Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Yet, in the event it was not such a test as he had feared. His stepmother was absent, preferring to spend Christmas with her own offspring. The rest of them were all very nice, very welcoming, as if they had parted the best of friends. Christmas dinner was scrumptious as ever, and with Aunt Kit to break the ice everyone, including Probyn, was soon laughing and taking turns to relate family anecdotes. Indeed, after the initial tentative greeting there was never an awkward moment, with so many children to meet, the ones who had been born in his absence.

  ‘Haven’t any of you noticed this?’ Kit finally demanded of the gathering, pointing at her nephew’s moustache.

  Ethel gave a straight-faced laugh. ‘We’d noticed but we daren’t say anything. What exactly is it?’ There was jocular comment from the others, some of his sisters coming over to tug at his facial embellishment.

  ‘Some sort of fungus he picked up in Africa,’ smirked Wyn.

  Kit scolded her. ‘Aw! I think it lends him an air of nobility meself.’

  ‘Listen to you lot!’ Probyn remained good-humoured, knowing their teasing was not malicious. ‘I’ve never seen so many wrinkles except on an elephant.’ All his sisters were in their thirties now, in fact Ethel must only be a few years off forty.

  ‘Ooh, he’s still the cheeky little monkey! A lot of good the army’s done him!’

  Asked to relate his adventures with elephants, Probyn was forced to admit he had only ever seen one in captivity. Then, with the laughter dying down, he took the opportunity to convey his regrets to Rhoda over the death of her husband, commenting that he had been a nice chap. ‘It must have been a dreadful shock.’

  ‘It was, but it’s been five years now,’ sighed Rhoda. ‘But thank you for your kind words, Probe.’ She patted his hand.

  ‘Have you been to see Father’s grave?’ asked Ethel.

  ‘Not yet. I’ve been meaning to go for months.’ He glanced at his eldest sister, hoping she would understand. He felt guilty enough without her schoolmarmish accusal. Ethel had been thirteen when he had been born, and had always seemed like an adult to him, never impish or silly like Meredith.

  ‘I’m sure Mother would appreciate a visit.’ Alice had sidled up.

  Probyn tendered a characteristic nod that told them he would make up his own mind. Chancing a look around at his siblings, he felt that none of them understood why he could not bring himself to go. Despite all the laughter, all the warmth, he could not help feeling out of place after the things that had happened to him.

  Starting to feel trapped, he sought a way out. ‘Let me do the washing-up, Aunt!’ Kit and Meredith were clearing the table.

  Brushing aside the array of eyebrows that were arched in derision, he carried a stack of crockery into the kitchen. There was a mountain of dirty pots and pans everywhere but despite this chaos it was much quieter in here.

  ‘Get your pinny on then!’ Merry threw one at him as a joke.

  Reciprocating the silliness, he donned it with effeminate manner, then noticed the initials GOB embroidered on its breast and exclaimed, ‘Who the heck is GOB?’

  Tipping hot water into the sink, Kit laughed. ‘Oh, it belongs to Grace, Mrs O’Brien’s niece. She’s doing the washing for me; her aunt’s bedridden with white-leg. She must’ve dropped her pinny when she was here last week. Nice little lass.’ She nudged him, and grinned. ‘Don’t let that lot in there know I’ve an Irish girl working for me or I’ll never hear the last of it.’ Observing his grim nod, she told him, ‘You’ve done really well to put up with your sisters, Probe.’

  ‘Oh thank you,’ Merry chuckled.

  ‘I didn’t mean you,’ scolded Kit. ‘You’re not like them.’

  ‘I can tell they think I’m odd not wanting to visit Father’s grave,’ muttered Probyn, tea towel in hand. ‘I know I’ll have to go some time but—’

  ‘You’ll go when you’re ready,’ his aunt reassured him kindly.

  He nodded and began to dry the pots. But in truth he did not know whether he would ever be able to go.

  * * *

  As had happened to him time and time again, events were to rob Probyn of choice. Three months into another new year Wyn’s husband died of kidney failure. Attending his funeral Probyn was finally brought into contact with his stepmother who was so kind, offering not the slightest recrimination that he had not been to see her, and extending such warm invitation for him to spend a few days at Ralph Royd that he had no alternative but to accept.

  On his next spot of leave he duly presented himself at her door, fully intending to stay for at least two days. But as nice as she was, his stepmother was no substitute for real kin and, even within the first hour he was itching to escape his father’s ghost.

  However, he managed to stay the course, and on Saturday morning as he took his leave promised that he would not lose touch with Ann.

  But there was one thing more to be done before he left the colliery village. Leaving by way of Ann’s back garden, he climbed over the fence into the allotment, and wandered between the rows of vegetables and pigeon lofts in the direction of the graveyard.

  ‘Murdering bastard.’

  It came not as a shout, but as if the speaker were merely expressing comment on the weather.

  Looking round, Probyn saw a man with whom he was not acquainted tending his cabbage patch, moving calmly between the rows with his hoe. Disbelieving, he enquired, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The dour, coal-scarred face did not look up, its owner continuing to hoe.

  Probyn walked on, only to hear another bitter comment. ‘Remember ’ninety-three.’

  Again he stalled, abruptly transported to a night four and a half years ago when the world had gone mad and he had been forced to unloose his bullets on men whom he had once regarded as comrades. Sick at heart, he quickened his step towards the graveyard, the accusations following him on the balmy spring air.

  ‘Aye that’s right, sling your hook, soldier boy! We don’t want your sort round here.’

  Entering through a door in the wall that enclosed the church and its weathered tombstones, Probyn closed it behind him and stood for a while mulling over the insults and taking his bearings. Clumps of daffodils adorned the hallowed ground, capering in the strong breeze. From this elevated position he could see the pit where he had once toiled, as most of those buried here had done. Most, but not all. Moving between the blackened headstones he sought out those of his mother and sister, hoping that his father would lie close by.

  In Memory of Montague Kilmaster, beloved husband of Ann, passed away 20th March 1895. Such empty words, he thought, incapable of conveying the full tragedy: more truthfully, the one who laid here had been harried to an early grave by those he had called friend. As he stood pondering the memorial to his father he heard the door scrape across the gravel. Not wanting to speak to anyone, he remained head down, presenting his back to the intruder.

  The door scraped again. Frowning, Probyn turned to see someone going out; his presence had obviously been as irksome to them.

  He lingered amongst the daffodils for only a moment, not wanting to tarry long for fear of bumping into old workmates. Deciding to call at Aunt Kit’s on the way back to barracks, he said a quiet goodbye to those who could never do likewise and left the graveyard.

  From the corner of his eye he detected a figure to his right, leaning further along the wall, but he did not look at them and made his way down the slope. Suddenly, two men came bounding over the allotment fence and launched themselves at him.

  The prickle of apprehension that he experienced on seeing Judson was almost immediately transformed to fury and he braced himself for the onslaught, using Judson’s own momentum to hurl him aside and butting the other attacker full in the face before either of them could get a punch in. This was not the time for gentlemanly tactics. Quick to rise, Judson aimed a blow which Probyn only half managed to dodge before returning one of his own, and from then it was a mass of flailing arms and fists and boots until Probyn’s knuckl
es made contact, downing his attacker like a pole-axed beast, the other still unconscious from the head blow.

  ‘I was coming to help, but you obviously don’t need it.’

  Fist still upraised, blue-grey eyes glittering with fury, Probyn span around and was met by a laconic pipe-smoker. ‘Uncle Owen … what brings you around here?’

  ‘Just wandering. Been laid off for a while with me leg. Get bad rheumatism in it ever since somebody shot me.’ Pipestem clamped between his teeth, Owen glanced down at Judson. ‘Doesn’t pay to tangle with soldiers.’

  Allowing his breath to emerge in a noisy rush, Probyn stood rubbing his knuckles and observing his handiwork. ‘That was a long time coming.’ Owen’s billy-goat face was impassive as he sucked on his pipe, taking note of the group of flat-capped allotment holders that had gathered to watch. ‘You might like to make yourself scarce. There’s others round here’d like to do the same to thee.’

  ‘You being one of them?’ Probyn’s anger was quick to re-ignite.

  ‘Nay, I reckon being in the army is punishment enough for a lad with conscience, having to go against your mates—’

  ‘He’s not a mate!’ Probyn made a derisive gesture at the unconscious Judson. ‘He were one of them that helped kill me dad. ’Course I don’t expect you to understand that, you and your blasted union martyrs.’

  ‘You arrogant little sod!’ A bark of disdain shot from Owen’s lips, procured by the implication that he had no feelings for his dead brother. ‘If it weren’t for us union martyrs as you call us you’d have hungered to death at the masters’ hands before you could even entertain t’idea of being a big brave soldier.’

  ‘Aye … well.’ Though still angry, Probyn showed a hint of contrition. ‘I didn’t mean to slander, I know well enough what you’ve done for us and I’m grateful. It’s just that I can’t for the life of me understand how you can defend scum like him!’

  ‘I wouldn’t give him the ash off me pipe!’ Owen dismissed Judson in a trice. ‘I’m talking about upright lads who were shot in cold blood when all they were trying to do was to defend the principle that the working man is worthy of his hire, to win themselves and their comrades, your father included, a living wage.’

  ‘But there was no need for them to suffer, Uncle!’ Probyn’s face still displayed incomprehension, feeling additional anger that these men of whom his uncle spoke had forced him into an act he had no wish to commit, had put a stain on his brilliant career. ‘I side with you wholeheartedly in your argument with the masters, their demands weren’t fair at all, but surely the lads could have made their point without resorting to such wanton wreckage? I never knew you to be on the side of violence.’ Veiled threats and intimidation maybe, but never outright violence.

  ‘I weren’t, till I nearly died at the hands of one of your fellow swaddies, Meg too! I ask you, what threat did we represent with nowt more than a banner in our hands?’

  Probyn fought his uncle’s attempt to shame him. ‘None, but there were others present who were intent on waving more than banners. Don’t try and tell me there weren’t for I witnessed them myself, could have been killed too in that madhouse. They started the violence first, what else were we to do but try and contain it? I’m sorry you were hurt, Uncle Owen, I hated to be party to it whatever you might believe, but don’t ask me to condone such rabble-rousing as I saw that night, there was no justification for it.’

  ‘Then let the Lord be thy judge,’ said Owen, adding a grim observance of the gathering crowd. ‘And with such views to air I wouldn’t hang about any longer if I were thee.’

  ‘I don’t intend to. Goodbye to you, Uncle Owen.’ Spinning on his heel, Probyn walked away.

  Taking a few calm puffs of his pipe, Owen remained to watch his nephew march down the slope until he disappeared around the corner. Then, he himself shoved open the door into the churchyard and went to pay respects to his brother’s grave.

  * * *

  Thoroughly fed up, Probyn was disappointed upon arriving at Kit’s to find the house empty apart from a few impudent pullets that ran into the scullery at the sight of him. Throwing down his knapsack and his field cap, he was on his way to make himself a cup of tea when there came a female exclamation.

  ‘Oh, shite!’

  Knowing his Aunt Kit would never utter such filth, he frowned and went quickly to investigate, seeing now that the door to the back garden was open which was obviously how the pullets had got in. He poked his head around it to see a girl. The crude vociferation had obviously been invoked by an item of clean washing that had fallen on the soil. Much as he had grown used to soldiers’ profanity and knew it had no bearing on a man’s true character he could not help being offended at hearing it from female lips.

  The girl saw him and screamed. ‘I’ve no money!’

  ‘I don’t want your money,’ retorted Probyn coolly. ‘I’m here to see my aunt.’

  She was all apologetic then, telling him Kit and Worthy had taken the old hens to market. ‘What on earth must you think of me? I don’t normally use words like that. ’S’just that I’ve spent ages washing the wretched thing and then to drop it in the mud—’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything, I’ve only this minute arrived.’ Why on earth did he feel the need to excuse her? If there was one thing he detested more than foul-mouthed men it was vulgar women. However, this one did not totally adhere to that category. She was clean and presentable and looked most abashed.

  ‘Did you not? Oh, thank goodness! Oh well, I’d best wash it again.’ Laying the soiled garment to one side she continued pegging out the rest.

  Probyn realized then that this must be Grace O’Brien. He had expected an Irish accent but there was no trace. Despite the first impression of vulgarity, he was rather taken by her youth and innocence after all the recent horrors, and remained in the sunshine to watch her. Beneath the poor quality woollen dress was a good figure. That she was of a lesser height than himself was also in her favour. Her wavy brown hair was drawn back from her face and held with a comb, although tendrils of it had come loose and curled around her fair cheekbones. Her eyes, and what eyes, thought Probyn, were dark-blue and heavy-lidded, these and the shapely bow of her lips forming a seductive expression, though her overall air was not one of seduction at all; it was gentle and rather vague.

  Grace moved along the line, inserting pegs, casting the odd worried glance at the bruises on the visitor’s face and thinking he must be a rough kind of fellow. Soldiers were noted for their roughness. Her brother Fred was talking about joining the army but so far had been dissuaded; he wasn’t the type. Not normally a shy person, she was assailed by a flutter of self-consciousness under the glittering gaze that followed her every movement.

  Probyn sensed her apprehension and, realizing what a bad impression his bruises must create, strived to put her at ease. ‘So, you must be Gob, are you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said half offended, half laughing.

  He laughed too and told her about finding the pinafore bearing her initials.

  ‘Well I must admit it does look a bit odd,’ smiled Grace, fingering the embroidered letters on her breast. ‘What are yours then?’

  ‘My initials? PMK. Nothing funny there I’m afraid.’

  ‘Mm, pity, I was hoping to get my own back.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ smiled Probyn, feeling more and more attracted by the second.

  ‘You’re forgiven.’ Her primary concern over the bruises had gradually been overcome. There was warmth in her eye. Looking into his tanned face and blue-grey eyes she saw no threat, only kindness. The waxed blond moustache was somewhat severe but this was offset by the little curl at his forehead which she found enormously endearing. ‘What does the PMK stand for?’

  He told her, explaining that Mrs Treasure had been a Kilmaster before her marriage. They found themselves chatting very easily after this, Grace informing him as she hung out the washing that she had taken over from her aunt whose illness
had been a stroke of luck for her out-of-work niece. ‘I used to work at Rowntrees but got sacked for bad time-keeping.’

  Thinking of Michael Melody, Probyn decided laziness must be an inherent fault of the Irish, until the girl went on to explain:

  ‘It’s a wonder I ever managed to get there at all, having to get me brother up and give him his breakfast, all me sisters are away in service d’you see, then prepare dinner and do the cleaning and the washing before I go off to work, so’s there’s not so much to do when I get in. Anyway, I’m hoping to get another job soon, but this’ll tide me over nicely till I do.’

  ‘So, there’s only you and your brother at home?’

  A peg clamped in her mouth, Grace moved along the line, nodding sadly. ‘Father died of heart disease a few years back. Mother died last year, consumption.’

  Noticing that her eyes had misted over, Probyn felt immediate empathy. ‘My mother too.’

  ‘My eldest brother died from it as well,’ said Grace, blinking furiously and pegging another item.

  ‘And my eldest sister!’ He wanted to hug her.

  Grace paused to commiserate. ‘What a terrible death it is to be sure.’

  Pegging the last item on the line she went to retrieve the soiled garment and disappeared for a moment to rinse it in the trough, rubbing and sloshing to try and get rid of the mud, tutting away to herself. When she came back out into the sunshine the soldier was still where she had left him.

  She put the item through the mangle, telling him to stand back as water gushed forth. ‘So Mr Kilmaster—’

  ‘Nay, don’t call me mister I’ll be getting ideas above me station! Mister is for officers, I’m only a humble corporal.’

  Corrected, she nodded. ‘I can’t help noticing you’re very sunburned.’ When he told her where the tan had been acquired she became excited. ‘Oh Africa. Tell me all about it!’

  ‘Well what would you like to know?’ He hoped she wouldn’t ask about the fighting.