Family of the Empire

by Family of the Empire (retail) (epub)

  Feeling for him, Grace came through the grey pall of cigarette smoke to sit on the arm of his chair, snaking her hand around the back of his neck to rest on his broad shoulders. With all the weight he had put on, he looked older than thirty-nine. ‘You really miss your pals, don’t you?’

  He shrugged as if uncaring, then admitted, ‘Well, it is a bit lonely being a hated man.’

  ‘Aw, you’re not hated!’ She kissed the top of his sandy head. ‘Me and the children love you.’

  He patted her knee and chuckled thoughtfully. ‘I know, I meant hated by the chaps whose tubs have stones in them.’

  ‘Well, I can’t do much about them but I can help in another matter. The pit’s playing tomorrow.’ It was August Bank Holiday. ‘Why don’t you go and visit the boys at the depot?’

  ‘Ooh, it’s a fair way to go …’

  ‘Then set off early,’ advised Grace, shaking him gently by the shoulders. ‘There’ll be a train running. Didn’t the colonel tell you to call in at any time?’

  He was beginning to perk up. ‘But didn’t you mention you’d like to take the children for an excursion?’

  ‘I can still take them for a walk to Ivanhoe castle. Go on, Probe, treat yourself!’ And she lovingly chivvied him until he complied.

  * * *

  So, the next morning, washed and spruced, boots polished, moustache waxed to perfection, he caught a train to Pontefract, intending to seek out his old army pals.

  His heart was lighter than it had been for some time at the thought of being part of it all again, already he could hear the sound of marching, of orders being bawled across the parade ground …

  But when he came to the barrack gates, he just could not go in. Fixed to the spot, he just stood there looking at the sentry from a distance, the latter eyeing him back suspiciously.

  What prevented him from entering he could not say. It was just the most overwhelming feeling of awfulness, so awful that he had to turn away and march briskly down the hill.

  Plunged back to his former gloom, he wandered around the ancient streets of Pontefract, racking his brain as to what it was that had forbidden him to enter those gates. Then, quite by chance he came to the Buttercross under whose stone arches a group of old soldiers were gathered in their uniforms, reminiscing about old times, trying to behave as though they were still part of the army. Was this all that was left to him? Pausing a moment to watch them, he considered how pathetic they were, no longer part of the family, but unable to admit it.

  And that was the crux of it. The revelation smote him in the breast as effectively as had the big bass drum of the regimental band, except that this time there was no joy, only anguish. He must learn to let go.

  Overwhelmed by grief, he felt the tears prick his eyes, before damning himself for a sentimental fool. And, taking an imaginary sword from his belt he dealt the umbilical cord a swift irrevocable blow.

  Nothing happened, no vital haemorrhage occurred, and yet when he looked at the old soldiers again it was as if a shaft of light had pierced his brain. No, not pathetic. Oh, so much wiser than he, those old warriors had learned that no matter how removed from the days of glory, no matter how weak of limb, how decrepit, how worthless to others or to themselves, the bond with their comrades could never be severed, and the blood of the regiment would always pump through their hearts, as surely as it would through his own.

  Imbued with this vital truth, he had no need now to be amongst soldiers in order to feel that big bass drum raise the hairs on the back of his neck, for it happened even as he was standing here, that prickle of excitement and pride and belonging, and he knew then that he would carry it with him to the grave.

  Still shaken by his almost miraculous conversion, he made not for the barracks but for the railway station and caught the next train home, with every mile his heart becoming lighter, so that by the time he eventually arrived at the end of the street he could almost admit to feeling happy.

  And as he turned the corner and spotted Grace and the children coming along the terraced row towards him, caught the looks of surprised delight as their eyes alighted on him, he sensed even a moment of euphoria as his own little army came pelting down the street to greet him, the gladness on their faces serving to wipe away every last trace of loss.

  Epilogue

  September 1914, Battle of the Marne

  Fourteen-year-old Clem, just home from his new job as clerk in the pit manager’s office, studied the newspaper headline for a moment before asking his mother, ‘Where’s Father?’

  ‘Gone to do his duty,’ came the vague reply.

  ‘Well, I hope he isn’t long in there ’cause I want to go.’

  Grace looked up from her task of settling the younger ones at the tea table to see that her eldest son was joking. She lashed out playfully. ‘You silly monkey, he’s gone to Pontefract! How did work go?’

  ‘All right.’ Clem sounded unenthusiastic and flopped into a chair, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his starched collar. ‘I’d rather be joining the mobilization.’

  ‘You can get any such ideas out of your head right now!’ His mother donned the kind of face that brooked no argument. ‘One soldier in the house is enough.’ Only the fact that her husband was in the Reserve and so compelled to answer the call of emergency had prevented an argument between them.

  ‘I’ll join when I’m old enough.’ Clem was testing his manhood. ‘No one can stop me.’

  ‘No, but a bullet can, cleverclogs,’ rebuked his mother. ‘And you’d better get that collar buttoned before your father gets home too. Think yourself fortunate he got you that job so’s you don’t have to work down the mucky pit.’

  ‘Will Father get killed?’ Madeleine looked anxious.

  ‘No! It’ll all be over by Christmas.’ Eleven-year-old Augusta, mindful of a little girl’s fears, sought to allay them as she transferred the contents of her tray to the table.

  ‘They said that about the last one,’ replied Grace, ‘and that went on for three years – but Father won’t be harmed. Oh, I think I can hear him now! Is that you, Probe?’

  ‘No, it’s Jack the Ripper!’ His merry reply bounced off the passage walls.

  Whilst Clem hastily fastened his tie, Grace laughed and called back, ‘How did it go?’

  Still Probyn did not appear. ‘Seems the powers that be have abolished the rank of colour-sergeant. So they had to give me summat else. Said it was a pity to put all my years of experience to waste.’ Only now did he make his grand entrance.

  Grace turned around inquisitively, her smile momentarily faltering before it curved into a great beaming crescent. There he stood in his old uniform, stretched to the limits by a girth much wider than at its last airing; yet it was not this which invoked her smile, for across that broad khaki expanse was strapped a Sam Browne belt.

  Seven-year-old Joe gasped – ‘Father’s wearing a gun!’ – and leapt from the table to come and examine the leather holster at his father’s hip.

  Grace clasped her hands together, overwhelmed with happiness for him so that tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Oh, Probe, you’ve finally got it?’

  ‘I’ve finally got it!’ His own eyes glittered with pride and fulfilment. ‘Regimental Sergeant-Major!’

  Inspired by his mother’s whoop of congratulation, Joe looked delighted too and gazed up into the noble beefy face, searching those blue-grey eyes and asking, ‘What does a Regimental Sergeant-Major actually do, Father?’

  ‘Do, lad?’ boomed Probyn, his face a mixture of joy and achievement as his eyes twinkled down upon his son. ‘Why, he just is!’

  And more quietly. ‘He just is.’

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following people for their assistance in my research: Briony Hudson of Pontefract Museum; Guy Kilminster and the staff of the York and Lancaster Regimental Museum at Rotherham; the staff of the National Army Museum; the staff of the Public Record Office; the lady at Birr Library whose name I unfortunately omitted to
ask, Ian Winstanley of the Coal Mining History Resource Centre.

  My thanks, too, for the expert writings on military history of Lord Baden-Powell (The Matabele Campaign), Thomas Pakenham (The Scramble For Africa; The Boer War), Lawrence James (The Savage Wars) and the journalistic eye of Donald Macdonald (How We Kept the Flag Flying).

  Finally, my gratitude to the soldiers of the York and Lancaster Regiment whose memoirs provided me with valuable information, in particular I.W.O. Davies and E. Buffey, but most of all to Regimental Sergeant-Major P. J. Wilcox.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2000 by HarperCollins

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

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  Copyright © Sheelagh Kelly, 2000

  The moral right of Sheelagh Kelly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781911591962

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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