The girls beheld each other in glee, then turned on him excitedly, Kitty grasping his arm. ‘Really? You’re such a gem!’
‘Ooh, I love a concert,’ gushed Fanny, hugging her shawl about her, ‘but I can’t afford to go very often.’
‘Why, because you’re always breaking windows?’ teased Probyn.
They cackled in a rather unladylike fashion, then Kitty made sure he was serious about paying for them. ‘It is a shilling to get in, are you sure … ?’
‘Perfectly,’ he replied with confidence, hoping the veneer of nonchalance would conceal his boyish excitement.
Equipped with details of where to meet on Saturday, their gratitude ringing in his ears, he parted company with his new-found friends and returned to the barracks in uplifted mood.
Somehow in his short absence the garrison had taken on a different, more welcoming appearance, or maybe it was just that he had more time to study his surroundings this afternoon. Apart from the barrack blocks around the square there were married quarters to which mothers and fathers and little children were now returning from their Sunday outings. The sight of these respectably dressed women caused him to wonder how they could bear to live amongst such dregs as were in his own barrack block. He wouldn’t like to bring a wife here.
An officer was approaching. Deep in thought, Probyn saluted him, surprising himself at how naturally the action had come to him, he had not realized how acclimatized to army life he had become, though he hoped he would never grow acclimatized to the filthy language that greeted his return to the barrack room.
Melody was still sleeping off his dinner, Ingham, Rook and half a dozen others were playing cards and invited him to join them but Probyn declined and instead set to cleaning and ironing and polishing his uniform and kit in preparation for the morning. Only after tea, when everything had been put in meticulous order, did he permit himself some leisure, and visited the reading room, seeking comfort in the educational tome that had given such enjoyment the night before.
* * *
Unfortunately, the mood inspired by the padre’s speech and his meeting with the girls was not to last. In fact Probyn found it even harder during that second week of training not to abandon his cherished career and throw himself on his father’s mercy, for the tests were to become even more strenuous. Discipline, too, was stepped up and inspections by the sergeant were now occurring daily. Whilst the recruits stood to attention like frightened hares, Sergeant Faulkner and Corporal Wedlock took the part of lurchers, worrying and ripping their victims limb from limb. Prowling from bed to bed, Faulkner would seize upon something out of place and, yelping in sadistic glee, would toss it high in the air, be it fabric or metal, not caring a jot if it fell upon some unfortunate skull, whilst the corporal would enter the misdemeanour in a book for future reference – and it was often grossly unfair, sulked Probyn to his comrades, for he should be the last person brought to book; only an idiot could pick fault with his standards of neatness for he had done nothing but clean since he had arrived.
It was unfortunate that Sergeant Faulkner happened to be passing at the time of complaint and Private Kilmaster was ordered to, ‘Get outside the bloody office now!’ and after the beasting received therein he was slow to complain again. Yet he had made a grave mistake in drawing attention to himself and for the next few days on the parade ground it was not Melody who was singled out for harassment, but himself.
‘Why haven’t you shaved this morning?’ demanded Staff Sergeant Quigley on Tuesday.
Probyn faltered, ‘I have, Staff Sergeant.’
‘Then what are all these bits of bum fluff?’ Quigley nipped the golden hair on Probyn’s cheeks, making him wince. ‘You are going the right way to making me angry, Kilmaster!’
On Wednesday it was fluff on the back of his tunic and Probyn was certain he had brushed it thoroughly, though his protest cut no ice with Quigley. ‘Do it again, boy, and you’ll be on a bloody charge!’
Yes, there were times during that first fortnight when he would gladly have turned his back on the whole caboodle. Only a stubborn, determined nature and the thought of being ridiculed caused him to stand firm. He could not, would not allow any of these oafish bullies to completely ruin his dream.
Thursday brought a response to his letter. Seizing on this comforting link with home Probyn ripped open the envelope and pored over it anxiously, but was immediately tipped into fresh despair. Evidently despatched on an impulse of anger, the single page consisted of only a few lines and came not from his father but from Merry, its content terse.
Dear Brother,
I rescued your letter before Father could throw it on the fire …
Probyn’s heart sank.
He does not know I am writing to you and if he did he would be furious. He says he will never speak to you again, and I can’t say I blame him. How could you be so wilful? Running away like that. You must have known how worried we would be. What a mercy that Mother isn’t here. After all her encouragement for us to better ourselves she would be so sad that you have descended to this. I have only taken the trouble to write back to let you know how your shameful behaviour has upset everyone. Father says you are no longer welcome in his house. He may come round in time, but I suggest you do not write for a while. It will only inflame matters.
Your sister, Meredith.
As an afterthought, she had inserted an arrow before the word sister and above it had written loving, obviously deciding to bestow a morsel of pity.
But a postscript was to endorse her disapproval:
PS Don’t send any money. Father would never touch it from such a source.
Lower in spirit than he had been all week, Probyn folded the letter into his pocket. It was no empty threat, he knew. A man who had not spoken to his brother in five years would have little qualm about disinheriting his son. Any thoughts he might have harboured about escaping from this desperate mess were now abandoned, for with his home barred to him there was nowhere else to go. Bitterly disappointing or no, the army was his only family now.
* * *
The torturous regime continued with no let up, the only thing keeping him afloat being the thought of foreign service in some exotic location. Only now did he begin to see what he had given up to be here, to stop and think who had put his clothes to warm on the hearth overnight and lay out clean underwear for him, and he felt sorry that he had treated Mrs Carr with such indifference. Much as he condemned his father for not lifting a finger in the house he saw now that he had been guilty of it too. As the youngest child there had always been sisters to look after him. But no more.
On Friday morning, still sulking over the letter, Probyn was even more nettled than usual by the sight of Melody slumbering through reveille, and decided that it was not his job to wake this feckless hound. Hence, the Irish youth was to make further acquaintance with Wedlock’s cudgel. Albeit on the shoulder this time, the blow was no less painful. Nor was the look on Mick’s face as he confronted his erstwhile bodyguard whilst they were scrubbing the barrack room floor prior to a spell in the gymnasium.
‘How could ye be so mean as to let me lie there?’ he asked reproachfully, grinding away at the floorboards with a stiff brush. ‘I’m destroyed.’
Probyn broke off his chore to give aggravated response. ‘It’s not my fault you’re an idle so and so! You can look out for yourself in future.’
‘My, my, what happened to Lord Protector of the Weak?’ goaded Havron.
‘He gave notice to quit!’
‘God forgive ye,’ accused Mick.
‘Now, now, boys, play nicely,’ Lennon advised the squabblers.
‘Why don’t you ask Grandma or one of the others to wake you up?’ spat Probyn.
‘’Tisn’t a bloody nursery,’ Lennon reminded him. ‘And ’tis Private Lennon if you’re taking that tone.’
‘Sorry,’ Probyn showed contrition. ‘It’s just this useless lollard who’s got me mad.’ He went back to scrubbing.
Mi
ck continued to look hurt, his arm moving listlessly in its task. ‘You’re supposed to be my pal. I could’ve been kilt by that bloody club.’
‘Same goes for any other lazy article in here,’ countered Probyn, anger making him scrub all the harder, bringing sweat to his brow. ‘If I slept in I’d say it was me own fault, not blame other folk.’
Whilst others beavered, Mick sat back on his heels, stared into space, then conceded above the grating noise, ‘Ah, I suppose you’re right. I’ve never been good at getting up on a morn, ’tis like a sickness with me. I genuinely don’t hear a thing.’ He touched his injured shoulder and winced before returning to work.
‘How can you not hear that b-lithering trumpet?’ Irritated beyond endurance by the said instrument and by Melody, Probyn found it hard not to swear.
It took little for Mick to break off again. ‘’Tis that bloody letter ye got yesterday, isn’t it?’ he demanded. ‘Got a good telling off from your ould fella, did ye? Jesus, you’ve been as arsey as hell since ye got it.’
‘Will you stop using such blasphemous language,’ ordered Probyn through gritted teeth. ‘If I’m annoyed it’s nowt to do with any letter but that you’re a lazy pig! I’m sick of having to carry you, you’re just going to have to fend for yourself in future.’
‘Sure, I can’t believe you’re such a hard man, Probyn Kilmaster,’ reproved Mick. ‘I know you, you won’t let a pal down.’
For some reason this made Probyn all the more furious, but any response was to be interrupted.
‘Get a move on, Melody! You’ve got fifteen minutes before Colour- Sergeant Doyle gets here.’ Wedlock had poked his head in to see how things were progressing. An inspection imminent, his eyes darted about the room, checking for slackers.
Doyle! Another wretched Irishman, thought Probyn, scrubbing frenziedly. Even if most of those with Irish names spoke with a Yorkshire accent it made no difference, they were still Celts. How could he have dreamed the British Army would be so contaminated?
‘Melody, come ’ere!’ Wedlock was now beside the stove, his expression ominous.
Mick groaned into his chest, but jumped to his feet and, hopping between the network of scrubbing arms, hurried to obey.
‘I thought I told you to clean this coal bucket!’
‘I did, Corp.’
‘So what’s this?’ Wedlock displayed a black fingertip.
‘Em—’
‘And why can’t I see my face in it?’
‘I thought I’d got it clean, Corp.’
‘Look. Come on, look a bit closer.’ Wedlock held his finger nearer to Mick’s face, then formed his hand into a fist and rapped his victim’s nose, causing Mick to reel backwards in hurt surprise.
‘Is that what you call burnished? Is it?’
‘No, Corp,’ admitted Mick, examining his hand which had blood on it.
‘Why – leave that bloody neb alone and listen to me! Why did you disobey an order?’
‘I thought it was a joke, Corp!’ Unstaunched, the trickle of red oozed over Mick’s lips.
‘A joke? What do you think this is the bloody music hall? Haven’t you learned by now that I don’t tell jokes. Get the fucking thing polished!’ While Mick scuttled to obey, Wedlock stalked around the stove examining it for a sign of ash. Finding none he glared and gave one last comment. ‘If you can’t get it right for the Colour-Sergeant how you gonna satisfy Sergeant-Major Mars and the CO? Get a bloody move on!’ He strode out.
Mick sagged with despair and pulled out a rag to dab his gory nose.
Feeling rather sorry for him now, though still deeply irritated, Probyn took a break from his scrubbing. ‘Why don’t you just get out now while you still can?’
‘And do what?’ came the nasal demand. ‘Go back down the pit and get walloped by the likes of Judson?’
‘Well, you’re not really cut out for this life.’
‘And you are?’ Made angry by his sore nose, Mick took offence. ‘Who says you’re the better man than me?’
‘Nobody’s saying that,’ answered Probyn. ‘But this is all I ever wanted to do.’
‘What, be insulted by a little shit of a corporal? Can’t say I admire your ambition.’ Grabbing cloth and polish, Mick attended the coal bucket.
‘I meant,’ said Probyn, his annoyance threatening to get the better of him, ‘being a soldier. You can’t honestly make the same claim. You just thought you’d look good in uniform.’
‘And so I do,’ boasted Mick. ‘Ye can’t dispute that. Know what I think? Ye want rid of me so’s ye won’t have to play second fiddle.’
Probyn scoffed. ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately? Your teeth are green.’
‘Well he is Irish,’ chipped in Queen.
Probyn ignored this and resumed his scrubbing. ‘Don’t you ever clean them? And all them cuts and bruises aren’t exactly flattering. You’ll end up as one big bruise if you continue to get Wedlock’s back up. I seem to remember you saying that all you wanted was to get through the day without getting your head kicked in.’
‘You’re talking to someone who was educated by the Christian Brothers.’ But Mick soon abandoned his air of bravado and sighed, picking self-consciously at his teeth. ‘Ah sure, it wouldn’t matter where I went, there’d always be a bully-boy. I seem to attract them. Always have. Must be jealous, the lot of them.’
Probyn grew exasperated. ‘Jealous? This is the army, Wedlock’s trying to turn you into a soldier!’
‘And how long have you been an admirer of his?’ grumbled Mick. ‘Anyhow, I’m doing well enough.’
‘When you’re out of bed maybe! I’d like to lozzock in bed on a morning an’ all but a man has to have discipline. You can’t keep relying on others to wake you up.’
Recognizing his friend’s past assistance, Mick acquiesced. ‘I know, and don’t think I’m not grateful for what ye’ve done.’
‘I’d do it for anybody, I just want you to make an effort on your own!’
‘I’ve tried really hard,’ wailed Mick. ‘I tell me brain, you must wake up at five o’clock, but it doesn’t work. I don’t hear a thing. Me mother says, ’tis the sign of a clear conscience.’
‘’Tis the sign of a blinking half-wit! How can you stand all the bashings?’
‘Ah, he’ll tire of it eventually. They always do. Anyways, as I said, where else would I go? I get fed and clothed here, money to send home to me ma and enough left over for a few beers on Saturday.’
Probyn shook his head. ‘Is that all the army means to you? Have you ever thought you might have to die for it?’
The pain in his nose subsiding, Mick reverted to his normal cheery self. ‘I’ll face that when I come to it. No point worrying yourself to death beforehand. Anyhow, I’ve got me trusty weapon to protect me, and me trusty pals too.’
‘This trusty pal is going to kick your backside if you don’t get that scuttle done and Wedlock takes it out on me,’ warned Probyn.
‘For God’s sake, will you two shut up!’ shouted Havron. ‘You’re like a couple of old women, witter, witter, witter.’
‘Shut up yourself,’ said Mick, and set to polishing the scuttle.
Wearing his habitual bad-tempered frown, Havron abandoned his chore and made towards the Irish youth. ‘I’ll shut you up permanently!’
Probyn flicked his hand dismissively. ‘Oh, get back to work, Havron!’
Havron immediately altered course, with Probyn now his target. ‘Who the hell d’you think you are ordering me about, short-arse?’
Probyn dropped his scrubbing brush and jumped to his feet, holding the other with glittering eyes. ‘If this room isn’t in order when Wedlock comes back we’re in for another rocket and I’m damned if I’m taking the blame for you not pulling your weight, you haven’t even had a shave yet!’
Havron leaped for Probyn but before they could engage they were wrenched apart by Jessop and Oliver, each delivering a good shaking and telling them to get back to work. Only under threat from the two olde
r men did the room succeed in passing inspection by Colour-Sergeant Doyle.
No amount of threat, however, could extinguish the mood of rivalry and resentment that had sprung up between Havron and Probyn and this grew steadily more unpleasant until by Saturday night Probyn felt such misery that was only assuaged by the thought of his trip to the concert with Fanny and Kitty.
Prior to his intended night out, the rabble again tried to lure him into bad ways, inviting him on a tour of local hostelries, to which they had recently gained readmittance on the promise of good behaviour. But he demurred, concentrating on polishing his equipment, refusing to be hurried, diligently rubbing with his rag and polish, deaf to their goading.
Seated close by, lacing his boots, Felix Lennon demanded in his rapid, barely decipherable manner, ‘So, you’re going to sit in again all night are ye? I’m beginning to worry about you.’
Having tutored himself to disregard Lennon’s foul punctuation, Probyn had come to like the man and decided to confide, leaning across the gap between their beds and lowering his voice accordingly. ‘I am going out as a matter of fact, but don’t tell that lot.’
A conspiratorial gleam lit Lennon’s blue eyes and he leaned closer. ‘Ah, with a bibbi – a woman?’
Probyn tried not to look smug. ‘Two.’
‘Ye greedy little piggy.’ But Lennon was impressed. ‘Will ye not share them with your pal?’
Probyn looked awkward.
‘I don’t mean me, ye daft eejit! I mean himself.’ Lennon cocked his head at Melody.
Probyn glanced at Mick, even with the prison haircut winsome in his scarlet uniform, and immediately shook his head. ‘Once they see him neither of them will want to know me.’
‘Ah, don’t I know what ye mean,’ nodded Felix. ‘He’s a bonny lad, but sure, don’t be selling yourself short.’
‘I am short,’ grumbled Probyn. ‘Anyway, I can’t think Melody will care much for a concert at the Town Hall, which is where I’ve promised to take ’em.’
Family of the Empire Page 10