‘Oh well, it did some good then!’ Probyn launched into another bout of polishing.
Rook emerged from his usual taciturn state to enquire, ‘Who did you ask?’
‘Wedlock.’ A sweat was forming on Probyn’s brow.
Rook gave a quiet knowing smile. ‘Oh well then …’
‘Sure, you’re not going to take Beelzebub’s word are ye?’ demanded Mick. ‘Go over his head.’
With others exhorting him to do likewise, Probyn abruptly broke off his polishing and marched off to consult Sergeant Faulkner. Unfortunately, the answer was not reassuring: he would indeed have to gain experience in the ranks before promotion.
Infuriated at yet another petty rule he returned to convey the news that Wedlock had spoken the truth.
‘Aye, but I’ll wager he took great pleasure in telling you,’ said Bumby.
A miserable Probyn agreed. After the month had opened with such promise, it was such a massive disappointment.
* * *
His hopes pinned on gaining eminence in another sphere, Probyn was to face further setback later in the summer. Despite all his best efforts it was Havron who emerged as marksman of the company. Of all the people it could have been! Still, not for Probyn the babyish antics that Havron might have employed had the tables been turned. Conjuring magnanimity, he was the first to shake his rival’s hand after the competition, turning a deaf ear to the champion’s conceited boast that he had been bound to win, and treating such insult with a smiling shrug. It was hard, though, to remain cheerful in the face of such defeat, and there was a barb in his sunny response to those who insisted on reminding him throughout the afternoon of Havron’s superiority. ‘Yes, but can you see your face in his boots?’
There was some small consolation to be had, though, for upon return to barracks he found a parcel from Aunt Kit. As this was the first response he had had to his letter, he ripped it open eagerly, seizing upon the note inside. After the first line he gave a sigh of relief. Her delay in writing back was not, as he had supposed, because his aunt was still angry with him, but that she had been ill. Upon reading this he felt another twinge of guilt at revealing her intimate secret to Melody who had broadcast it to less sensitive beings. Nevertheless his eyes could not help straying to the parcel that accompanied the letter and it was not long before his curiosity got the better of him.
Inside the cardboard box was a selection of food and a card that invited him to enjoy his birthday. A murmur of revelation emerged from his lips. He had completely forgotten until now. ‘Eh, I’ve got a birthday coming up!’
Ingham and Bumby were quick to investigate the hamper. ‘We’ll be having a party then!’
‘Keep your grubby hands off!’ Probyn snatched it back protectively, hugging it to his chest as others swooped like vultures.
Mick was too well-mannered to join in the scrimmage but asked plaintively, ‘You’re not going to sit there and eat it all yourself?’
‘I might throw you a crumb after I’ve taken me fill.’ Probyn remained aloof for a while, then made great play of relenting. ‘Oh go on then! You might as well share it, I’ll never get round to eating all that and it’ll only go off.’
‘His generosity knows no bounds!’ chaffed Mick.
There was much high spirits as Probyn doled out the contents, fighting to keep his favourite titbits.
‘How old are you now then, Pa?’ asked one of the participants, munching.
Remembering he was supposed to be eighteen already, Probyn had no wish to advertise his age and, with his mouth full of pie, the reply he gave was incoherent. Nor did he give true answer to the next question.
‘Who sent you the grub?’
‘Lord Salisbury,’ came his quip.
Everyone was instantly impressed, Ingham displaying the contents of his mouth. ‘How come you know royalty?’
Probyn laughed, then saw that most of them took him literally. With Uncle Owen heavily involved in the union and Aunt Kit once romantically linked with a cabinet minister, the subject of politics was often discussed in his house, in one form or another. But it seemed that few here had even heard this name. ‘He’s the Prime Minister, you daft clot!’
‘You know the Prime Minister?’
‘I was joking! It’s just a relative who sent it.’ He did not enlarge, for any mention of Kit might spark comment about her dubious past and he would then have to defend her. Silently though, he thanked his aunt for this homely reminder; it was nice to know she had forgiven him.
The taste of crumbling pastry generated childhood memories and, inevitably, thoughts of his father. One of them must make an effort to build bridges. The concept that it might have to be him was rather daunting, but the trials he had faced in army life had made him resilient. He decided there and then that on his next furlough he would visit Ralph Royd. It was a pity he would have no stripe to mark his achievements, nor even the award for best shot in the company. It would have been helpful to have something to make his father proud of him.
* * *
The opportunity to build bridges with his father did not come until Christmas and by that time he had changed his mind again. The prospect of seven days’ leave seemed not so thrilling when one would be going home empty-handed. Robbed of the chance to impress, there seemed little point in subjecting himself to confrontation. Should he simply go directly to Aunt Kit’s where he would be assured of a welcome? Whatever the venue he would be going there alone, for Mick had decided to look up his relatives in Galway and even those without Irish connections had plumped to spend their entire holiday in Dublin rather than waste it in travelling.
Untrammelled by kit and rifle which had been left behind in the sergeants’ storeroom, he journeyed with his pals as far as the Soldiers’ Home opposite the gates of Phoenix Park, he himself enjoying only one night there before going to catch a boat to Liverpool the next day.
Waiting to board, the young soldier’s eyes flitted about the quay, singling out the female form. Appetites which had been suppressed now began to fire anew. It had been the best part of a year since his sexual enlightenment, and hardly a day had gone by when he had not been obsessed by the thought of experiencing it again. He must have it, he must or he would explode, was almost exploding now at the mere thought. But, presented with only wide-eyed innocents, nuns and schoolgirls, matrons and black-shawled crones, his frustration was to continue and he urged himself to try and think of other issues. Once embarked there was no difficulty in doing this, for the crossing was much rougher today and, at the mercy of grey waves, he was soon unable to think of anything except his own nausea.
On reaching Liverpool he was still undecided whether to go straight to Aunt Kit’s but, forced to make a choice of which train to catch or dither forever on the platform, he reverted to his original plan of making peace with his father. First though, he would test the lay of the land with his sisters, for their welcome, or lack of it, would be good indication of what to expect at Ralph Royd.
His favourite, Meredith, lived in Huddersfield which would mean breaking his journey, so, as most of the others lived within walking distance of Pontefract and this was on a direct route from Liverpool, he decided that the easiest option was to catch a train there. It would also mean he could call in at the depot and say hello.
With half an hour to wait for the train he began to think about sex again, eyes constantly roving over breasts and buttocks. In mid-thought he tensed. A likely candidate had wandered into range. She was hard-faced, with no redeeming features, but this was the only type of girl who would do as he craved. Scrotum tightening, he dallied for a moment to watch her, remembering Melody’s infection. The thought terrified him but was eventually overthrown by frustration and, catching the girl’s eye, he was soon heading off in quest of privacy.
She appeared to know where she was going so he allowed her to lead. Smiling, she beckoned him into a dim recess behind some pipes. He wasted no time but hoisted her dress and began to emulate the activity he had e
njoyed with the girl in York. It was only as he pulled away to unbutton his trousers that he sensed her lack of enthusiasm, and glanced into her face. Her eyes were full of tears.
‘Can’t you even be bothered to kiss me?’ Despite the hardness of her face and voice, it was apparent she was deeply hurt.
Blood still pounding for sexual gratification, he blurted, ‘I’m sorry I’ve got a train to catch.’
‘Oh, thanks!’ Even more tearful, she pushed him away. ‘What do you think I am?’
He didn’t know how to answer, his basic urges fast being overwhelmed by shame.
‘I’m not one of them, I don’t take money!’
He tried to sound apologetic. ‘I didn’t think you were!’
‘No, you’re the sort who’d want it for nothing!’
Afraid someone would hear the altercation and come to investigate Probyn hurriedly re-buttoned his trousers, fumbling in panic. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t mean—’
‘And even if I was a pro they’re human beings you know!’
‘I know, I’m sorry!’ Ridden with guilt he tried to extract himself. ‘I’m really sorry!’ And, shamefaced, he hurried back to the platform, brushing incriminating cobwebs from his tunic and praying that the train would be there.
* * *
During his long, bleak journey over the Pennines he was to see those tears bulge from her eyes again and again. What a rat he was! The sheer thought of it caused him to blush. He had been so intent on slaking his appetite that he hadn’t even bothered to ask her name. For the first time in his life he compelled himself to imagine his sisters as sexual beings – a horrible image but a necessary one. What if someone had treated Merry or Alice as simply objects of lust? He would be the first to rail against such caddishness yet he had been about to use that poor girl as if she were less than human. Just because one hard-faced trollop in York had given her favours freely he should not assume that because this one was of similar visage that she would perform in a like manner. Women were individuals, just like men, only much more difficult to understand. He sighed. It was another lesson well learnt, and gave him much to ponder during his rattling journey.
Hours later when he reached Pontefract he was very subdued, alternately berating himself for his cavalier attitude whilst still heavily burdened by sexual frustration. He was also in desperate need of refreshment. The latter he acquired at the depot canteen, though he was not to tarry here long for it was mostly filled with new faces, youngsters in their first months of training, who seemed incredibly boyish, and as he had no wish to protract a reunion with his former drill instructors he was soon on his way again. His departure coincided with the arrival of a dray wagon conveying barrels of Christmas ale for the garrison which raised a lusty cheer from those within. Probyn hoped there would be similar welcome at his sister’s house.
Wyn had never been his favourite sibling, he found her particularly selfish, but she lived closest to the barracks and so it was to her abode he went first.
Upon hearing the knock, Wyn halted the conversation with her sister
Rhoda who had also come to visit and glanced out of the window, but immediately sprang away. ‘Oh my goodness it’s our Probe, and he’s in uniform!’
Sharing her annoyance, Rhoda gestured for Wyn to return to her chair. ‘Pretend you’re not in!’
Ignoring a second knock, Wyn continued to peep from behind the curtains, complaining, ‘Why doesn’t he just go! I don’t want the neighbours coming out to ask who he is. I’ve told them our brother’s a minister.’
Outside, Probyn stepped back from the door and glanced at the window. Catching a movement beyond the pristine lace he went to investigate, thrusting his nose to the pane.
Wyn jumped back and flattened herself against the flowered wallpaper as her brother’s eyes tried to pierce the lace barrier. Rhoda leapt behind a red moquette armchair to crouch grim and unmoving whilst Probyn’s outline blocked out the light. When his shadow was removed each gave an expression of relief, but this was premature for, creeping back to the window, Wyn uttered a squeak as she saw her brother raise the knocker of the house next door. ‘Oh, the embarrassment of it!’
Tormented by the sight of a uniformed Probyn undergoing conversation with her neighbour, and awaiting his inevitable return to knock again, both Wyn and Rhoda were extremely relieved to see him instead turn smartly and make his way back down the street.
Certain that he had been snobbed, Probyn felt angry and upset. If this treatment were typical of what he could expect from the rest of the family then there seemed little point wasting any more of his furlough by trailing from house to house. Christmas Eve was already looming, two days after that and he would have to be making his way back to Ireland, only an idiot would not spend it where he was assured of a welcome. Hence, he returned immediately to the station and caught the next train to York.
Yet throughout the journey he remained troubled. Why had his sister pretended not to be in when he was certain he had seen her? Surely she could not be so ashamed of him?
* * *
Normally, an encounter with Aunt Kit would make things instantly brighter, but today upon their meeting at the gate he felt that her greeting was superficial. Behind her smiling exterior there was an emptiness to her eye. She had also put on a great deal of weight in the months since he had seen her. Naturally, he made no comment on either point as his Aunt Gwen would doubtless have done, but merely told her how good it was to be back amongst his own kind.
‘It’s nice to have you, lad.’
At such lacklustre reply, Probyn feared that she had not really forgiven him at all for the episode with Melody and thought perhaps that he should reiterate his original written apology.
‘I’m sorry, Aunt, for not telling you about Melody …’
This seemed to jerk Kit out of her trance. ‘Oh, we’ve forgotten all about that!’ The poor lad, how could she tell him of her heartache at losing yet another baby? Putting her arm around his shoulder in a conspiratorial manner she affected subterfuge, ‘I’m just keeping me eye out for Uncle Worthy, he’s over in the shed plucking geese and he’ll have us both roped in if we aren’t careful. I’m sure that’s not what you’d choose to do on your Christmas leave.’
Reassured, Probyn smilingly said he would like to help and followed her towards the house. ‘It’s good just to be back in Yorkshire. You’ll be glad to learn I’m on me own this time, no bog-trotters in tow.’
Any further such comment was forestalled by Kit who puckered up her mouth to hiss a warning shush, at the same time giving a confidential tilt of her head towards the cottage where Probyn now saw a female figure waiting just inside the doorway. Glancing at his aunt he read upon her lips the silently uttered information: Catholic.
Changing the subject completely, Probyn bent swiftly to the little boy who toddled up the path to meet him. ‘By, look at our Toby, he’s grown twelve inches since last I saw him!’ And, picking up the child, he followed his aunt who was now handing over payment.
‘Thank you very much, Mrs O’Brien, I’ll see you again next week!’ A business-like smile accompanied Kit’s words.
Donating a beaming nod in return, the Irish woman pocketed the money and, with another smile for Probyn and Toby, consequently left.
‘I’m sorry about jumping down your throat,’ Kit guiltily explained to her nephew when Mrs O’Brien was out of earshot. ‘I didn’t want you saying something you might be embarrassed about. Not to mention losing my washerwoman.’
Intrigued at this apparent change of heart over the employment of a breed so formerly despised, Probyn laughed and asked for an explanation.
Picking Toby up, his sturdy little thighs straddling her hip, Kit retained her somewhat guilty expression. ‘Well, when I got your letter it made me think long and hard: if Irish lads are prepared to risk their lives to defend this country alongside my nephew who am I to tar them all with the same brush?’
Probyn wondered what his aunt would say were he to tel
l her of his abduction by Fenians, but he had no intention of marring her new-found tolerance.
Kit set a wriggling Toby on his feet. ‘I’m not saying I approve of their religion mind, but they can’t all be bad. So, when my usual washerwoman had to leave and recommended Mrs O’Brien I decided to give her a chance. She’s nothing like the Irish minx I had in London. Your father would no doubt see me as mad to even let one of them over the threshold, but she gets my linen sparkling and that’s good enough for me.’
‘Does me father have a good word for anybody?’ sighed Probyn, only half joking.
Kit gave an empty laugh. ‘Now you come to mention it, I’m not sure he does.’
‘Certainly not for me.’ Probyn gave a sad smile. ‘But then he isn’t alone in that.’
Kit echoed his sigh. ‘Eh dear, sounds as if you need a cup of tea.’ Ordering him to sit down, she began to clatter cups into saucers then opened a tin. ‘Here, you can be the first to sample this Christmas cake. Away then, tell me what’s amiss.’
Probyn accepted a wedge of cake and broke off a crumb for Toby. ‘I thought I’d visit our Wyn first, seeing as she’s a bit closer to the depot than you, but she wouldn’t come to the door.’
‘She might not have been in.’
‘She might not but somebody was.’ Probyn was terse. ‘I saw t’curtain move, and her neighbour told me she’d seen a visitor arrive not long before I did so she must have been there.’ Sounding deeply insulted, he added, ‘Well, it’s the last time I bother with her.’ He bit into the slab of cake. ‘By this is tasty, Aunt. Oh, thanks for the hamper by the way! It went down a treat. I were king for a week with the lads.’
Kit said she was glad. ‘Would you like some Wensleydale with that?’
‘Aye grand. Sit still, I’ll get it!’ Familiar with Kit’s pantry, Probyn went directly there and cut himself a thick wad of cheese, placing it with reverence atop his cake and consuming the two with relish. Toby sat at his feet, waiting to receive the occasional titbit.
Family of the Empire Page 20
