A period of intensive buffing occurred. Probyn noted to his disgust that he had never seen any of them work so hard when there wasn’t a drink at the end of it. With no intention of being an accessory to this, he himself took his time, making sure he hadn’t missed any smudges or blobs of mud, for Wedlock could detect one the size of a gnat’s dropping.
Having anticipated some respite from the stringent discipline Mick was stunned to find that even outside there were rules to be observed. Many respectable establishments, said Lennon, would not serve anyone in uniform, and as common soldiers were not permitted to be seen without it, this tended to limit their choice of watering hole, but at least it would be a change of scenery.
‘Sure, I’m all for a change of scenery,’ agreed Mick, his elbow working furiously back and forth. ‘Preferably a distant one. Tell me, Private Lennon, how many foreign countries have you been to?’
Felix mused. ‘Mm, Africa, India, Mauritius, the West Indies, New Zealand. Oh, about a dozen I’d say.’
‘I can’t wait to see Africa,’ grinned Mick, happier now in his polishing. ‘Would there be elephants?’
Continuing to work, Felix nodded. ‘Sure there’s all kinds o’ marvellous creatures.’
‘What are the niggers like?’ asked Ingham.
‘Oh terrible brutes. Beware they don’t catch ye or they’ll slit your lips like tomatoes and cut off your ears and your nose.’
‘And your goolies,’ added Oliver, enjoying the look of horror he had created. ‘Jessop lost his that way, he’s lucky to be alive, aren’t you, Jess?’
‘Toss off,’ muttered Jessop, shoving his feet into his boots.
Mick swallowed. ‘What’re goolies?’
Probyn smirked with the others at this display of innocence, though he could only hazard a guess as to the identity of the referred items.
Felix kindly explained.
‘They’d really do that?’ Mick was aghast.
‘They would,’ affirmed Felix. ‘But ’tis the Dutchmen ye really want to watch – sly, bombastic creatures. And if they don’t get you the enteric will, or the scorpions or the snakes, or the little wriggly fellas that live in the water.’ With the listeners enthralled, he spent the next few minutes relating his experiences in foreign lands, and would have gone on all night had not his companions announced that they were ready to leave.
‘Eh, Kilmaster-Actually, are you coming?’ bawled Oliver.
‘What with?’ They had not yet received any wages, but it was merely a convenient excuse for Probyn. Moving stiffly, he began to return the cleaned articles of kit to his shelf.
‘We’ll give you a sub till you get paid,’ said the swaggering Jessop, preening his moustache. ‘We’re lending your mates some.’
‘Thank you, but no.’
Jessop detected an air of aloofness and challenged him. ‘What’s up, aren’t we good enough for you?’
Living cheek by jowl with these oafs, Probyn had no wish to make things worse by offending them, nevertheless he refused to be intimidated. ‘I’m very grateful for the offer but I don’t want to get into debt. Besides I don’t take strong liquor.’
‘Good ’cause they don’t serve it at the Black Boy, it’s like gnat’s piss,’ this from Private Oliver. ‘But it’s the only pub that’ll let us in after the ruction we had last month. Away, you maungy bugger.’
‘Aye, come on, Probe, do,’ begged Mick, other voices joining his. ‘Aw, come on, come on, now! God knows, ye’ve worked hard enough for it.’
It was a quirk of Probyn’s nature that, the more folk applied pressure, the further he dug his heels in. Now, he merely used another tack to fob them off. ‘I’ve got an important letter to write. Can you tell me where I can get some paper?’ The change of topic was directed at Private Lennon.
Before the other could answer there came mockery from Jessop. ‘Doesn’t swear, doesn’t drink, writes letters. You’re in the wrong place, pal, there’s a monastery up t’road.’
Havron sneered. ‘Must be a bloody poof.’
‘What’s a poof?’ whispered Mick to the man beside him.
On a resentful sigh, Probyn explained, ‘I just need to write and tell me father where I am while I’ve got the chance, that’s all. My head’s spinning enough without alcohol.’
Lennon offered solace. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon find your feet.’
Queen made giggling observance on Probyn’s short legs. ‘Won’t have to look far for them.’
‘Take no notice,’ slurred Lennon mildly, then remarked on the youngster’s angry blush. ‘Ah now, ye won’t last long here, sonny, if ye can’t take a joke.’
Probyn manufactured a smile, but inside his heart was awash with disappointment that his high ideals were not met by others.
‘C’mon now!’ With the exodus begun, Lennon crooked a finger at the outsider. ‘Ye’ll find what ye need at the soldiers’ club. I’ll show ye where it is.’
* * *
The temperance centre with its reading and writing room, its innocent games of chess and its tea and coffee bars, provided great relief to one seeking respite from the evils of his fellows.
Finding pen and paper and mercifully some quietude at last, Probyn seated himself at a desk, dipped his nib into an inkwell and scratched out his new address, then pondered over the date and suddenly realized that the old year had passed without him even noticing. It was now 1891.
Having sought out a calendar to check the date, he wrote, Dear Father …
Several minutes elapsed before he could think of anything else to say. Should he offer apology? No, because he wasn’t genuinely sorry; he had been driven to this by his father’s obduracy. There would certainly not be the slightest admittance that Father had been right all along. Regardless of the terrible disappointment Probyn had suffered he did not regret that he had chosen to make the discovery for himself. However … he should atone for the method of his leaving. Yes, that was the way to begin.
A dip into the inkwell and the nib made scratchy contact again. I am sorry if you have been worried about my disappearance. I have put pen to paper at the first opportunity to let you know that I am safe and well. By now you must have guessed where I am. Doubtless you will think I planned it all along but it was a spur of the moment decision over Christmas that led me to coming here. By the way, I left my pit clothes under the bridge. They might come in useful for someone.
After a further interlude of reflection, he fought his disconsolate mood to inject a note of enthusiasm. I have passed all the entrance requirements and am now kitted out and looking like a real soldier. Don’t know what happens next, nor where I shall be going, but I will be thinking of you and … he was about to write Merry, but Father would be offended if he didn’t include Mrs Carr so he changed it to, everyone at home. I promise to send you some money as soon as I get paid. My regimental number and address are at the top of this letter if you care to write. I should be pleased to hear from you. Wishing you a very happy New Year. Yours respectfully, Probyn.
After depositing the letter for despatch, he was loath to swap his peaceful sojourn for the barrack room and hence extended his stay amongst the sober occupants of the Wesleyan centre. Though their number was few, it was a relief to find that there were, after all, people of like mind in the garrison. More relaxed now, he nodded amiably at those who caught his eye, and looked for a place to sit, then, as an afterthought he approached a bookshelf. Browsing for a while amongst interesting tomes, he finally selected one about the regiment’s history and sat down to read.
Some chapters later, in danger of nodding off, he was alerted by the bugler calling Retreat. Stretching, he enjoyed the first genuine sensation of pleasure since he had arrived. The regime might be harsh and his fellows lacking in gallantry, but here at least was an oasis to which he could escape every night. Deciding there was just time to finish his chapter he lowered his eyes back to the page, but it took longer than he had thought and when he glanced up again everyone had gone. A mah
ogany wall clock showed it was almost time for lights out. Thoroughly reluctant to return to the den of iniquity, he nevertheless hurriedly replaced the book on the shelf, and loped back to his barrack room.
Den of iniquity had he called it? Bowels of Hades would be more apt. Taking shallow inhalations, he cut a disgusted passage through the haze of alcoholic and bodily fumes, and made for his bed. Instantaneous to his arrival, Ingham deposited a pool of vomit on the floor, spattering Probyn’s boots as he tried to dodge past. With an exclamation of revulsion, he sat on his cot and unlaced the soiled articles as quickly as possible, seeking a rag with which to clean them. To his greater repugnance, he noticed that his dark blue trousers were also contaminated.
‘Ingham, you filthy—!’ With an angry gasp he wrenched them off and dabbed at them frantically with another edge of the rag, trying to dislodge vomit from the weave.
Only Private Lennon came to his aid, handing over a damp cloth which eventually did the trick, though a disgusted sniff told Probyn further work would be needed. It was more than he could do to resist descending into foul language, comforting himself with the knowledge that at least his oath was justifiable and not issued in the casual manner of this scum. Hands trembling with rage, he soaped the creases of his trousers and duly got into bed, but how he would sleep with his head so utterly consumed by fury he did not know.
Apologizing to the Lord for his inappropriate method of communication, he prayed only for the lights to be turned out, so that he would no longer be tormented by these reprobates who had ruined his dream.
Melody, his blue eyes like glass, was serenading Ingham who was trying in drunken fashion to brush the puddle of vomit onto a shovel, but kept losing it along the way.
‘Better sober up before the corp catches yese,’ Lennon cautioned the pair. ‘Or ye’ll be answering a charge on Monday morning.’
Had Probyn been in command he would have had the whole block on a charge for such lack of decorum. Men who should have known better paraded their nakedness without shame, undergoing all manner of lewdness as they made ready for bed, exchanging graphic details about their female consorts. Trying to block out the dreadful vision, Probyn squeezed his eyes tightly shut and begged the Lord that it would not always be thus.
Amid more swearing, belching, staggering, the rabble continued to annoy him. Only when Corporal Wedlock bawled at them did they finally settle down.
The lights went out. The corporal climbed into his own bed. Some semblance of calm was achieved as one by one the lazy, undisciplined, beer-sodden, foul-mouthed womanizers fell asleep. Yet the rage in Private Kilmaster’s head was not so easily extinguished.
4
On Sunday after breakfast there was a stampede to turn out in full dress at ten o’clock. Though Probyn and the others were not deemed proficient enough to join Church Parade, they were nevertheless compelled to march afterwards in their various denominations to their own places of worship, and at this point Probyn found himself astounded yet again by another fact of army life. Whilst the beeswaxed pews of his own Methodist establishment were amply filled by scarlet uniforms – for in the mining community this religion was very strong – he was unnerved at the large number who patronized the Catholic church: not just men and NCOs but officers too! It was a sobering thought, one upon which to ponder as he waited for the service to begin. In all his romantic dreams he had never envisaged that the army he so admired would harbour papists.
After worship the padre welcomed the new members of his flock, speaking to them about love of regiment and offering encouragement, telling them that he understood how difficult this transition must be for them but to remember that every man had suffered identical hardship in their early career and they must not consider themselves victimized if they received punishment for violating an order. It was a soldier’s duty to obey. It was also his duty to avoid the evils of alcohol or any other temptation of the flesh that might be laid before him, for this had been the downfall of many a good man. If only the rest of his platoon could be made to heed the padre’s lecture, thought Probyn, for surely he was ministering to the converted here. Finding the speech uplifting, he delivered an inward rebuke, putting to rout any tinge of self-pity and resolving to start the week afresh with a different attitude.
Sad to say his mood was short-lived for on being reunited with the platoon at dinner he found them conversing on such topics of evil that had been denounced by the padre. As soon as the meal was over, desperate to escape his uncouth companions, he decided to go for a walk, avoiding any bid by Melody to accompany him.
After a damp and dirty week it was refreshing to experience the nip of frost on one’s cheeks and to see a clear blue sky. Undecided where to go, happy just to be alone, Probyn took the downhill slope towards a town of great antiquity. Black coal, black liquorice, both had left their mark. The stone Butter Cross, the octagonal tower of St Giles, Ionic portico and eighteenth-century hovel, every building had been tainted by the dust and smoke of industry, and in its crooked narrow lanes and wide elegant marketplace there were more public houses than he could count, yet Pontefract endeared itself to his sense of history, particularly its ancient castle, and it was towards this crumbling relic that he now found himself heading.
Standing amid the ruin on its elevated rock, Probyn shielded his eyes against the January sun and stared into the distance. With the air as clear as crystal, every outline sharply defined by the frosty atmosphere, he could see for miles, could even make out the towers of York Minster, which came as an instant reminder of Aunt Kit. The edges of his mouth turned up in fond remembrance. It was on such days as this that she had taken him and his sisters on picnic walks. Inevitably, Beata, his dear departed eldest sister wandered into his mind’s eye, causing a tinge of sadness. But though his eyes burned with a sentimental tear Probyn was not given to melancholia and for the most part his memories were pleasant ones.
The view took on a different perspective. Out of the past sprang a massive army, ten thousand men intent on battle. He heard their blood-curdling yells as they charged upon his stronghold, the whinny of armour-clad steeds thundering towards him, saw and felt the glint of sword and spear, rallied his doughty band of northern men to defend the ramparts that had never yet been breached, except by the ravages of time …
Battle was interrupted by a girlish titter. He wheeled around and saw that he was being observed by two young women. Instinctively he went to raise his glengarry, then, unsure whether this breached army etiquette, he merely touched it instead and turned back to the view.
Almost immediately he found the girls at his side. They appeared to be of similar age to himself.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ said the bolder of the pair, a friendly manner compensating for any lack of prettiness.
‘Grand! Particularly after so much rain.’ Having so many sisters, Probyn was at ease in the company of girls, especially ones whose plaid shawls and out-dated hats betrayed that they were of modest status.
‘I hope we didn’t disturb you?’
He responded happily. ‘No! I was just standing here thinking.’
His coquettish, dark-eyed inquisitor leaned against the ruined wall. ‘Thinking of your sweetheart? You seemed to be miles away.’
Probyn laughed as if this were ridiculous. ‘I haven’t got a sweetheart! No, I was just …’ he broke off at the thought that they might mock his soldierly fantasies, and changed tack, ‘just remembering the picnics my Aunt Kit used to take us on when we were young.’
‘That’s my name too!’ smiled the bold one. ‘At least it’s Kitty.’
Probyn nodded respectfully. ‘Private Probyn Kilmaster.’
‘I love picnics,’ enthused the girl who had not yet spoken.
‘Oh, this is me friend, Fanny,’ exclaimed Kitty.
After another series of smiles and nods, the girls appeared to become lost for words and it was left to Probyn to maintain the conversation. Considering it impolite to speak about himself he asked if the
y lived in Pontefract, though their accent which differed from his own had already told him this. Replying in the affirmative, they informed him that they worked at one of the liquorice factories, and in turn asked if he liked being a soldier which gave him a chance to shine without being boastful.
‘You look very dashing,’ commented Fanny, her eyes running admiringly over his red tunic.
Only then, in his enjoyment of this unaccustomed praise, did Probyn become rather tongue-tied and made a joke of her words. ‘Oh, er, thank you! I don’t know about dashing but I’m going to have to dash soon, I’ve lost track of the time. May I escort you young ladies back down the hill?’
They appeared to find it amusing that he addressed them as young ladies, but snatched his offer and accompanied him back into town. Shoulders back, head erect, he strutted like a peacock between the two duller hens. Disappointingly, the townsfolk being accustomed to the presence of soldiers, his uniform drew barely a glance, but at least the girls seemed taken with him.
‘Let’s go dahn here,’ said Kitty, steering him out of his way, though he was quite happy to be led, thinking that his luck had surely changed. Then, ‘Oh, look!’ she cried, stopping to read a poster. ‘There’s a concert on Saturday.’
‘Well, you won’t be off,’ said her friend pretending to sulk. ‘And neither will I.’
Kitty groaned, then turned to explain to their soldier companion, ‘We have to pay a neighbour for his broken window.’ Emitting a sudden giggle, she told Probyn, ‘We were laiking with me brother’s football. Didn’t do it on purpose.’
Eyes glued to the poster, Fanny gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘What a rotten shame.’
Probyn smiled to himself. They must think he was green to be so taken in. It was quite obvious they had led him past the billboard deliberately. But, what young man would pass up the chance to go to a concert with a girl on either arm? ‘You could come with me if you like. My treat.’
Family of the Empire Page 9