A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Nevertheless it was an exhausting and worrying time, and devoted though she was to her brood it was hard not to dismiss some of their needs as trivial.

  ‘Mother!’ Madeleine had obviously run all the way home from school for she was first in and panting, a request forming as she rushed straight to Grace’s chair. ‘Can I be called something different?’

  ‘Hello to you too, Maddie!’ All the standing had caused Grace’s leg to swell up again, the pain making her unusually brusque as she ploughed her way through a stack of mending.

  The child was contrite. ‘Sorry – hello, Mother.’

  ‘That’s better.’ Grace was less stern now, laying aside the bodkin and half-darned sock to shove her daughter’s red fringe from her eyes. ‘And why, pray tell, do you want to change your moniker?’

  ‘They call me Mad-Ellen, or Loony.’

  ‘Who do?’

  ‘The kids at school.’ Madeleine wrung her hands.

  The mother’s reply was blasé. ‘They’re just daft. Think how much more upsetting it would be if you really were mad. You know you’re not or you’d be locked up. It’s a lovely name and you’re keeping it. Heaven knows, there are more important things to think about.’ Grace’s eyes strayed to the newspaper. Stuck indoors she had had much time to ponder on the reports from the front. According to these, the war was nearing crisis and there was fighting all along the line from Arras to the sea, more terrible and costly than ever. Instead of the one or two names that had originally appeared there were now whole pages of casualties. Yet perversely this served to ignite a flicker of hope in Grace’s heart, for the sheer savagery of it might mean that the war would be won before Probyn could be sent overseas.

  ‘What things?’ whined Madeleine.

  Jerked from her thoughts, Grace looked at the innocent little face and resisted infecting the child with her own anxiety. ‘Like new Whitsuntide wear!’ she said brightly, at the same time reaching into her sewing basket for a tape measure. ‘We want you all looking posh for when your father comes home.’

  ‘Is Father coming home?’ The others had just arrived, a collection of grubby knees, creased pinafores and loose hair ribbons, tumbling through the door en masse.

  ‘Soon,’ replied Grace as she measured her daughter, and hoped very much that it might prove true.

  * * *

  The months of training in open countryside had had a splendid effect on the troops. Pale-faced miners now boasted the rosy glow of farm boys, the good food, the constant route marching and digging had built muscle and stamina, but most of all, aside from the abominable Unthank who seemed to want no part in it, an esprit de corps had been forged between the ranks, each officer taking a personal pride in his squad and striving to make it the best in the battalion. If Probyn had a complaint now it was that some of them had become rather too close. Guy and Louis Postgate, the viscount’s sons, had been brought up to be tolerant of the shortcomings of the lower classes and to treat them fairly; but whilst Guy did not let this interfere with his role of leadership, Louis was still far too sentimental with defaulters. He might feign harshness when in the presence of his RSM but Probyn knew his true nature and, having had to overcome a trait of sentimentality himself, feared for Louis’s sanity on the battlefield.

  There was now little doubt amongst the troops that the eve of departure was nigh, for, at the end of June a move had been made to Quebec Barracks at Bordon, where they were finally equipped with long-range rifles and every other item required for warfare. Another agonizing month of night operations and musketry courses on Longmoor Ranges, then, a vital clue: they were issued with a small amount of precious ammunition and told this would be their final visit to the range.

  ‘Does this mean we’re going, Sarg?’ an excited Private Hamm demanded of his NCO.

  Probyn overheard. ‘You won’t be going anywhere unless you hit those bulls – and do not let me hear you use that corruptive term again – it is Sergeant!’

  Once upon the range he was to make wider announcement. ‘Poor performance from one soldier will result in the entire battalion being held back. So you had better make it good!’

  There was an affiliated murmur of dismay, all eyes turning to those renowned as bad shots, issuing silent warning that there would be no forgiveness from their comrades should they cause postponement.

  Firing commenced. The RSM paced the line, eyes alert for anyone missing the target; this certainly did not apply to Unthank, whose shooting was most impressive, his bullets landing so close together they almost formed one hole. Giving praise where it was due, Probyn was annoyed to receive only a grunt in return and soon moved on.

  Stopping behind one inferior participant, he called out, ‘Sergeant-Major Dungworth, this man’s rifle appears to be faulty. Have a look at it, please!’ Marching onwards, he drew immense satisfaction at not having to stop again until coming almost to the end of the line where a substantial amount of ammunition had been expended without actually having made much impact. Not usually one to tolerate incompetence, he found himself empathizing here, recalling the way he himself had yearned to be crackshot in the regiment. Bagshaw, formerly a puny youth, had built himself up through sheer effort, striving throughout the course to do his best. Though the results might not be spectacular there was nothing Probyn liked more than a trier, and in Bagshaw’s desperate attempts to avoid failure he recognized a true soldier.

  ‘Stop firing, Private Bagshaw! I think we may have another faulty rifle here. Let me have a look at it.’ Affecting to rearrange the sights, he muttered, ‘I’ll just try it out,’ and proceeded to do so, thus hitting the required number of bulls to raise Bagshaw’s score, before handing it back. ‘Just needed a little adjustment.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ A somewhat amazed Bagshaw acknowledged the favour.

  Nodding curtly, Probyn glanced heavenwards as he walked away, enjoying a secret grin, imagining his friend Greatrix up there laughing at the thought of Kilmaster hitting bull’s-eyes for someone else, when it had taken him years to learn how to hit anything smaller than the side of a barn.

  Ecstatic that all of them had completed the musketry course, the troops were to find this only one of many bonuses, for almost immediately came the announcement that each was to receive seven days’ leave, a cast-iron indication that they were about to go overseas.

  Everyone was in great spirits, especially the local photographers whose bank balances were swelled by demands from the military. Probyn had already appeared in group photographs with the colonel and his warrant officers, but today he was undergoing individual portraiture, the result of which would be sent home to take centre place on the family sideboard.

  Many others were assembled for this same reason, amongst them the Honourable Postgates and a group of their fellow officers. All were fully kitted out now in their second lieutenants’ regalia, except for Guy, whose exceptional skills had already earned him a captaincy.

  Spotting the RSM, a great deal of nudging went on, and Probyn overheard whispered exhortations – ‘You go! No, I’m jolly well not risking it!’ – until as a bunch they finally approached him, Louis at their head.

  Politely cheerful as always, he began, ‘Forgive the intrusion, Mr Kilmaster; it appears I’ve been appointed spokesman. My friends and I were wondering whether you’d object were we to order a copy of the photograph you’ve just had taken?’

  It was the last thing Probyn could have expected. Seeking duplicity, he held Louis’s blue eyes for a second; there was the glint of laughter in them, but then again this was a natural attribute of the young subaltern, and impish rather than malicious. Even so he remained dubious and studied each face carefully before responding.

  ‘Dear me, gentlemen, I am quite taken aback. Had it been one of the other ranks voicing this request, I’d harbour the suspicion that he wanted it merely to throw darts at, but I know, of course, that an officer is above such barroom pursuits.’

  The skin around Louis’s eyes crinkled. ‘I assure you w
e would never contemplate such an act of gross disrespect, would we, Guy?’

  His brother gave rigorous confirmation, and this in turn was endorsed by the others. All seemed totally genuine.

  Guy explained, ‘It’s simply that we’d like to show our families the man responsible for knocking us into shape. We’ve told them so much about you, Mr Kilmaster.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you have, Captain Postgate!’

  There were self-conscious grins all round but Louis was to echo his brother. ‘I assure you that every word was complimentary. Truly, we owe you a great deal.’ After months of adverse comment over the RSM’s sadistic demands, those with any intuition had come to recognize that underneath all that browbeating was a true professional who had their best interests at heart.

  Probyn experienced a swell of gratification, but as yet did not sanction their request for his photograph.

  Gaylard’s cupid-bow lips added his contribution. ‘And may we take this opportunity of thanking you for your patience, Mr Kilmaster. We must have proved a great trial.’

  ‘I wouldn’t refute that, sir.’ The RSM’s mouth did not smile, but the shimmer of mischief in his eyes gave the game away and the remark provoked laughter. Undergoing a moment’s contemplation, Probyn hid the fact that he was deeply touched, before voicing a dignified addendum: ‘If you wish to waste your money I shall not object to you purchasing my portrait. Thank you, gentlemen.’ Encouraged, Louis went one further. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Kilmaster – erm, it would be an even greater honour if you’d allow us to be photographed alongside you.’

  ‘Now this really is a jape!’ A hint of steel returned to Probyn’s eye, but reassured by their vociferous denials he agreed to return with them to the photographer. However, his critical eyes had detected a flaw. ‘Very well, but before accommodating you I can’t bite my tongue any longer. Mr Reynard, sir, please remove that strand of lint from your uniform.’

  Hurriedly casting his eyes downwards, Reynard had to hunt for some moments before spotting the offending fragment and, annoyed with himself, nipped it from his breast, his pimply face turning pink at being singled out, especially as the others all passed the RSM’s muster.

  ‘Very good. Lead the way, gentlemen!’

  The normally ebullient Faljambe lagged behind to issue a confidential adjunct. ‘Mr Kilmaster, might I just add my personal thanks for all your decency in the face of such thickheadedness.’

  ‘Why, Lieutenant Faljambe, you cannot be referring to yourself?’

  ‘Oh, I am.’ Faljambe was oblivious to the sardonic edge to Probyn’s voice. ‘It must have seemed to you at times that I was very obtuse but I do appreciate what you were trying to drum into us. My only explanation is that it all seems so unreal. I won’t feel as if I’m a genuine soldier until I come to grips with a real German on a real battlefield. I only hope I perform a little better then.’ Having exposed himself to further criticism, a twitch of embarrassment played around his sandy-lashed eye.

  But there was no opprobrium this time. ‘We were all new soldiers once, sir. We none of us could see the point behind the constant repetition and play-acting. I’d like to be able to assure you that it will stand you in good stead when you come to face the real thing, but in truth no one can know how he’ll react in the presence of danger. We can but give you the training so that when the moment arrives you won’t let your comrades down. The honour of the British Army is dependent upon you.’

  ‘I shall strive to uphold it,’ came the youthful pledge.

  This was getting far too intimate for the RSM’s liking. ‘Well, for now, Mr Faljambe, you must only strive to keep still. A tall order for you, I know, but if you’d like to choose your position…’ Taking his own place in the midst of the group, a Postgate brother on either side of him, Lieutenants Faljambe, Gaylard, Reynard, Sillar, Geake and Stroud round about, Probyn stood magnificently erect whilst the photographer took aim.

  Once the shot had been captured for posterity the group broke up, Probyn returning to his usual blunt manner. ‘Well, I haven’t the time to stand around here all day, gentlemen, and neither have you. I shall look forward to seeing you all again in August – assuming Mr Gaylard is able to find his way back.’

  Gaylard took the joke in good part, riposting, ‘You are optimistic, Mr Kilmaster. I must first find my way home.’

  Whilst the others chortled, Probyn cast a cynical eye at him, then finally made to withdraw. ‘Well, make the most of your time amongst your families, gentlemen. It might be the last you have for some while.’

  The comment induced a bleak, inevitable jolt in his breast as he left the group chatting in gay abandon in his wake. For a few of them this might be the last leave they ever had. Having no wish to speculate on the identity of those unfortunate few amongst men he had grown to like, he banished it from his mind, looking forward instead to his own spell at home.

  * * *

  Even after two months’ encasement in cotton wool and bandages Grace’s leg had not returned to its normal size and the slightest exertion caused her discomfort. So painful was it today that she had been forced to keep Beata from school in order that the child might take Clem’s dinner to the pit office. Rather this than have Augusta miss another day’s education for, with so much time off, she would be ill-equipped to pass her coming scholarship exam. Thank goodness it would soon be the summer holiday.

  Shortly before noon the five-year-old set off with a pudding bowl wrapped in a tea towel and headed for the pit. At this same time the children began to trickle out of school for dinner and, spotting one of her brothers, Beata called to him.

  Joe came running over and, after asking where she was going, said, ‘I’d better come and look after you.’

  Severe thunderstorms had flattened the long grass that grew by the main road, but the weather was glorious today. Along the sunny, route he pointed out the train wagons full of bombs and shells from the powder works, bound for the front. ‘Boom! The Germans’ll soon be blown to smithereens!’ He performed a madcap cartwheel.

  Clinging onto her pudding bowl, Beata grinned at his antics. ‘Then will the war be over?’ She hardly knew what the war was.

  ‘Aye! Anyroad, it’s almost over now. There’s been thrilling dispatches from Sir John French, you know.’

  Confused by this technical term, Beata padded on in silence, her brother strutting like a warrior.

  In the noisy colliery yard women had taken over many of the jobs normally undertaken by men who had gone to war, their skirts sooty with coal, brawny arms grappling with tubs and harness. Joe crunched a passage through the industrious scene, Beata following, a layer of coal dust settling unnoticed upon her black boots and socks. Even before they reached the pit manager’s office they could hear Clem’s angry voice through the open window and glanced at each other apprehensively before proceeding. With Beata’s little hands clamped to the pudding bowl, Joe whipped off his cap and opened the door for her. She had barely gone inside when an inkwell came hurtling through the air towards the man with whom Clem had been arguing and hit him smack in the chest, and the vee of white shirt above his waistcoat turned navy blue.

  There was a moment’s horrified silence whilst the man dashed a handkerchief over his furious, ink-spattered expression, then he snapped at Clem, ‘Right, that’s it, get out and don’t come back – and expect to receive a bill for the damage!’

  Red cheeks clashing with his auburn hair and starched white collar, Clem grabbed his jacket and strode for the door. ‘Go whistle for it!’

  In his angry path, Beata took a few backwards steps and, encumbered by the bowl, would have tottered had not Joe righted her. Then with nary a backwards glance the pair scampered after Clem, their boots sending up explosions of coal dust.

  The younger ones, in awe of their brother’s volatile temper, both hung back whilst a grim-faced Clem marched ahead. It was only when they were preparing to cross the main highway that he remembered his obligation towards them and grabbed their hands
to escort them across.

  ‘Look, there’s Father!’ On spotting the military figure ahead Joe pointed excitedly.

  ‘Oh, shite!’ groaned Clem, and just in time grabbed Joe’s collar preventing him from dashing after Probyn. ‘Hang on! You’re to say nowt about me getting the sack.’

  ‘What’s the sack?’ Beata squinted up at him.

  Clem dropped to his hunkers and clamped her cheeks between his palms to issue explanation, looking deep into her eyes to make sure Beata knew the seriousness of this. ‘I’ve lost me job and Father’ll be mad, so you mustn’t breathe a word of it or I’ll get sherracked. Is that my dinner you’ve brought for me?’ He took quick possession of her bowl and also grabbed the spoon that jutted from her pocket. ‘Right, I’m off up on t’Crags to eat it. Wait till I’ve gone before you shout him – and don’t say owt to him or Mother, either of you. Promise.’

  His brother and sister vouched loyalty and waited until Clem made his getaway before pelting after their father.

  Hearing their excited yells, the smiling soldier paused to wait as his children ran up the slope to meet him. There was no disappointment that he did not hug them, for the Kilmasters were not given to overt exhibitions of affection, but his love was sufficiently displayed by a warm pat of each auburn head. After telling Joe how much he had grown, Probyn surveyed Beata and merely gave a fond chuckle. With her bobbed hair, stocky limbs and eyes that appeared to have seen everything before, she resembled a little old woman.

  ‘And what have you been up to then?’ he finally asked.

  ‘I’ve just taken Clem’s dinner,’ announced Beata. ‘Mother’s got a poorly leg.’

  Probyn’s attitude changed. With a concerned murmur he took hold of her hand and, Joe lolloping off in front, the three went home.

  Grace had not been informed that her husband was coming and was overwhelmed to see him, so much so that she momentarily forgot her swollen leg and leaped from her chair, emitting a whoop both of excitement and pain. Voicing disquiet, Probyn clasped his rather untidy wife in a quick embrace, she returning his loving gaze before he deposited her back into the chair and lifted her skirt to examine the offending limb.