They gathered round to shake the RSM’s hand and thank him for all he had done for them.
‘Home to Yorkshire then, is it?’ said Louis. ‘You must call in at Postgate Park. I’m sure my parents would be delighted to make your acquaintance. They’ve turned the place into a military hospital, you know.’
Wondering whether it was said out of politeness or mere naivety, Probyn thanked the Viscount’s son anyway. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir. I shall if I get the opportunity.’ Though he would never take up the offer.
‘So we shall have to rely on God above to keep us safe until you get back, Mr Kilmaster.’ Faljambe was the last to shake his hand.
Probyn thought it rather blasphemous that the young man compared him to the Deity, his answer slightly reproving. ‘We’re all at the Lord’s mercy, sir.’
Whilst the Division marched for Wardrecques and he towards home, this sobering thought was to be prominent in Probyn’s mind, and, on his way to the railhead he was seized by a moment of vulnerability, dreading that one of the many pieces of shrapnel that hissed through the air had his name on it, or that a shell might flatten the train before he could be reunited with his beloved wife.
Even on a ship to Blighty there was no slackening of tension, wondering what lurked beneath the dark icy waters. Only when his beefy thighs strode upon home ground was he finally able to relax.
7
Oh, what simple pleasure it was to be rid of the mud, to walk along a dry street and gaze into shop windows, even if the displays were much reduced. It was Christmas but one would not have known it from the lack of illumination. Normally one would have to fight through the crowds at this time of year but this evening his passage home was easy, the only hazard caused by the prohibition of headlights.
A racking cough greeted his arrival in Tickhill Street, the kitchen cluttered with jugs of lemon and honey, a concoction of liquorice and herbs bubbling away in a brown glazed pot on the range. A martyr to bronchitis most years, Clem had obviously fallen victim yet again. This was a worry: time off work meant no pay. However, money was not Probyn’s first concern as he ducked under a festive paper chain and came amongst his family, his initial act being to clasp his delighted wife in a bear hug. Barking and retching, almost to the point of vomiting, an exhausted-looking Clem threw his tab-end on the fire and rose to shake hands with his father, the children too gathering excitedly round him.
‘Give me those fags!’ Releasing Grace, Probyn good-naturedly divested his son of the cigarette packet. ‘I’m not listening to the sound of that beffing while I’m on leave.’ He lit one himself whilst accepting the offer of a cup of tea from his wife, considerately directing the smoke up the chimney. ‘No peeking in that bag!’ he teased the children, who were nosing round it.
Telling her siblings to allow their father room to breathe, a happy Augusta went back to feeding Mims. Beata watched the seven-month-old baby eating her milky rusks, eyes fixed on the spoon as it was lowered and raised, willing her sister to leave some for she liked them too. In the transfer from spoon to mouth, a dollop fell onto the child’s bib. Quick as a flash, Beata whipped it off with a finger and inserted it into her own mouth.
Witnessing this, her father scowled, then grinned to show he was only pulling her leg. Whilst his eyes were on the children, Grace winked at Clem and with a swift movement knocked a picture askew, before going back to stirring the pot on the range. ‘How long have we got you for, dear?’
‘Seven days at home, but I’ll be staying in Blighty for three months, getting more men into shape so I might be able to nip home again before I go back to France.’
Noting how tired and drawn he looked, she turned anxious. ‘But you’re not involved in any fighting, are you?’
‘No, no.’ He gave a pacific smile. ‘I’m only training those who are.’
Grace expressed gladness, ‘But what a time they chose to send you home. I’d have saved you some tea if I’d known. Let me see what I’ve got in the pantry.’
‘I can go down to t’chip ’oile,’ volunteered Joe, hoping for some chips himself.
Probyn said this was unnecessary as he had already eaten, at the same time he noticed the crooked picture and automatically went to straighten it. Hearing clandestine laughter, he whirled on Clem and Grace. ‘Eh, I haven’t been in five minutes before your mother’s having me on!’
Everyone laughed, Joe taking advantage by asking if Father would organize a game of housey.
‘It’s almost bedtime,’ said Mother, to moans of dismay, before conceding, ‘All right, you can stay up a while, but let’s at least get you into your nightclothes.’
A smiling Probyn bent to pat Mims on the head. ‘This one’ll be going to bobies, though.’
Grace was quick to disabuse him of this supposition. ‘Oh, she won’t go to sleep before the others.’
‘Won’t go?’ said an amazed RSM, hands on hips.
‘No! She’s got a will of iron, has that one.’
He responded with derision. ‘Will of iron – she’s not a year old! Just put her down and let her get on with it.’
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ The bright reply from Grace bore a note of challenge, and she laid the child down. Immediately Mims began to wail and fought to sit up.
‘It’ll stop in a minute.’ Probyn sounded confident.
‘I’m sure you’re right, dear.’ Grace smiled sweetly.
He sensed mockery. ‘Just leave her!’
But in the end, with his eardrums so under assault and Mims’s bad-tempered screams threatening to wake the whole village, Probyn was forced to give in. ‘Good grief, I thought I’d come home for a bit of peace, but what with Clem’s cough and this one it’s noisier than being in France. All right then – but just for five minutes!’
‘That’s what you think.’ Laughing, Grace went to pick up the sobbing Mims and, cradling her in a rocking embrace, began to lull her towards sleep. ‘Go to sleep, my baby, close your pretty eyes…’
Gradually, everyone fell silent, similarly calmed by their mother’s gentle singing. Even Mims finally succumbed, her eyelids growing heavier with each rendition and eventually closing altogether.
Probyn too appeared drowsy, having to jerk himself awake and smiling at his dear wife. No matter what horror and degradation lay outside that door, in here Grace’s loving spirit could always make everything right.
Her voice becoming softer, fading to a hum, Grace fell silent and moved with stealth towards the cot – at which Mims was suddenly alert and wailing again.
Immediately, to her husband’s groans and children’s laughter, Grace broke into fresh verse, continuing to sing and hum until, finally, the rebellious babe drifted off to sleep.
Banning the proposed game of housey as too noisy lest it wake Mims, Probyn merely indulged the rest of his offspring in desultory chat for a while until it was their bedtime. Seating herself at his feet, Gussie unwrapped her father’s puttees and began to massage one of his sturdy legs as she had done since being very young. Watching, Beata asked if she might rub the other leg and was allowed to do so before all were dispatched to bed.
Then, at last he and Grace were alone, sitting in the gentle hiss of gaslight.
But the final treat of the night was yet to come. After enjoying first a bath, Probyn groaned in ecstasy as he lowered himself into a bed that had been moulded over many years to his own form. ‘Oh, sumptuous! Oh, I can’t tell you how good this is! Oh, heaven!’
‘Better keep it down, dear, the neighbours will wonder what we’re up to.’ His wife cuddled him. ‘You stay in bed tomorrow. I’ll light a fire so it’s nice and cosy for when you get up and I’ll bring your breakfast up when I come back from Mass.’
Giving an appreciative murmur of her bodyheat, he declined. ‘I can’t lie in bed while you’re in church. I’ll come with you. I’ll need my suit, though; my uniform’s lousy.’
Grace felt a surge of panic. Surprised by his unexpected homecoming she had completely
forgotten that his suit was in pawn. As a result of lending a neighbour money, she had run short herself; Probe would go mad if he found out. ‘Don’t forget it’s Midnight Mass tomorrow. There’s no need for you to go twice in one day.’ He did not need much persuading, snuggling up to the one he had thought about so often whilst away, his desire quite evident.
Relieved, a smiling Grace reached out to turn down the gas flame, then fitted her body into his, making a mental note to redeem his suit first thing in the morning.
* * *
Having inherited her mother’s devotion, Augusta often accompanied Grace to morning Mass. Hence, it was Maddie who was left to get the others out of bed and to give them breakfast. She was also given a coin and the pawn ticket and told to redeem her father’s suit, with the instruction that it must be done with discretion.
‘Hang it in your father’s wardrobe as quietly as you can. I don’t want you waking him.’ Grace and Augusta left for church.
Regarding the laying-out of breakfast as enough to contend with, Maddie went upstairs to rouse Beata telling her, ‘You’re to go to the pawn shop and get Father’s suit.’
It was most unfortunate that she omitted the rest of the instruction. Beata had no idea as she strained to hang up the garment, rattling hangers and sending them clattering to the floor, that she was meant to observe secrecy.
Woken by the noise, Probyn jerked upright, ready to jump out of bed in the face of attack. Then remembering he was at home he spoke grumpily to the person responsible. ‘Beat, what are you rummaging about at in my wardrobe?’
‘Sorry, Father. I was just trying to hang your suit up.’ With anxious face, the old-fashioned little creature with the bobbed auburn hair strained on tiptoe to hook the hanger over the rail.
His beefy visage creased from sleep, he frowned and worked his lips to rid them of a wayward whisker of moustache. ‘How come it fell down in the first place?’
‘It was at the shop. I just bought it.’
‘Bought… ?’Drowsy or no, it took only a few seconds for Probyn to realize that the suit had been in pawn.
Sighing and flopping back on his pillow, he told Beata to leave it over the chair and go downstairs. He lay there for a few moments longer, rubbing his eyes and wondering what his comrades were doing in France, until Clem’s coughing drove him out of bed. There was a fire dancing merrily in the hearth; Grace must have crept in and lit it whilst he was deep in slumber. Donning his clothes that had been warming on the tiles, he went downstairs.
After a quick cup of tea he went out to surprise his wife, saying he would have breakfast when he got back.
Already on their way home from church, Grace and Augusta were chatting about how good it was to have Father home for Christmas. Up ahead of them was a limping man who accosted passers-by along the way, occasionally receiving alms, at other times refused. Walking briskly, Grace and her daughter soon began to catch up with him. Hearing their approach he turned; Grace prepared to be accosted.
First, though, she was surprised by a ragged, elderly man who stepped as if from nowhere. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any jobs you need doing, missus?’
Faltering, a sympathetic Grace recognized him as the village lamplighter; due to the blackout he would doubtless be redundant now. He certainly looked as if he were on his uppers. But she was forced to tell him, ‘No … I haven’t I’m afraid.’
He touched his cap politely and moved on.
Even more hard up than usual, Grace looked at her daughter and anguished for a second – if she refused a destitute man she would never forgive herself – then taking a much-needed penny from her purse she called him back and pressed it into his hand.
Cutting through the allotment gardens at that precise moment, her husband saw what had transpired but was too far away to stop it. He marched on grimly.
No sooner had the lamplighter bestowed her with sincere thanks than Grace was presented with the eager outstretched hand of the limping man. ‘Spare a penny for a wounded soldier, missus?’
Grace set her mouth, pointed to her eye and announced in firm tone, ‘Do I look green?’ And maintaining her stern expression she walked on, hooking her arm through Augusta’s.
Noting her daughter’s surprise, she explained. ‘I might be a soft touch but I’m not completely gaga. Didn’t you see he kept limping on different legs? Wounded soldier, my Aunt Fanny!’
Augusta gave a respectful laugh for her mother’s astuteness, then exclaimed as she spotted her father.
Upon reaching his wife, Probyn scolded her. ‘I hope you weren’t giving him money?’
‘Of course not! He was a crook.’
‘I saw you give the other one something, though!’
Grace felt foolish. ‘Oh, but he was needy, Probe.’
‘Aye, and so must we be if you had to resort to pawning my suit!’
Grace winced at being found out. ‘Sorry, it was just that Mrs Wilson’s having such a hard time and—’
‘And of course you feel responsible for the whole world. Eh dear!’ Probyn shook his head in loving reproach and planted a firm hand upon her shoulder, saying jokingly to Augusta, ‘Let’s get your mother home before she starts giving away the family silver.’
* * *
But for all he affected to rant about his wife’s lack of control on the purse strings, he would not have Grace any other way than the generous, warm-hearted, compassionate woman she was, and he could not fault the wonderful Christmas she laid on for her loved ones. Ensconced in the bosom of his family during that comforting time at home, Probyn knew that the children shared his adoration of her. From the look on their faces one would have thought she had given them the world instead of the penny, apple and orange and handful of nuts that she had somehow afforded to put in their stockings. Watching them all gathered around Mother at the piano, rapt faces concentrated on her as she sang for them, for a split second he was on the outside looking in and had an overwhelming sense of envy, as if he did not belong. But, then Grace caught his eye, winked and bestowed him with that seductive loving smile that drew him immediately back into the circle.
Much as he enjoyed the company of his children, most of all he looked forward to the time when every night they went off to bed, leaving him and Grace at liberty to cuddle on the sofa and talk, much of their discourse centred on those at the front who comprised his other family, his warmest words being reserved for the young officers straight out of school who struggled to cope with their heavy responsibility.
On his last evening at home, Grace was seated beside him but seemed more intent on her knitting. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes, then you can have my whole attention,’ she said to his accusation that she was neglecting him. ‘I’m just racing to finish this before you leave. Only another inch or so to do.’
‘What is it?’ Probyn lit a cigarette.
‘A balaclava.’
‘Grand, it’ll keep me little lugs warm.’
Hands working like pistons, Grace chuckled. ‘Gussie’s knit you one too but she casts on so tightly that I doubt you’ll get it over your head. Still, you must say it’s lovely when she gives you it.’
Row after row, the balaclava was finally completed and, after being tried on, was tucked into his kit bag. ‘I’ve put two tins of cocoa in here as well,’ Grace told him. ‘One for you, one for the boys.’ Having come to know many of their names, pictured them in their terrible plight, Grace felt as strongly for them as did her husband.
He donated a smile for her goodness. ‘I shall save it till I’m back in France – now will you stop ferreting in that bag and come and sit down and talk to me?’
Scooping a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table, Grace returned to her warm seat on the sofa and they were soon involved in conversation, even if it was mainly about the conflict.
‘They’re proving as stubborn to shift as the Boers, aren’t they?’ Her head on his shoulder, she held the collection of nuts in her lap, handing one after another to her husband who
wielded the crackers.
Shattering a hazelnut, the kernel of which he gave to her, Probyn nodded. ‘It’s only because they’ve got better machinery, though, that we haven’t beaten them yet. Nobody’s to blame, you can only make calculations on what’s gone before. I don’t think any of us expected it to get this big.’ Nothing in his past had equipped him to cope with a war of this gargantuan scale. Loath to move away from Grace’s soft warmth, he made a half-hearted effort to throw the bits of nutshell into the fire but they fell onto the hearth to join others that were scattered there. ‘Still, look on the bright side, we might not have had the expected success but, even with all their weaponry, neither have they. Now that this Coalition Government’s taken charge of munitions we should see an improvement.’
Chewing, Grace handed him another nut. ‘Listen to us, talking about the blessed war and you only having a few hours left at home. Oh, I wish you could be here to see the New Year in with us. Still, it’s been lovely to have you for Christmas. I shouldn’t grumble.’
He grimaced over a tough shell, finally succeeding in cracking it and handing her the contents in fragments. ‘No, we’ve been lucky not to have more Christmases apart. That first one was a bit rough wasn’t it?’
Grace smiled at the memory, for it was when she had been expecting their first child. ‘Eh, it seems only yesterday, I can’t believe our Clem’ll be sixteen this next year.’ Then her gaze drifted to the photograph of Probyn’s young officers, seeing it through a mother’s eyes; many of them still had the baby fat on their cheeks. She was momentarily sombre. ‘I hope to God this war finishes before he’s old enough to join up.’
‘It will.’ Probyn gripped her knee supportively. ‘Next year belongs to us, you’ll see.’
8
March opened, as stiff and uninviting as a frozen sheet on a washing line.
Back at the front with another batch of troops that he had spent the last three months training, Probyn found it very cold and quiet, neither side showing interest in the war, although it was immediately obvious that during his absence there had been a great deal of activity from aeroplanes and artillery, for the landscape was radically altered. Battalion Headquarters had been all but demolished, the adjoining houses reduced to charcoal stumps. However, his alarm was quickly expunged on finding its occupants unharmed and now sleeping in dugouts across the road.
A Different Kind of Love Page 15