‘Eh, what does your father think he’s doing lifting ladies’ petticoats?’ joked Grace to her children, who giggled and tucked their chins into their chests. Pulling down her skirt she reassured him that with rest it would soon deflate. Then to distract his worried attention she said, ‘I’ll bet you hardly recognize this mob, do you?’
‘I almost mistook Joe for Clem, he’d grown so big! And Beaty’s right grown up too.’ Probyn turned to greet the rest of his children. Hungry to lay eyes on them after so long, he studied each lovingly: practical and obliging Augusta with the face of an angel and a purity of spirit exuding from eyes like two tranquil lagoons; Madeleine a much plainer child but nevertheless endearing, like a studious little owl; then back to friendly, adventurous Joe, and Beata with her knowing gaze. They would all make fine people.
‘Eh, and who’s this big lad? It surely can’t be our Duke?’ Marmaduke had been viewing the boisterous proceedings with some apprehension, and now, as the strange man loomed over him, seemingly ready to pounce, he let out a shriek, burst into tears and hoicked his plaid dress to cover his face.
Everybody laughed, Probyn too, and he beat a hasty retreat to spend the next few moments straightening a picture that was hanging crookedly.
Grace dragged her youngest son onto her lap to comfort him. ‘Mims is in the drawer. Go and meet her.’
‘I don’t know if I dare after that response!’ But smiling, Probyn approached the latest addition, now three months old, and was rewarded by a happy beam. ‘Oh, you must have finally stopped churning out copperknobs.’ This one had inherited her mother’s light brown hair, as had Marmaduke. ‘Did you say Mims?’
Grace laughed at his expression. ‘Her real name was too big a mouthful for Duke and it just stuck.’
‘I like it.’ Probyn turned to smile at Marmaduke, but this did not seem to pacify the little boy, for he burst into tears yet again – as indeed he was to do every time Probyn so much as looked at him.
In the end this grew so tiresome that Probyn said, ‘I’d best ignore him till he gets used to me. Right, is that dinner I can smell? How’ve you managed that with your bad leg, Gobbie?’
‘I just chucked a load of veg in a pot and left it to fend for itself so I don’t know if it’ll be up to much.’ Grace tried to rise but winced.
‘Bide there!’ commanded her husband. An old hand in the kitchen, he took charge of the stewpot and delivered a plateful to Grace before ordering the children to the table where all were to enjoy a happy reunion meal until it was time to go back to school.
Even in their absence there was little chance of husband and wife becoming more intimate, for every time Probyn so much as leaned towards Grace young Marmaduke set up a terrified wail. And as if this were not irritating enough, there came a constant stream of visitors throughout the afternoon: Fanny Gentle, Mr Rushton the colliery policeman and his wife, and a host of others, amongst them Father Flanagan, who arrived just as the children returned from school.
‘’Tis only meself!’
Grace was first to respond. ‘Sorry for not getting up, Father, but—’
‘No need, Grace! The leg bothering you again? Get a wooden one, it’ll be less trouble. Sit yourself there. I just came to see your man here. Probe, how are you?’ He came forth to join in a brisk display of handshaking with the soldier. ‘Heard you were back and came to pay my respects.’
‘Eh, they don’t waste any time broadcasting things round here!’ joked Probyn, not so relaxed as his wife in the priest’s company. ‘I’ve only been back a couple of hours and we’ve had half the village in already.’
‘Ah, you can’t keep any secrets here ’tis true, especially when the subject is so illustrious. My, would you look at the cut of him, Grace! With such a man in charge the war will be won in no time at all.’
Grace invited Father Flanagan to partake of tea with them. ‘We’re just waiting for Clem,’ she explained as the girls laid the table. ‘He should be here any time.’ And they chatted for a while, the children gathering round them to listen in respectful silence.
During a lull, with her father in so liberal a mood, Beata shuffled up to put the question she had been itching to ask for so long. ‘Father, may I ask something?’ Permission was granted. ‘Why do you call Mother Gobbie?’
‘Because she’s got such a mouth on her.’ Probyn chuckled and moved his head aside as Grace reached out to swipe him with a rolled-up newspaper.
It was left to Mother to explain. ‘My initials before I married your father were GOB. I had them embroidered on my apron the first time we met and he’s been calling me that ever since, the cheeky monkey.’
At this juncture, the missing constituent arrived, Clem glancing rather apprehensively at Joe and Beata before perceiving that his dismissal remained a secret for now.
Probyn stood to greet his eldest son, who, apart from the auburn hair, was totally unlike him in appearance, the hooded blue eyes inherited from his mother, the wiry build, narrow chest and long face with its eagle’s beak from heaven knew where. But the differences were superficial – there was great affection between the pair and they joined in a loving handshake, before everyone assembled round the table for tea.
The priest stayed for two hours, joining the audience whilst Clem, as was his habit, read aloud from the daily newspaper of British glory at Ypres, singling out chronicles headed ‘Yorkshire Bravery at the Front’, a common banner in this local gazette. Tonight his recital had the bonus of postponing the moment of confession.
There was talk too about the proposed conscription. ‘What’s your view on it, Probe?’ enquired Father Flanagan, accepting a Woodbine and inserting it under his sharp nose.
‘It’s sure to come, but I hate the thought of press-ganging.’ The military man leaned towards God’s servant with a lighted match. ‘If a man has to be dragged there he’s no good to me.’
‘I’d go if they let me,’ volunteered Clem.
Though proud of such a son, Probyn gave warning as he put flame to his own cigarette. ‘Just so long as you don’t try and enlist until you’re old enough.’ As a boy he himself had run away from home to such a purpose.
Had Clem known this he perhaps would not have nodded so compliantly.
‘I’m joining too when I’m old enough,’ announced Joe, and wondered why this made them laugh when they hadn’t ridiculed Clem.
Flanagan’s long upper lip clamped on the cigarette as he took a long drag. ‘Grace tells me your skills are used only for training others these days, Probe. Bet you’re glad not to be in the thick of it.’
‘Well, I shall be going with the lads to France, but I’ll be well away from the fighting.’ This untruth was for Grace’s benefit.
‘That’s good.’ Father Flanagan nodded. ‘You earned your medals in that shenanigans with the Boers. We want you back in one piece.’
This led them on to a discussion of General Botha’s great military achievement in capturing Windhoek, which practically meant the complete possession of German South West Africa. The Kaiser’s dream of extending his power over that part of the world had been well and truly quashed. ‘Yes, it’s forced me to eat my words,’ admitted Probyn, taking a narrow-eyed drag. ‘I never for the life of me expected such loyalty from the Boers – never once doubted their bravery mindst, they were a tough opponent for us – but not in a hundred years did I expect them to rally to the British throne. I feel odd even saying it, but good old Botha and Smuts have done a magnificent job.’ Behind the sentiment lay an even greater sense of relief that, despite the efforts of a handful of Nationalists, the Empire he knew and cherished had not fallen apart as he had feared when the Boers had been granted self-government.
Grace remarked that all over the globe others were rallying to Mother Empire’s defence. ‘It said in the paper that some Australians walked three hundred miles to enlist! They’re almost ready to take the enemy position in the Dardan—’
‘And there’s them Indian fellas with the bandaged heads
an’ all!’ piped up an excited Joe, then shrank as his father’s stern eye castigated him for interrupting his mother, whilst Grace merely exclaimed, ‘Oh yes! And the Canadians and New Zealanders. And who would’ve thought the Russians would be fighting on our side? It doesn’t seem five minutes ago they were sinking English trawlers. They’re doing a splendid job in Poland, by all accounts.’
Probyn was not so gullible as to depend on newspaper stories, for he knew what they could disguise, but he was gratified by the total co-operation of their allies and paid them quiet tribute. ‘Yes, everyone’s doing admirably.’
‘Pity the same can’t be said for the Americans,’ interjected Father Flanagan. ‘All they do is whine about our blockade interfering with their business. You would think they’d see the policy is totally justified after all the German outrages, especially after the Lusitania with so many of their own people on board.’
Considering that liberal attitudes were being applied tonight, her siblings having been allowed their say, Augusta added her view. ‘I think it’s awful that the poor Belgians are starving and the Germans are refusing to feed them.’
‘Well, what else do you expect from the murdering Hun?’ muttered Clem, annoyed not at his sister but at the enemy’s lack of compassion.
‘I think these children have been indulged enough, Mother!’ decided Probyn abruptly, and in a muttered aside to Grace he added, ‘Best not let them read too many newspapers, it’s not healthy.’
‘Well, it’s away home for me!’ With stick-like arms, Father Flanagan pushed himself upwards, his host rising with him.
Grace spoke from her chair. ‘Have another cup of tea before you go, Father.’
Feeling the urge for something stronger and knowing he would not get it in this household, the priest demurred.
Probyn’s back was turned as he went to open the door. With a quick rummage in her pocket, Grace reached out to the priest, affecting to shake his hand, but in reality pressing threepence into his grip, her face instructing him not to thank her. Tapping his nose in confidential manner, he smiled and mouthed, ‘God love ye,’ before dropping the coin in his pocket.
‘Oh, we’d better arrange Mims’ christening now that Probyn’s home,’ remembered Grace.
‘If you’re sure you can get to church?’ With Grace’s assurance that she would be fine enough by Sunday Father Flanagan said he would expect them, calling as he left, ‘God bless all!’
With Augusta and Maddie attending to the washing-up, Probyn relaxed into his chair with a deep sigh of pleasure. As eager as her husband for the two of them to be alone, Grace told the younger ones to get ready for bed whilst she herself fed the baby and settled her into the makeshift crib. But barely had the children changed into their nightgowns and said their prayers at Mother’s knee when another knock came at the door.
Just about to unlace his boots, Probyn let out a groan. ‘Oh, who is it now come to disturb us? We’ll have the blinkin’ colliery band trooping through the kitchen next.’
He opened the door to reveal the pit manager.
The man’s lower jaw fell at the sight of his former weighman. ‘Probyn! I hadn’t heard you were home.’
‘You must be the only one who hasn’t. Come in, Mr Shaw, sir.’
The smartly dressed man did so, removing his bowler. ‘I really came to see Mrs Kilmaster. I knew she’d be worrying and I just came to say the maid managed to get the ink out of the shirt so there’s no need…’
Probyn had stopped listening. Catching the look of guilt that was fast spreading over Clem’s face, his attitude was now one of suspicion. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Shaw, I think I’m lacking some information here.’
The pit manager noted a subdued Clem. ‘Yes, I can see your boy hasn’t told you.’ He came straight to the point, his brief account of the incident drawing gasps of horror from the parents. ‘I’m afraid I had no option but to dismiss him. Apart from being extremely disrespectful he could have inflicted serious injury with that inkwell. I warned him to expect a bill for the damage but, as I just said, the girl managed to get the ink out of my shirt and, knowing how Mrs Kilmaster would be worrying about the added expense, I thought I’d just come and put her mind at rest.’
‘That’s very considerate of you, Mr Shaw,’ replied a deeply humiliated Grace. ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been put to such inconvenience, not to mention rudeness.’ She glared at her son, who hung his fiery head in shame.
Clem was then made to voice repentance.
With further profuse apology from the youth’s parents, the manager appeared mollified. Indeed, the embarrassment of these courteous people seemed to infect him too and after unnecessary inspection of his gold pocket watch he replaced it in his waistcoat and turned briskly to go. ‘Apology accepted – of course that doesn’t mean I’ll take him back.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ replied Probyn with dignity. ‘Don’t you worry, sir, he’ll be dealt with.’ On this ominous note he closed the door.
Grace had already started ordering the children up to bed.
His face dark with intent, Probyn confronted his son. ‘In the yard!’
Following the direction of the pointed finger, Clem slunk past his father into the evening sunshine.
The onslaught began. ‘If this is your idea of how to be man of the house whilst I’m away then you can bally-well think again! Well? What have you to say for yourself?’
There was no excuse, just a nervous murmur. ‘Sorry, Father.’
‘Sorry? Sorry doesn’t butter any bread! How’s your poor mother to manage without your wage? You’re hardly likely to get a decent job without a reference! And before you get any more big ideas you can forget all about joining the army. They want disciplined men, not silly little boys with a vile temper such as you’ve got! What set it off this time?’
Clem felt sick. ‘He passed—’
‘He?’ boomed Probyn. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Mr Shaw passed a rude remark on my handwriting and he said I had to work overtime to write it all out again. He’s been going on at me over one thing or another for months now and I’d just had enough.’
‘Had enough?’ came the astounded roar. ‘You don’t know you’re born! Do you see me throwing tantrums because I haven’t had a day at home since last year? Do you?’
‘No, Father.’ It was rare for Clem to hear such a raised voice, his father normally a placid man.
‘No! And I’d have every justification because I’ve fought damned hard to achieve the rank I hold now – unlike you, who are a mere lackey! You hear that? A lackey, the lowest of the low until you’ve earned the right to be anything else. So if I ever hear so much as a peep that you’ve shown disrespect to your superiors – whether you regard them as such is immaterial, they are your superiors – then, by God, your feet won’t touch the ground! Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Father.’ A rapid nod.
‘Good! Now, until the time when you’re able to earn your keep once again we must consider you a child and you’ll be treated like one. Get up them stairs with the others now!’
Grace bit her lip as her son hurried aloft to the bedroom he shared with his brothers and sisters.
Probyn let out a noisy sigh, angry and upset at being so let down. ‘What a homecoming!’
His wife limped over to him and rubbed his arm in a gesture of support.
After a moment of head-shaking and sighing, he became pensive. ‘You don’t think I was too hard on him?’
She let out a negating chuckle.
‘No, I mean it.’ Anxiety paid an infrequent visit to his strong features. ‘The look on his face when I called him a lackey…’ He would hate his son to regard him in the manner of one of his recruits, a mixture of fear and loathing.
Smiling, Grace reassured him. ‘No! He wants teaching. He’s been getting too big for his boots while you’ve been away.’
‘I don’t know who he gets it off.’ He heaved another sigh. ‘Ah dear, I suppose this means I’ll be t
railing round all day tomorrow looking for somebody to take him on – Oy, what are you doing standing up? You’re meant to be resting that leg!’ Enveloping her in a beefy embrace he lowered her back into the chair.
‘Eh, anyone’d think I was an invalid!’ complained his much younger wife – she was only thirty-four. But as he bent over her, Grace trapped his big bristly head between her palms and kissed his whiskered lips.
He returned her kiss with ardour, before asking, ‘Shall I make us some cocoa?’
Grace cocked her head. ‘You’ve been away for the best part of a year and you’re asking me if I want cocoa?’
He laughed and, under that seductive blue gaze, became even more fervent. ‘But what about your leg?’
‘Bugger that.’ She gave an affectionate snicker at his look of admonishment for the swear word, then glanced at the clock.
‘Still, it is only half-past seven. Best give the children time to get to sleep first.’
Calling her a spoilsport he made do with a mug of cocoa. But it was not long before his eyes were moving to the staircase again and at his latest gesture she laughingly acquiesced.
Sandwiched in a narrow iron bedstead alongside two smaller bodies, Clem lay awake listening as his parents creaked their way up the staircase. All went quiet for a while, the only sound to be heard his little brothers’ peaceful breathing and that of his sisters in the bed on the other side of the draped clothes-horse, which divided the room. Then his ears pricked as a rhythmic sawing of bed springs heralded marital reunion and, slightly embarrassed, he turned over, pressing his head into the pillow, covering his other ear with a palm. Ashamed and sorry for causing such upset on his father’s homecoming, he questioned his inability to control his temper. And determined as he was to try and curb it in future, he feared it would rear its ugly head over and again.
A Different Kind of Love Page 8
