Family of the Empire

by Family of the Empire (retail) (epub)

An odd expression overtook the older man’s face.

  Thinking that it represented derision Probyn took umbrage. ‘Why, is there something wrong with that?’

  Distracted by the calls from his fellows, Felix donned his glengarry and made to leave, replying lightly, ‘No, no, nothing at all! I trust you’ll have a very fine evening.’

  * * *

  Keeping his eyes alert for other recruits, who would no doubt spoil his pleasant outing, Probyn hurried through the darkened streets towards the Town Hall clock under which he had arranged to meet the girls. Smiling widely at their pretty demeanours, he escorted them into the neighbouring assembly room, pleased that his was the only uniform in sight, not least because he stood out magnificently from the crowd.

  Whilst not lacking confidence, he found himself quite nervous, for this was his first adult liaison with one female, let alone two. However, he was representing the regiment and must set a good example. Approaching a desk, he asked the woman seated behind it for three tickets.

  ‘Sorry,’ came her unsmiling reply.

  ‘You’re full?’ enquired Probyn politely, money in hand.

  She stared him coldly in the eye. ‘No, I’m not permitted to let soldiers in.’

  Taken off guard, he reddened and immediately stepped aside feeling extremely foolish.

  The two girls remained by the desk, looking cross. ‘Well, I don’t see why we should be disappointed!’ complained Fanny, addressing no one in particular. ‘We were expecting an evening out. Got all dressed up an’ all.’ Kitty tossed her head in agreement.

  ‘Oh!’ Feeling incredibly naive, Probyn looked at the coins in his hand then immediately shoved a florin across the desk. ‘I’ll just pay for the young ladies then.’

  Stern-faced, the woman passed two tickets to the girls who, with a smiling shrug of commiseration, disappeared into the concert hall, leaving him standing there open to derision from the queue, though not for long. Feeling utterly humiliated he dashed outside and began walking, walking anywhere in an attempt to escape the awful situation.

  After a time, though, mortification was displaced by fury. It had taken him two days of arduous labour to purchase those tickets and what thanks had he got? None! They hadn’t even had the decency to make other arrangements to meet him – not that he ever wanted to see them again. Anyone with an ounce of virtue would have stood up for him, would have refused to enter if their friend had been barred, which just went to show what sort of women they were. He should count himself lucky he had found out in time before they had fleeced him of everything.

  But it didn’t make him feel any better, for apart from those mannerless females he could not rid himself of the one who had barred him, her prim, supercilious face refusing to leave his mind. How dare she deny him entry? No soldiers indeed! Who did she think was going to defend her in time of war?

  After much angry, directionless marching around the undulating gaslit streets and much self-castigation for not standing his ground, he came to an abrupt halt to get his bearings. He was in the Corn Market, surrounded by public houses. Groups of people travelled between one hostelry and another; people enjoying themselves. Staring through a window of the timber-framed building by which he stood, he caught a glimpse of red tunics and listened to the soldierly merriment for a while, wondering whether to go in and seek a friendly face, for apparently this was the only venue in town where he would find one.

  But no, his father would disapprove. With his bladder aching to be emptied, he merely wandered into the dark mouth of an archway that led into the courtyard of the Blackamoor’s Head and made use of the privy therein. On his way back he felt himself under observation. Two short-legged terriers were tethered in a pool of lamplight by the rear entrance to the pub.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, without much enthusiasm.

  One of the mud-caked animals wagged its tail. Grateful for any friendly gesture, Probyn made a detour and dropped to his hunkers to stroke both dogs, at the same time noticing the collier’s shovel propped against the wall and the sack nearby. As he patted the dogs he saw the sack move. Curious, he stared at it for a moment, then gave it a poke. The creature inside made a noise that signified pain. Tentatively, he unfastened the string that tied the neck of the sack, the terriers became excited then and strained at their ropes, tails wagging furiously. Hardly had Probyn loosed the string than the creature leapt out at him, causing him to stagger back with a cry and allowing it to escape. In a trice the maimed young badger was dragging itself into the night with the berserk terriers straining to be after it.

  In response to the frantic yapping, two figures stepped from the rear door of the inn and, upon seeing Probyn with the empty sack, rushed up to confront him.

  ‘You meddling bastard!’

  Probyn’s heart leaped in anger as Judson grabbed two handfuls of his tunic and shook him violently. Knowing what was to come he dealt the first blow, considering this to be justified as there were two of them. But these were vicious opponents. Made even more violent by the pain in his nose Judson retaliated with a thump to the stomach that took Probyn’s breath away and whilst he was bent double proceeded to rain more blows upon him. The other youth lost no time in joining the attack, the two of them using both fists and clogs in an effort to fell their victim. Inside the pub a sing-song had arisen. No one came to help. All the while the terriers were in a frenzy. Struggling to keep his balance and to ward off the blows Probyn could issue none of his own, his arms pinned to his sides to protect his belly, his hands covering his head, his mind seething with fury and praying that they would tire before inflicting too much damage so that he could deliver retribution to these cowardly pigs.

  But the battery was taking effect, he felt his head bang up against the wall, became suddenly disorientated, felt his legs begin to buckle. The terriers’ delirious yelping was growing fainter.

  ‘Eh!’ Someone else had appeared on the scene.

  Sliding down the wall, Probyn saw through dazed eyes a man in red uniform. Momentarily distracted by the shout, Judson and his counterpart stopped beating their victim and turned. Corporal Wedlock strode up as he might to a platoon of recruits, stared at the two for a mere second, then, before either of them could act he dealt two swift jabs, each landing with a sickening crack and sending the assassins crumpling.

  Stupefied by violence and shock, Probyn leaned against the wall and gaped at the two unconscious bodies beside him, then rested his head on one knee in an effort to recapture his breath. The dogs sat down too, panting and lolling, their barking stilled.

  Face set in its usual grim mask, Wedlock rubbed at his knuckles for a moment then pulled the young soldier to his feet, yanking Probyn’s clothes to order as if he were carrying out an inspection. Then, satisfied, he tugged at his own white cuffs and stood to attention.

  Still fighting his amazement and the effects of the beating, Probyn managed to stutter his thanks.

  Wedlock fixed him with a cold eye. ‘Get this clear, Kilmaster. That wasn’t for you, that was for the uniform. I won’t have anyone, least of all scum like these two, defiling that scarlet frock, got that?’

  ‘Yes, Corp! Thank you, Corp!’ Probyn tried to recoup some of his pride and stood tall, though his body was hurting dreadfully.

  ‘As you were.’ Without further ado Wedlock strutted smartly over the recumbent figures, both of whom were still out cold, and headed for the privy which had been his initial objective.

  For the moment, the only thing which registered on Probyn’s dazed brain was the trickle of urine from the darkness. Then, taking as deep a breath as his cracked ribs would allow, he brushed himself off. A glance at Judson and his pal showed they were coming round and, deeming it wise, he proceeded to leave the scene, still shaken and amazed – but just as he was about to disappear under the archway Wedlock emerged from the privy to accost him again.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, Kilmaster?’

  Probyn spun round. ‘Er, back to barracks, Corp.’


  ‘Not before you’ve bought me a jar for saving your hide you’re not. Inside!’

  Probyn dealt an anxious glance at his two attackers who were sitting up now, though looking groggy.

  Recognizing the youth’s concern, Wedlock demanded of the pair, ‘Are you still here?’ He gave each a vicious kick in the back, causing them to scramble up, grab their dogs and make away. ‘Now,’ the corporal said to Probyn, opening the door and releasing a gust of alcoholic fumes, ‘jump to it!’

  Reluctantly, Probyn entered the tavern. The beery emissions were even stronger now. He had never been in a saloon bar, though he had glimpsed the interior of the Robin Hood’s Well whenever he had been sent by his parents to fetch a medicinal brandy from the out sales lobby. This one was little different in its rowdiness, and in its choking pall of smoke from pipe and cigarette, yet instead of miners with blackened faces the room was frequented by military personnel and the kind of women as might be expected.

  At his dazed appearance a shout went up from those who knew him. ‘Why, if it isn’t—’ Mick broke off as he saw who accompanied his pal, and was even more astounded when, instead of approaching his friends, Kilmaster went to the bar and subsequently handed over a pint of beer to the hated corporal.

  Only then, after Wedlock had dismissed him did Probyn weave his way around the crowded tables to join the bemused watchers.

  Mick was in the act of lighting a cigarette, having recently taken up the habit. ‘Jesus! I must’ve had a drop too much,’ he declared on a puff of smoke. ‘I swear I saw you buy the corporal a beer – and what in God’s name have ye done to yourself?’

  Probyn made light of his bruised face, looking ruefully at the occupants of the table, all of whom had the same question on their lips. ‘You won’t believe this: Wedlock just saved my skin from a good hiding.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ breathed Ingham.

  ‘Do you have to blinkin’ swear like that?’ scolded Probyn. ‘There are females present.’ He did not care for the look of these females, but deemed it his duty to shield them.

  But the only effect of his words was to draw forth hilarity and a fresh nickname for the speaker. ‘Sorry, Padre!’

  Angered, he made as if to go but, urged to sit with them he relented and sat down to recount the episode, his companions no less amazed than he about Wedlock’s intervention.

  Only the older ones seemed unmoved, Lennon explaining that Wedlock was a champion boxer, then further amazing them by saying, ‘Sure, and any of you’d do the same.’

  Mick guffawed, almost falling off his chair. ‘What? If I saw Corporal Wedlock getting pulverized I’d join in!’ His oath was enveloped by a roar of agreement from other recruits.

  ‘Anyways,’ said Felix, handing over his glass to Probyn, ‘seeing as you’re in benevolent mood, Padre, ye can fill that up.’

  With more glasses waggled under his nose Probyn displayed grazed knuckles. ‘I can’t carry all those!’

  ‘Any excuse!’ Trying to act older than his fifteen years, Mick directed an expert blast of cigarette smoke at the other. ‘C’mon, we’ll help yese.’ With the assistance of Bumby and Queen he transported Probyn to the bar where the latter was to see more of his hard earned money disappear into the till. However, with Judson still somewhere out there he deemed it safer to remain for a while.

  ‘Wasn’t the concert any good?’ enquired Lennon when they had struggled back to the table with a tray of full glasses.

  ‘What?’ Probyn, who had been staring into his ale, now took a hesitant sip at the forbidden beverage. Although he had enjoyed a clandestine taste before today it had not been in such copious amounts as others seemed to be putting away here. At Lennon’s repetition he frowned. ‘Oh … no. It wasn’t much fun, I came away early.’ Having temporarily forgotten about the mercenary girls he was annoyed to be reminded.

  ‘You’ve been to a concert?’ Mick lifted his face from his beer, upper lip outlined in froth. ‘And ye didn’t tell me? I’d have kept ye company.’

  ‘Oh, but your man had company,’ grinned Lennon, tilting his glass. ‘Female company.’

  Swamped by a tide of barracking, Probyn was thoroughly embarrassed and took a long gulp of beer, self-consciously wiping his mouth. ‘Well… as a matter of fact they wouldn’t let me in.’

  ‘The dogs!’ Melody slammed down his glass, his face even ruddier than usual. ‘Let’s go teach them a lesson.’

  ‘You won’t say that when I tell ye the whole story.’ Felix’s weathered face was even more creased in laughter.

  ‘Eh, there’s no need—’ began Probyn.

  ‘He didn’t just go with one girl but two!’

  Amid catcalls, Mick dealt him a thump. ‘Lord a’mercy, what poltroonery is this? I’m deeply hurt. Well, I trust ’twas worth it.’

  Probyn stilled the rude and noisy conjecture by admitting that it was only himself who had been turned away, the girls had chosen to attend the concert.

  There were cries of, ‘Shame!’

  Probyn smirked and made further bashful disclosure. ‘That’s not all, I was daft enough to pay for them!’

  This brought howls of laughter, and the fact that he had provoked it at his own expense endeared him to companions who had hitherto dubbed Kilmaster a bit of a prig. Even Havron temporarily removed his bad-tempered frown.

  ‘Serve ye right ye greedy little demon for not wanting to share your good fortune,’ but Lennon’s mockery was warmly delivered.

  ‘You knew they wouldn’t let me in, didn’t you?’ Only now did Probyn recognize this.

  Lennon shrugged. ‘Some men have to find out for themselves that scarlet isn’t the most popular of colours. Oh, if there’s a war to be won ’tis heroes we are, but in peacetime we revert to being scum of the earth.’ He sounded philosophical.

  Probyn tried to adopt the same lack of bitterness. ‘Oh well, I’m not bothered. I’m enjoying meself more here than with those two money-grubbing biddies.’

  ‘Well said, Padre!’ Oliver smacked him on the back with such violence that it dislodged the youth’s glengarry. ‘Get that down you.’

  Accepting the friendly blow without complaint, though it hurt dreadfully, Probyn took another long pull of the beer, enjoying its taste. ‘Good riddance to them.’

  ‘Aye, there’s plenty of generous girlies here,’ said Jessop, patting a female rump, then pulling his willing victim onto his lap and sinking his moustache to her bosom.

  Though rather disturbed at this treatment, Probyn noted that the girl made no struggle to escape, and therefore he withheld his intended stricture, burying any embarrassment in his glass, and somewhere in the next ten minutes or so it ceased to matter. In his new-found state of relaxation he found himself almost recovered from his ordeal with Judson, and it was undoubtedly due to this wonderful beverage. He was quite disappointed when the last drop of beer had been drained.

  Rubbing his knees, he began lamely, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better—’

  ‘Here have one on me,’ invited Mick, placing another glass before him, he himself clutching a tot of whisky and lighting another cigarette. ‘In thanks for getting Judson bashed up.’

  Probyn gave a smiling frown, flapping his hands as a form of refusal, but his argument was short-lived. Considering that he had already broken his father’s rule in being here at all he decided he might as well enjoy himself.

  And enjoy himself he did. No sooner had he emptied a glass than it magically appeared refilled before him, nor was this the only pleasure. Out of sympathy for his ejection from the concert his friends decided to hold an impromptu one of their own, one after another jumping up to perform monologue, song and verse, Melody proving to be the most talented of all. The drink removing any trace of shyness, he performed a wonderful ballad that drew uproarious applause and calls for encore, even from Probyn who slapped him on the back and called Melody his good friend.

  ‘You are all my dear good friends!’ he shouted, swaying merrily between two of them, his face flushed with
happiness and his eyes like glass marbles. ‘Stuff the bloody rest! Stuff and bugger and damn them!’

  ‘I think dis boy’s had enough,’ opined Lennon, his own eyes slightly glazed. ‘C’mon, let’s get him home.’

  ‘No! Bring me more!’

  But Lennon was firm, downing the last of his ale and rising. ‘Beddy-byes.’

  ‘It’s my round!’ All despondency vanished, Probyn’s merry state led him to throw caution to the wind. Who better to spend his money on but his comrades? With much fumbling he rammed his hands deep in his pockets, sending an array of coins clattering over the table and onto the floor. In an attempt to pick it up he toppled off his stool.

  ‘Aw Christ, now we’re going to have to carry him,’ complained Havron, once again wearing his characteristic scowl. ‘How can you get this slewed on only four pints?’

  Amid much protestation, swearing and staggering, Probyn was lifted to his feet and half dragged towards the door.

  ‘How are we gonna get him past the bloody guard?’ The question was passed around the group, none of them very sober.

  But before they could exit there was to be further upset. A customer cleared his throat, aimed at the spittoon but missed and a horrified Mick saw the gob of mucus land in someone’s whisky.

  ‘Ah God no! I’ll never drink whisky again!’ And he was immediately sick all over the floor.

  With the landlord’s wail of wrath there was added impetus to escape, but as they rushed for the door their outlet was blocked by the arrival of the Garrison Military Police.

  ‘Every man back to barracks!’

  ‘Weren’t we just off, Sergeant,’ replied Lennon calmly and tried to force Probyn towards the door but it was no easy feat, for Probyn’s legs kept buckling and he was giggling like an imbecile.

  So practised were Lennon and his peers at escaping punishment over the years that they might have succeeded in getting Probyn out of danger too, had he not decided at the moment of exit to shout an uninhibited farewell.

  The sergeant of the guard, unappreciative of being addressed as shite-hawk, promptly relieved the companions of their drunken friend, walloped Private Kilmaster over the head and clapped him in the cells overnight.