Probyn half smiled at Bumby’s misuse of words, and groaned at the sight of Mick being tongue-lashed by Corporal Wedlock for some fresh crime. Shaking his head at the foul language, he was about to move nimbly past, when without warning the deck slowly but unnervingly began to shift beneath his feet, rolling further and further to one side. Amid shouts of alarm, men around him began to capsize, Probyn, too, trying to hang on to his container as he slid down the deck towards the rail, hot tea slopping dangerously about his feet, his arm shooting out, grappling wildly as he, Bumby and others tried to anchor themselves but failed and were pitched further towards the sea. A large boiler tipped up spilling its scalding contents over the deck as the vessel continued to roll, its yard arm practically touching the water. He saw what was to happen but could do nothing to prevent it as they slithered and spiralled finally to a halt, men, officers and mess tins thrown unceremoniously together in a cacophonous writhing heap at the ship’s side, saw Melody’s foot make violent contact with Wedlock’s face, smashing and grinding into his mouth as others fell on top of him to compound the injury and as if this were not bad enough, the container that Probyn had been so valiantly trying to keep upright burst open, dousing Wedlock’s groin in scalding hot tea, invoking an agonized yell and a flow of invective.
Within seconds the ship returned to an even keel. Quick to pick himself up, Probyn began to help others to their feet, calling for someone to throw cold water on the corporal’s injury. Mick clambered upright too, the expression on his face one of horrified apprehension as he beheld the damage he had caused: where once had been Corporal Wedlock’s upper front teeth was now a bloody gap through which poured forth violent curses.
When all returned to order it was discovered, miraculously, that there were few others injured, those that were contracting scalds or fractures. These, along with Corporal Wedlock, were packed off to hospital at the naval base of Simon’s Town. Anticipating punishment, for who would believe that Wedlock’s victim had not inflicted these damages on purpose, Mick was therefore relieved and surprised to be informed by his sergeant that none would be forthcoming, for this had been caused by elemental forces.
‘They’ve got weird currents round these parts,’ explained Sergeant Faulkner later to his platoon. ‘One minute you’re lying still, the next you’re arse over tit.’
When his superior had gone, Mick held clasped hands to the sky and breathed his gratitude. ‘Dear God in Heaven, thank You, thank You! Sure, I’ll never sin again.’
‘Neither will Wedlock wiv his scalded crutch,’ joked Queen.
Probyn joined the uproarious laughter, rejoicing as the tale was repeated over and over again, the sight of Wedlock with his teeth smashed out was surely an act of God, but soon his mind was fixed on a far more relevant matter: with Wedlock incapacitated, could this be his own chance of promotion?
* * *
Reveille was precursored by the cawing of an unfamiliar bird. His enthusiasm robbing him of appetite, Probyn rushed his breakfast and prepared for disembarkation. As yet he had received no notification of who would take over from Wedlock, but this did not necessarily indicate bad news, and over there a whole new world awaited him!
One of the first to disembark, Probyn’s excitement continued to burgeon as he stepped onto a wharf that was alive with natives, the few white faces standing out like spots on a domino, cape carts drawn by small wiry horses, trolleys piled with rickety wooden cages one of which held several frightened chittering monkeys, wide-hipped grandmothers, bare-legged women with baskets on their heads, Africanders with skin like walnut, small boys in European clothing but with faces as black as coal. He could not take his eyes off them.
Fascination was suspended by the call to parade for inspection. There on the wharf amongst the mounds of cargo, great thick coils of rope, and notices in many different languages, each man was forced to unpack every item of kit to be displayed in the required regimental order at his feet, whilst the black tide eddied around them.
There was little time to form an impression of the town for, with the announcement through a loudspeaker, they were ordered to entrain – officers first, and lastly rank and file – Probyn’s draft bound for Wynberg on the opposite side of Table Mountain. The trains were much smaller and less comfortable than at home, but with the journey only eight miles, the countryside most picturesque and the young soldiers agog with excitement there was nary a grumble to be heard.
Things continued to improve beyond all expectation, the incomers being greeted at the station by the band of their own battalion and also a large number of their new comrades, plus a host of the civil population, white, black and Creole. Wynberg itself was set amongst gardens and fruit trees with the atmosphere of an English country village and all the fiery colours of late autumn. Hardly what Probyn had been expecting from such a continent, but pleasant nevertheless. Marching into camp, he found this equally salubrious, situated amongst pine trees with the mountains as a background. Indeed, there were to be so many pleasures that those accustomed to hardship felt sure there must be some forfeit to be paid.
But no, throughout the day more luxuries were heaped upon them: a corking spread at the Regimental Institute, an informative and humorous speech of welcome from the colonel who warned them about the many pitfalls to health they were bound to meet and how to avoid these, and finally a concert performed by a fine orchestra, the effects of the latter persisting even as they emerged into the sunshine.
Probyn dashed away a sentimental tear, feigning to squint. ‘By this sun doesn’t half get your eyes. Good concert wasn’t it?’
Mick didn’t seem concerned about showing emotion. ‘Oh, ’twas truly angelic!’
Rook gave a sage nod. ‘I like Grieb.’
Others paid respect to his knowledge. ‘Is that who wrote it?’
‘Aye. Fingal’s Cave they call the piece.’
Mick frowned and mopped his eyes. ‘Em, I thought I heard someone say it was Mendelssohn.’
Rook shrugged. ‘Well I could be wrong, but it sounded like Grieb to me. I went to see him in London in ’eighty-eight.’
Ignorant of either composer, Probyn showed appreciation. ‘Well, he writes good stuff anyway.’
They were met then by a group of their new comrades who showed them around their quarters and gave advice on how to enjoy these unfamiliar surroundings, such as examining their boots before putting them on in case anything evil lurked within. But the discussion of scorpions and millipedes was to be interrupted by the arrival of Sergeant Faulkner.
‘Private Kilmaster! Captain wants to see you now.’
Instantly alert, for this was the moment he had been awaiting – news of his promotion to corporal – Probyn dashed off after the sergeant to the officer’s quarters.
‘Ah, Private Kilmaster, I trust you enjoyed the spot of Mendelssohn?’
Enlightened, Probyn said he had.
‘I shall not detain you long and you might find this to your advantage.’
He had been right! Probyn’s heart soared, anticipating the proclamation.
‘You will be aware that my valet, Private Coombes, was injured in yesterday’s debacle aboard ship.’
Probyn had not been aware and was now slightly confused.
‘Apparently his leg is broken and he will be incapacitated for some time, so I shall need a replacement, temporarily at least; Coombes is an admirable chap and I’d hate to deprive him of the post. Are you willing?’
A servant! Trying to conceal his crushing disappointment Probyn mustered an enthusiastic response. ‘I’d be delighted, sir.’
‘Good, Sergeant Faulkner will supply you with the details. Dismissed.’
Thank goodness, thought Probyn as he went back to convey the news to his friends, that he had not divulged his hopes to anyone. As it was, they were most impressed at his elevation in status, not to mention the extra one and sixpence per week he would earn. All were extremely envious.
On reconsideration of the matter, Probyn
decided they were right, for how could any sane being mope for long enveloped by such wondrous nature? Even with the sinking of the sun its beauty was in no way diminished; against the violet-blue of the mountains the clear golden light of day becoming ever more golden, radiating into an extravagance of apricot, then orange, then flame, there seemed no limit to the Lord’s palette.
Casting petty resentment aside, he experienced a flush of joy over the wonderful future that lay before him. Promotion would come eventually, he would not allow the lack of it to ruin this magnificent opportunity.
9
He adapted very quickly to life in the Cape Peninsular. Having imagined that South Africa would be insufferably hot he found that, on the contrary, the temperature was delightful, warm some days, cool on others, and with very little rain. What was impossible to acclimatize oneself to was that this was winter, for the month of May was as pleasant as he had experienced during an English summer – in fact, more so. True, the nights could be chilly, but compared to the rain and sleet and snow at home they were easy enough to endure, especially now in his comfortable quarters next to the captain’s room. The only gripe he might make was induced by the persistent buzzing of flies – flies in winter! – that would insist on settling on him the moment he sat still and no amount of arm flapping could persuade them to leave. He doubted that he would ever grow used to these irritating passengers, but it was a small complaint amongst such bounteous living.
Initially the days were quite hard as the newcomers were drilled in the battalion’s methods which differed slightly from those taught at home, but after that things settled down and as a servant Probyn was excused from further drills. With nothing much to do apart from clean the captain’s uniform, lay it out on a morning and see to his general needs, he found himself with ample free time to enjoy a spell of fishing at the village to the rear of the camp, or to take the road to the fashionable suburb of Claremont for a day amongst the toffs. Life changed out of all recognition, he half expected some bombshell to ruin it, but no, not even Corporal Wedlock could impair this Arcadia, for upon recovery he was posted elsewhere, his replacement being much less tyrannical.
Inevitably, though, the captain’s servant was restored to full health and Probyn was obliged to relinquish his post. The demotion was not so upsetting as it might have been for there was still much exploration to be made, the birdlife being spectacular, bee-eaters and rollers as abundant as sparrows at home, their iridescent plumage vying with exotic plants, the like of which he had only ever seen in books. Yet it was the people who captivated him most. Never having seen a black face except down a coal mine or at a minstrel show, his fascination with the natives remained as keen as ever and with each opportunity he made close study of them, especially the women.
‘Have you noticed,’ he said thoughtfully, as he sat on his day off with a group of his fellows in the evening sunlight, a bracing wind rippling female clothing, ‘that African women’s bums stick out like a shelf?’
Bumby who had been smoking contentedly now withdrew the pipestem from between his fat cheeks, interpreting the comment as a sign of sexual intent. ‘Eh up, Pa’s getting a taste for blackbird.’
Probyn was horrified. ‘You must be joking, they stink! No, I’m just fascinated with the shape of them. I mean look at that little coolie lass over there, she’s hardly got a bum at all.’
There was further discussion over the physical characteristics of the Africans who went about their business in varying degrees of black and contrasting attire – heathen women in flaming robes and beads, demure Christian girls in white blouses – but all with gleaming eyes and pouting lips.
Mick bashed his glengarry against his leg, removing the sand that had been deposited by the coastal wind. ‘Well, there’ll be no truckling with women of any sort for me. I’m staying pure till I find meself a wife.’
‘Not much chance of finding one here,’ sniffed Probyn but it was not a genuine complaint, for he loved his army life and all that it currently offered.
‘No, it’ll be a good English wench for me,’ pronounced Queen, responding to his urge to strip another length of flaking bark from the trunk of a red gum. ‘Wonder how long we’ll be here before they send us home.’
I don’t care if they never send us back, thought Probyn. Though deeming it politic not to voice this, it was at that moment a genuine sentiment, his only reservation being that his family might not be enjoying so fine a life.
However, his qualms were ultimately removed by the arrival of a letter from home. His father was not one for writing but via Merry’s report Probyn learned that things had settled down in the coalfields and the mine-owners hadn’t after all demanded a reduction that year, so there was to be no strike. Added to this was the information that Meredith was expecting her first baby. Poor Wyn remained childless, Ethel was still unwed but doing well in the prison service, Rhoda had had a nasty shock last week when her husband was killed on his way home from work. Aunt Gwen had caused a stink at the funeral by talking out of turn. Apart from that everyone was well. But the most uplifting news was that Probyn’s name was being mentioned again in the family circle. Now that Father had accepted him back into the fold the others had come round so Meredith wouldn’t be surprised if their doors were open the next time he came home. When would that be by the way? Your guess is as good as mine, murmured Probyn. But when he folded the letter away he was smiling.
This inspiring news plus the consequent letters and gifts from Aunt Kit were all that he needed to make his life complete in these wonderful surroundings.
* * *
Despite any lack of promotion his contentment was to linger throughout the year, the one fluctuation being during annual manoeuvres at Constantia where his musketry skills proved yet again to be only adequate and forcing him to acknowledge that he would never be the company sharpshooter. Christmas, too, was a time of conflicting emotions for all the men, celebrating it as they were in brilliant sunshine while their families were thousands of miles away, though there was a spot of good cheer in the receipt of their first good conduct badges, and to coincide with this came the news that specific companies were to be moved to Natal and Probyn’s was to be one of them. Hence, any despondency was cast aside as he and his friends packed up to embark on yet another adventure.
Their arrival at Durban on that late afternoon in January, the end of an eight hundred-mile journey by sea, was signalled by a bold cliff swathed in evergreen forest that swept down to the water’s edge, on the other side of the bay a low sandy spit. The city itself extended along the bay and inland to a range of low hills. Over everything hung a hot cloying mist. With much construction work taking place in the harbour, and their ship too big to cross the sand bar, the disembarkation had to be undertaken by lighters which ferried them between the dredgers to the wharves, unloading them amongst the rest of the general merchandise, watched by the unsettling deadpan eyes of a bobbing flotilla of pelicans.
How different to the region they had left, remarked Probyn, even before setting foot ashore, his uniform already sodden with sweat. It could have been another country altogether, for there was a definite oriental feel to the place, much of the work being undertaken by coolies, the background composed of dark glossy evergreens, gaudy sub-tropical flowers and palm trees. The pace of life was even slower than in the Cape, and no wonder, for the air was stifling and made him feel dirty even though he had enjoyed a wash before getting back into uniform, this sultry blanket seeming to emphasize the odour of the alien bodies around him.
It had started to drizzle though they gained no relief for the rain was warm, trickling from the brims of their white pith helmets and into their already waterlogged tunics. Glad to entrain immediately for Pietermaritzburg, the soldiers were able to grab only a fleeting impression of Durban, of Zulu houseboys in khaki shorts and tunics, warily respectful, hurrying home to beat the night-time curfew, of lacework balconies and limp bodies draped along the stoep, before the train at a painful rate of
twelve miles an hour rattled out of the city heading inland.
Its occupants swaying and lurching as if on a switchback at the fairground, it forged its way through acres of sugar cane and pineapple, banana and paw-paw, ramshackle crushing mills and Indian shacks, a view which soon became monotonous. Warned of the seventy-one miles ahead of him, Probyn attempted to nap but was constantly jerked awake by the rolling of the train, whence he was compelled to stare at endless acres of lush crops.
But daylight was fading fast. The horizon had adopted that familiar violet tinge, the sky a deep rose, and soon there was only his own reflection in the carriage window. Eventually he drifted into erratic sleep.
Daylight broke. Whilst he had slept the country had become much wilder. Beyond the rich rolling pastures of white farmsteads came mimosa scrub, Zulu kraals, beehives of grass enclosed by fences of cactus, mealie crops and massive herds of humped red cattle that looked as if they had been etched from the earth. A small, almost naked herd boy ran alongside the train for a while as if trying to compete, then fell back with a final wave, teeth flashing. Waving in response, a smiling Probyn felt that only now he had glimpsed the real Africa, the one he had imagined in his daydreams, and was spellbound by the view. Where Ireland had been ancient Africa was prehistoric. In the shadowy golden light of early morn, the cones and plateaux of the horizon assumed the guise of slumbering dinosaurs, stretched out across the tawny miles.
On its descent into a valley now, the train picked up speed, eventually steaming triumphantly back to civilization, the railway embankments of Pietermaritzburg afire with red-hot pokers and scarlet gladioli. It had obviously just stopped raining. Steam rose from the platforms, added to by the asthmatic gasps of the engine as the soldiers tumbled gratefully from the carriages and began to stretch their legs, remarking on the beauty of their environment. Barely had the compliment emerged when from exotic blooms came huge flying insects such as they had only ever seen in their nightmares, causing the brave adventurers to duck and run about in alarm until brought to order by their sergeants, and they were most keen to answer the command to move off.
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