Testy at being corrected, the man made great play of looking the shabbily dressed woman up and down. ‘I rather think you must be mistaken.’
Grace flushed both with embarrassment and anger. ‘No, he’s sergeant-major of the 9th Battalion York and Lancaster Regiment.’
‘My good woman,’ the tone was supercilious, ‘that cannot possibly be so.’ A quick dip into the inkwell and his nib resumed its action, completing the word ‘Private’.
Grace was furious. She wanted to tell this man that she was proud of her husband, that Probyn had worked so valiantly to earn that title and she would not let him be robbed of it. But for that instant emotion forbade it. If she spoke again she felt she would cry. Taking a deep breath to calm her rage, she began to rock Mims, who had been woken by the altercation, and finally managed to blurt, ‘He is not a private.’
‘Well, I’ve written it now!’ came the annoyed retort.
‘Then you should have listened to what I said!’ Don’t cry, Grace warned herself, hugging and jiggling the baby.
Just then, someone else entered the office. Humiliated and angry, Grace was loath for anyone to witness her distress, yet remained at the desk to argue her point. ‘I tell you he is a regimental sergeant-major!’
An exasperated sigh from the official. ‘Ridiculous!’ He stood and thrust the certificate at Grace, obviously expecting her to depart. Automatically she took the piece of paper but did not budge. Upon craning his neck to ascertain the identity of the person behind her, the man’s attitude became only marginally civil. ‘Mr Kaiser, what may I do for— Thank you, madam, good day!’ He broke off to readdress Grace, his glare demanding obedience.
Mr Kaiser looked bemused. He had come to register the birth of his own child but seeing Grace in such distress he sought to aid her. ‘Mrs Kilmaster, vat—’
‘A simple mistake.’ The registrar dismissed the matter with a flick of his hand. ‘She’s trying to tell me her husband’s an RSM.’ He rolled his eyes, then gave terse indication at the chair. ‘Now, would you take a seat?’
The butcher demurred. ‘I can assure you, my man, zat vot Mrs Kilmaster tells you is ze truth.’
The registrar did not appreciate being made to look stupid by an immigrant. With a quick-tempered sigh, he grabbed the certificate from Grace, amended it to give the authentic details, then thrust it back at her.
‘Now! Do please sit, Mr—’
‘Thank you, no!’ Disgusted, Mr Kaiser began to steer Grace gently to the door. ‘I shall make my registration some other time when you haf learned some manners.’
Both the humiliation and the butcher’s kindness were too much for Grace and there was moisture in her eyes as she emerged into the sunshine. One arm cradling the baby, she used her other to grope for a handkerchief and dashed the tears away, hoping the children would not see them. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Kaiser, I—’
‘Do not mention it, my dear. Ze man is an oaf.’
Grace shoved her handkerchief away, but too late to avoid her elder daughter noting the brightness in her eyes. Augusta flew protectively to her mother’s side, wondering what had caused the tears – not that it had to be anything life-threatening. Mother was easily upset these days, ever since THE DAY THE BROWN LADY CAME. She thought of that day in capital letters for it had been so momentous. Though not fully comprehending what had happened – and the great screaming rows had never been witnessed again, nor had the incident even been referred to – Augusta knew that that day had borne great significance and was responsible for her mother’s ill health.
Bossily ushering the other children into movement, she linked arms with her mother as a quiet gesture of support and the little knot made its way home, Mr Kaiser’s portly figure bumbling alongside.
Grace was more composed now and gave a little laugh of appreciation. ‘A good job you were there, Mr Kaiser. I don’t think my husband would appreciate the demotion.’
He sighed and shook his big Teutonic head. ‘Good for you, Mrs Kilmaster, maybe, but not for me. I am only in Denaby because some hooligans smashed my Mexborough shop and I fear zere is more violence to come.’
Grace looked respectfully sombre. ‘Ah yes, we heard about that. I am sorry. I hope the damage wasn’t too bad.’
‘Bad enough to close me down until repairs are done.’ The butcher shook his head in despair. ‘Do zey tink I like what my countrymen do?’ He corrected himself. ‘Besides, zey are not my countrymen, zis is my country now. Tventy years I haf chosen to live here, how long must it be before I am accepted?’
Grace privately marvelled that his accent remained so thick after two decades, but openly sympathized and asked about Mrs Kaiser and the latest baby.
‘My wife has taken the children to stay with relatives. It is safer. I must stay to protect my business. Anyhow, it is not your problem.’
‘Well, thank you for helping me.’ Grace still harboured a trace of distress. ‘I wish there was something I could do in return.’
The butcher had always felt sorry for this nice, pretty woman with the alluring blue eyes, having so many children to feed and looking so neglected herself, and told her now, ‘Perhaps you might be able to do me a favour. I haf made some brawn just before my Mexborough shop was wrecked.’ He pronounced it deep in his throat like a growl, brrrawn. ‘A lot of the meat was plundered but they left zat behind. It is perfectly good to eat but I haf also a great deal at my Denaby shop, too much to be able to sell it all. Could you take it off my hands? Othervise I shall haf to throw it away.’
Grace knew it for a charitable lie but with such a large family she could not afford to be proud, and so went with him along the busy sunlit street to his shop. There were no customers, though three youths were viewing the contents of the window. They seemed to make Mr Kaiser uneasy and he gave them a suspicious glance as he shepherded Grace inside. Telling his assistant he would see to Mrs Kilmaster, the butcher first nipped a few slivers of ham from the bone and approached Grace’s children. ‘Here ve are, kiddivinkies!’ And smiling at their enjoyment of the titbits he patted each on the head before going to don his striped apron. Thereafter he scooped a generous dollop of brawn onto a piece of paper, chatting to Grace as he wrapped it. During this, one of the youths who had been looking in the window finally entered.
‘Are them German sausages?’ It was issued with a challenging sneer.
In the act of handing over the package of brawn, Mr Kaiser tensed, his unease infecting Grace. ‘They are perfectly goot English sausages.’
The youth was obviously intent on mischief. ‘How can they be English when they’re made by a Hun?’
‘Oh, eh, not again!’ wailed Mr Kaiser, clutching his big grey head. ‘See here, I vill not be treated like zis!’
The scruffy tormentor drew back his lips in a snarl. ‘Then get back where you belong!’ And he swiped a tray of black puddings to the floor.
Grace felt she ought to say something in the kindly butcher’s defence, but was too stunned. She gathered her children and made a move to go but her way was blocked as the assistant came from behind the counter and tried to expel the transgressor, grappling with him in the doorway whilst he and his friends continued to harangue the butcher for his German origins. ‘Boche, baby-killer!’
Hearing the row, passers-by gathered outside, first to watch, then to join in, shoving their way into the shop, calling insults, setting carcasses swinging on their hooks, their actions becoming bolder as a demented Mr Kaiser tried in vain to eject them.
Unsure what to do, buffeted by larger bodies, Grace wheeled to face a corner, trying to shield the children with her frame, her back to the angry mob and her baby secreted at the centre of the huddle whilst behind her the jostling worsened. She should speak up for the one who had just helped her, she really should, but when a brick came smashing through the window, shattering the glass and propelling it all over the shop she thought only for the safety of her offspring and, acting on impulse, elbowed her way through a gap in the crowd, shoving the
children ahead of her.
Not before time. Even as they fled from the shop a crowd of women and youths were converging upon it with sticks and stones and, ignoring Mr Kaiser’s angry pleas – ‘I haf served in ze Doncaster Yeomanry!’ – proceeded to turn the contents upside down, joints of beef and lamb and pork rolling together in the sawdust whilst others disappeared under aprons and were spirited away. Word had spread, troublemakers were running from everywhere, goblin-like glee on their faces. Ignoring all, heart thumping, Grace did not stop but urged the frightened children onwards, her mind fixed on home.
At last they reached their haven. Breathing heavily, the grateful mother was about to usher her brood inside.
‘Oy! Madam – bed!’
Grace almost jumped out of her skin as Fanny Gentle pounced. It was all she could do to emit sheepish apology. ‘Sorry, Nurse, we’ve just bee—’
‘Never mind where you’ve been!’ Fanny was unmoved. ‘You’re as bad as Mrs Orange. I shall take one of you to bray the other. The times I tell you mothers about getting up early. Prolapse isn’t funny, you know. Don’t come crying to me when your child-bed’s dangling between your knees like a football.’
‘No, I’ll apply to Doncaster Rovers,’ muttered an irritated Grace under her breath as she turned to go in, but managing to cover it with a profuse apology as she shoved her children indoors.
‘I shall post a guard!’ came Fanny’s warning before the door was slammed.
Inside the dimly lit kitchen, Augusta took charge and put the kettle on without being told whilst her harassed mother paced the room. The other children seemed to have recovered quickly from the fright. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, Grace was dealt a shock and began to understand how the registrar had made his mistake. You really don’t do credit to an RSM’s wife, she scolded herself and, laying the baby on the table, she took up a comb in an attempt to tidy her brown hair but found that her hands were trembling and had difficulty inserting the hairpins.
‘Shall we have this soused lugs for tea?’ In an attempt to divert her mother Augusta held up the parcel of brawn.
Grace experienced guilt. Not only had she failed to stand up for Mr Kaiser after he had defended her but had callously run away without acknowledgement of his gift. People who didn’t try to stop the violence were as bad as those who committed it. There was her husband, prepared to risk his life to fight the German bullies, but when she herself was put to the test she was found wanting.
The thought was to keep her awake all night.
* * *
In the morning before her offspring departed for work and school, goaded by conscience, Grace went down to Mr Kaiser’s shop, taking with her a dustpan and brush. The least she could do was to help him tidy up.
But on approaching it she faltered. There were a few dubious-looking characters loitering outside, mostly women, but some of the miners’ wives could be rougher than their husbands. One of them in particular, Sadie Barnes, was known both for her lax morals and handing out white feathers to reluctant recruits. Moreover, she had a violent streak. Determined not to let herself down, Grace squared her shoulders and, at the risk of being dubbed unpatriotic, marched on, though her legs were somewhat weak. The assembly turned as one to examine her as she gave a polite but firm, ‘Excuse me.’ However, as they made way for her, she saw that the shop was completely boarded up and closed for business. To discourage further outrage Mr Kaiser had pinned a sign to the boarding. ‘THIS IS NOT A GERMAN SHOP. GOD SAVE THE KING.’
Feeling foolish with her brush and dustpan in hand, Grace turned to go.
‘Won’t get your bit of German sausage this morning,’ uttered Sadie, her lewd innuendo provoking laughter amongst the others.
Hating such coarse behaviour, Grace’s instinct was to remove herself from its presence, but to do so without first offering rebuke would be the act of a coward. Looking directly into the hard face, she said more calmly than she felt, ‘Mr Kaiser’s done nothing to deserve this. He didn’t start the war.’
The women gave a combined crow of outrage, Sadie articulating it. ‘What’re you defending him for when your husband could be killed by one of his countrymen?’
‘That still doesn’t make it right,’ countered Grace, braver now that no violence had been offered. ‘How would you like it if someone came round and smashed your house up for no other reason than you had a foreign name?’
‘Well, I haven’t! I’ve got a good English name, me. And old Kaiser’d better get himself one and all if he knows what’s good for him.’
Knowing it was futile to try to reason with such bigots, Grace shook her head and moved on, though feeling rather pleased with herself for tackling them, albeit belatedly.
‘Let’s see if you hold the same opinion when your old man cops a German bullet!’
To all intents and purposes Grace ignored the riposte. During her sixteen years of being an army wife she had learned to cope with this worry and, besides, Probyn had told her he would not be engaged in the fighting.
However, the unpleasant incident had resurrected another concern that she had been trying desperately to suppress. Out there were hundreds of zealous Sadie Barneses, all willing to throw themselves at the departing soldiers. To Grace, these were much more of a threat than any German sniper.
4
Throughout that week the local vigilantism was to burgeon into an anti-German protest across the globe. Racked by shame for deserting her benefactor in his moment of need, Grace made a trip to Confession. Though this might be of little use to poor Mr Kaiser, whose shop in Denaby Main was to remain closed, Grace’s guilt was absolved by the penance of having to walk much further to buy her meat.
Attributing the throb in her calf to the latter fact, it was not until she woke one morning and swung her legs out of bed to find that one of them was too painful even to put to the floor that she realized it was more serious. Wincing, she lifted her nightgown to explore the offending limb. What had merely been swollen last night was now a labyrinth of angry red lines, her hand encountering hard knots that made her cry out even under tentative pressure.
‘Ooh, Gus, will you go fetch Nurse?’
In the next room Augusta was already up and dressing the younger ones but now flew to her mother’s command. Clem, too, popped his head in to investigate.
At the urgent tone of voice, Beata turned enquiring eyes on Madeleine. ‘Is Mother having another baby?’
Overhearing, Grace chuckled despite her pain. ‘Nay, don’t wish that on me! It’s just a poorly leg.’
When Fanny Gentle came she pressed her hand to Grace’s brow to gauge her temperature and confirmed what the other had already guessed. ‘White-leg. Back into bed, my dear, right now – and you’ll stay there this time.’
Whilst the ever-efficient Augusta gave her siblings breakfast, packed Clem up for work and bundled most of the others off to school, Fanny went to fetch laudanum and, on return, sprinkled it on a hot-water cloth in which the leg was gently enfolded.
Holding Marmaduke, Augusta watched with interest as a mackintosh was wrapped around the limb. ‘Would it help if I rubbed it the way I do Father’s?’ She often provided this method of relief for the soldier’s aching calves.
‘Nay, you’ll kill her!’ Deciding her response had been too harsh, Fanny gave softer explanation to the child. ‘It’s right dangerous. You might dislodge a clot that would go to your mother’s heart.’
Shocked almost to tears, Augusta could give no reply.
Fanny was kinder now. ‘Just make sure she has constant rest. She mustn’t get out of bed at all.’ A stern addition for the patient. ‘And I mean that, missus!’
In fact Grace was unable even to contemplate leaving her bed, for, during the next ten days, in addition to the agonizing pain, she became extremely ill, both her pulse and temperature soaring, and would not even have been lucid enough to recognize her children had it not been for the administration of quinine. Neighbours rallied to help, Father Flanagan an
d Canon McLafferty taking turns to hold regular vigils.
Even when the agony and tension in her leg had subsided it was still greatly swollen and had to be wrapped in cotton wool, forbidding her to leave the house. Therefore, each day, Fanny Gentle would pop in to check that her orders were being obeyed. She was not pleased to find that Augusta was back at school and Grace had eschewed the assistance of neighbours to cope with the little ones alone, but Grace replied that it was unfair that her eldest daughter should be expected to play surrogate mother, she was their mother and would cope as best she could.
Fanny was astonished by such a viewpoint – what else was a daughter for except to help around the house? Grace could not bring herself to reveal the deep guilt she harboured, wanting desperately to forget the time when grief over her husband’s infidelity had caused her to neglect her precious children for almost a fortnight until she had come to her senses, ever since when she had been trying to make amends for the dereliction of her motherly duties, knowing that she could never forgive herself.
But to her interrogator she responded blithely, ‘I’ve got Beat into school. Mims is lying asleep in the top drawer all day – I can just reach out to her when she wants feeding.’
‘And what about Ally Sloper?’ A sceptical Fanny indicated the more adventurous Marmaduke.
Grace countered by showing her a rope. ‘I’ll fix this round his middle and tie him to my chair leg so I can just reel him in if he’s trouble. Honestly, Nurse, I won’t move an eyelash.’
Whilst not fully content with this, Fanny would have been even less pleased had she witnessed the scene in her absence, during which Grace ignored her own discomfort to provide a wholesome dinner for her offspring at midday, using the rest of the afternoon to stand baking and cooking and ironing, whilst ensuring that by late afternoon, when the children came home, she was seated calmly in her fireside chair, so that Gussie could truthfully report to Nurse that Mother was doing as she was told.
A Different Kind of Love Page 6