on to wed Catholics for they now knew what it was to be victims of bigotry. ‘I’m sure we’re all sorry for what happened in the past, Probe, but we’re here now, aren’t we? And we genuinely want to help.’
The response was dignified, a hint of the old RSM. ‘Thank you, but no. I’m not helpless.’ There had been such offers from Grace’s sisters but these too had been refused.
Their aid rebuffed, there followed a moment of awkwardness, the sisters not knowing what to do. ‘Perhaps we’d better go now,’ decided Ethel, gathering the folds of her black skirt and elevating her ramrod-straight figure. ‘But I’d hate us to part on bad terms. If you ever need us, Probyn, the offer’s still there.’
One by one they rose. Probyn enlisted his children’s help in bringing the guests’ coats and hats.
Upon finding her mutilated headgear, Wyn gasped. ‘What’s this?’ Probyn looked confused. ‘Isn’t it yours?’
The response was aghast. ‘Where have all the cherries gone?’
Meredith felt something in her pocket, a slow grin spreading over her face. ‘I think they’re here.’ Finding it hard to conceal a look of wry amusement, she pulled out the handful of cherries and tipped them onto the table. One had a bite out of it.
Charlotte sniggered, triggering others, even Gwen rocked with laughter.
But Wyn was examining both the hat and the cherries in horror. ‘Someone’s maliciously ripped them all off one by one! Who?’ She was glaring at the children who rapidly lost their smiles, though the adults remained amused, the incident having momentarily helped to alleviate the grief even for the bereaved. ‘Own up! Who was it? Probyn, this hat cost a fortune. I demand that you find the culprit.’
‘No need – Duke, come here.’ Probyn knew it had to be his youngest son and as much as he would rather have laughed with the others, he had no option but to chastise him in order to placate the outraged Wyn. Of all the days it had to happen. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry, he wanted to take the wretched child and throttle him.
But Wyn jumped in first, glaring at the six-year-old. ‘Wicked boy! Well, I certainly won’t be offering to adopt you! You deserve a good hiding.’
‘He shall have one the moment you’re gone,’ announced Probyn, suddenly growing weary of them all and herding them to the door.
‘Who’s going to pay for this?’ Wyn held up the mutilated hat.
‘Come on, Wyn, remember where you are.’ The tone of Meredith’s voice reminded her sister that they had just attended a funeral.
‘Oh … yes, right.’ Wyn was only slightly less annoyed but managed to make a half-dignified exit in her cherryless hat. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Probyn. I know what it’s like to lose a spouse … well, we’ll see you tomorrow.’
Glancing sympathetically at Aunt Kit, Probyn nodded and leaned over to accept his sisters’ kisses as they filed through the front room shop.
On her way, Gwen paused to run her eyes over the poorly stocked shelves and joked at Wyn’s expense, ‘You don’t sell glue, do you?’
Probyn could barely raise a smile.
Last to exit, Rhoda clasped her brother’s arm. ‘Remember what we said about taking some of the children off your hands.’
He nodded, then, after a final sombre wave, closed the outer door. Suddenly the house was deathly quiet.
With all the visitors except Aunt Charlotte gone, an anxious Madeleine turned to Probyn. ‘You’re not going to send us away, are you, Father?’
‘Most definitely not,’ came the firm reply. ‘We’ll manage between us somehow.’
‘And I’ll come and help on my days off,’ promised Charlotte, curling an arm around the two nearest children and hugging them. ‘Don’t worry.’
Probyn turned to the errant Duke, his face grim. ‘No, there’s only one of you has to worry. You blessed nuisance, do you think I enjoy having to give you a beating?’
Duke looked nervous. ‘No, Father.’
‘No! I don’t, but I’m going to give you one just the same. Outside.’
* * *
In the days following Grace’s demise, Probyn marvelled at how resilient children could be. Unlike Clem and Augusta, who were subdued for much longer, after the initial bouts of tears the younger ones seemed quick to get over their mother’s death, going about their lives, playing in the street as though nothing had happened. Of course, he could not know what was in their minds; privately they must be suffering as deeply as he was but were simply getting on with living, which was what he should be doing, but he felt as if he was back in that muddy trench in France, up to his calves in the mire, unable to move one way or another.
Sorting through Grace’s few possessions helped to give no sense of finality. He still expected her to come through the door. Every time he saw a crooked picture he thought of her. Perhaps a visit to her grave might have driven it home but out of shame he could not bring himself to go. He would have to go sometime, if only to ascertain the lot number of her final resting place. Until then she was not dead.
Eventually, though, when the sense of grief and anger and injustice had muted to acceptance, he forced himself to visit the cemetery, to be confronted once again by his failure to provide an individual resting place for his wife. He wondered as he stood there solemnly contemplating the snowdrops that peeped through the tangled grass how many others were buried with her, wondering too what Grace would have to say at sharing her eternal sleep with a soldier, for besides a name the temporary wooden cross upon the grave bore a rank and a regimental number.
Far from lending guidance, the visit made him even more helpless as to where he should go from here. For it seemed to Probyn that when his dear gentle Grace had died, the old way of life had died with her. Even those massive losses on the Somme had not borne the same impact, the sense that life had been irredeemably altered. Now as he looked around all he saw were industrial strikes, girls with hems almost up to their knees, a nation obsessed with self-gratification.
Ignorant of any of this, Augusta felt as if she was the only one whose life had changed beyond recognition. Whilst the menfolk went out to work as normal, and the children off to school as they had always done, life for her was very different as she strove to attend both work and home. It was not
without irony that, by neglecting her own welfare, Grace had inflicted upon her daughter the very thing she had always tried to avoid: premature motherhood.
* * *
The children came down to the breakfast Augusta had set for them before leaving for the factory: a slice of bread and margarine each. Washing this down with a cup of water, they were soon ready to depart for school. There was a row of pennies on the table with which to buy their dinner. Without Mother singing around the kitchen and to wave them off, the heart and soul of the house had died. It was of no hardship to leave this empty place.
At noon, Beata collected Mims from Baby Class and headed back to Layerthorpe, meeting her other siblings en route. Calling in at home for their dinner money and receptacles, they proceeded to the soup kitchen. The rest handing over their pennies for a mug of steaming soup, Beata chose ginger pudding, then all five sat on a low wall to consume it. Lured by the aroma, an emaciated, scabrous white mongrel came to watch, though it gained little attention for the children had more interesting things in their line of vision. Across the road was a tannery, its outer wall partly dilapidated, allowing them a grandstand view of the men at work, slinging hides into the lime pits. During the time it took to consume the soup, two more stray dogs had joined the first; undeterred by its warning growls they sat a little way off, salivating as the cups were raised and lowered.
Staring vacantly into space, thinking about her mother, Beata made a sudden grimace of distaste as she came across a lump of undissolved suet which she hated, and she spat it onto the pavement. In a trice all three dogs leaped on it and a vicious fight ensued, the filthy white mongrel emerging the victor and the others falling back to sit on their haunches, licking their chops and awaiting a fresh opportunity.
Yet another dog, a handsome border collie, appeared on the scene but this one was on a leash, dragged by its owner through the gates of the tannery. When the man emerged he was alone.
A Different Kind of Love Page 30
