A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘And I’m sorry I thought the worst,’ she told him. ‘I just love you.’

  Squeezing her to show he felt the same, Probyn turned off the lights and led her up to bed.

  * * *

  Following Kit’s reply that came by return of post the day after he had written, Probyn’s family was on a train bound for York – all save Clem, who, forced to work, was to be looked after by a neighbour in their absence.

  Far from being incommoded by the arrival of such a large tribe Kit was thrilled to see them and came wobbling down the path to greet her favourite nephew. Both he and Grace got quite a shock at how much fatter Kit had grown since last they had met, her hips almost brushing the door frame, but at heart she was still the same, enfolding him, then his wife and then each of their children in her fleshy embrace.

  Not having seen this elderly lady very often the little ones were shy and especially self-conscious under her open-hearted hugs. They were also overawed by her enormous girth. Standing almost six foot tall, her corpulent body topped by large dramatic features, she presented rather a daunting figure. Yet, after only minutes in her company, laughing at her mimicry and jokes, they came to overlook the obesity, seeing Great-Aunt Kit for what she was, a natural entertainer and a good, kind woman.

  Food played no small part in their affection for her, too, and though Kit apologized for the poor state of her table her guests were agog at the spread she had managed to conjure up with such shortages as there were. ‘Well, I suppose it’s a bit easier for us that have our own livestock,’ she told them. ‘You must take some chucky eggs with you when you go – not that I’m trying to get rid of you already!’ She laughed, the rolls of fat under her chin wobbling. ‘Oh, I can’t tell you how lovely it is to have you all here!’ And so warmly was it issued that everyone could tell that she meant it.

  Despite Worthy’s even taller bulk his was a quieter presence than his wife’s. But then Worthy did not have to say anything to make one notice he was there. To the children, their father might give the impression of largeness, with his torose features and broad chest, but next to Worthy he was a midget.

  The following hours were spent catching up with family news, Probyn’s main enquiry being about cousin Toby, who was away at the battle front. Withdrawing a bundle of letters from the sideboard, a proud Kit told him that her son had earned himself a medal for tending a wounded officer whilst under fire.

  Probyn voiced quiet acclaim. ‘You must be right proud of him, Aunt.’

  ‘We are.’ It was a rather sad smile from Kit. ‘I just pray the Lord’ll send him home safe to us.’

  Probyn gave words of comfort, thinking of his own lost boys. ‘If he came through that lot on the Somme I think you can justly expect it.’

  * * *

  After spending the first day of their holiday merely enjoying their hostess’s company, the next morning Probyn took his family on an outing, mainly in order to let Worthy get on with the smooth running of the smallholding, but also to give Grace as much fresh air as possible.

  ‘Take our Toby’s fishing rod with you,’ instructed Worthy. ‘We’ve got a net here somewhere for the young uns.’ He rummaged about in an understairs cupboard for a while, before calling to his wife, ‘Katherine, where’s yon fishing net got to?’

  ‘Why do you call Aunt Kit Katherine?’ Small nose jutting from under his peaked cap, Joe looked up at the giant of a man.

  From his lofty heights, Worthy replied in deadpan manner, ‘’Cause she doesn’t like being called Bert.’

  ‘Eh, you and your questions!’ Probyn reproved Joe and along with the rest of the children, shooed him out into the countryside, the youngsters walking ahead of their parents so that Father could keep an eye on them.

  Equipped with plenty to eat and drink, they were to spend the entire day walking and fishing, playing and lounging, as far removed from the war as one could possibly be. The autumn sun was hot. Upon their return, sunkissed and happy, Probyn seemed almost as youthful as his children as he related the afternoon’s events to Kit and Worthy. ‘We caught a fish this big! Didn’t we, kids? Thought it was kinder to let him go, though.’

  There was much laughter as they sat down to tea.

  Afterwards, whilst chatting happily to her visitors, Kit brought out a skein of wool, ordering her husband, ‘Hold out your hands, dear.’

  Worthy sighed but presented his hands over which Kit hooked the skein of wool whilst she settled back to wind it into a ball, hardly drawing breath between words.

  Fifteen minutes of desultory chatter elapsed in this fashion, Worthy sitting patiently, his outstretched arms occupied by the skein whilst Kit wound her wool, until eventually he was permitted to insert a question of his own. ‘So, did you have any hand in catching that fish, Grace – by the way, how big did you say it was?’

  ‘Oh, about that…’ Grace held her hands apart and immediately found them encumbered by the skein of wool. She gave a burst of outraged laughter at Worthy’s deft move.

  ‘Eh, the crafty weasel!’ scolded Kit, but laughed with Probyn and the others. ‘Fancy doing that to a guest.’

  The big man looked pleased with himself. ‘Guests have to earn their keep in this house.’ Still sporting a grin, he rose to stretch his tree-trunk legs, then faltered and stooped to peer through the window. The fowl were making a din; it might herald a fox. But no, there was a figure approaching through the dying sun. ‘Eh, I think … Katherine, it’s our Toby!’ And he rushed to fling open the door, lumbering down the path with Kit in hot pursuit to greet their son.

  Grace shared a look of happiness with her husband and children, then bent to retrieve the ball of wool that Kit had dropped in her excitement, and began to rewind it.

  After thrilled, loving embraces the tall, well-built young man was escorted to the threshold by his proud parents, whereupon he halted. ‘I can’t go in, Mam, I’m lousy.’

  ‘Nay, we don’t mind a few bugs, lad!’

  Toby was stubborn. ‘It’s more than a few. There’s a whole legion running round in me pants. And if I come into your kitchen you won’t get rid of the stink in days, honestly. Let me just have a sluice down under t’pump.’

  ‘I can’t allow that after you’ve been serving your country! Just give me a minute and I’ll fill the bath. Come see who’s here!’ Mopping tears of gladness, Kit chivvied a protesting Toby into the porch.

  His big features lit up at the sight of the visitors. Yet, Probyn noted, the torment of war was writ large upon that young face and no amount of exuberant words could disguise it.

  Joe wrinkled his nose. ‘Pooh, he stinks!’

  His father cuffed him.

  But Toby guffawed from the doorway, steadfastly refusing to go further. ‘I’ll look forward to talking to you, Probe, when I’ve got rid of me muck.’

  His much older cousin called back, ‘I look forward to it too! How long have you got, Toby?’

  ‘Seven days!’ came the answer.

  ‘Well, it’s right grand to see you. I know you must have been expecting to come home to a bit of peace and quiet and you won’t get that with us here so we’ll make a move first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Nay, I didn’t think I stunk that bad,’ joked Toby.

  Kit dismissed her nephew’s suggestion. ‘Nobody’s leaving.’

  ‘You don’t want us here spoiling your lad’s homecoming.’ Probyn hated such intrusions himself.

  Grace held the half-wound ball and skein of wool on her lap. ‘And we planned to leave the day after tomorrow anywa—’

  ‘Then another day won’t make any difference, will it?’ replied Aunt Kit firmly.

  ‘Don’t be trying to get out of winding that wool, Grace,’ Worthy wagged a teasing finger. ‘You’re staying put.’

  Kit was too busy thinking to laugh. ‘Now, let me see, I shall have to move the children out of Toby’s bed…’

  ‘That little stinker hasn’t been sleeping in my bed, has he?’ quipped Toby, pulling a face at Joe and mak
ing him laugh.

  ‘… they can go in the loft above the byre – it’s a warm night and the cows won’t mind.’

  With sleeping arrangements organized, Kit steered the guests into the parlour, then filled a zinc bath in the kitchen. Toby peeled off his lousy garments and dropped them outside before padding naked into the kitchen and straight into the bath, whereupon he groaned in ecstasy.

  And for the remainder of the holiday, try as they might not to intrude on family intimacy, Probyn, Grace and their children found themselves embraced in all Kit’s plans. It was the most wonderful interlude, serving not just as a respite from the war, but to bring back fond memories of the family get-togethers of Probyn’s boyhood. If only these moments could last for ever.

  11

  The battle of the Somme was to rage for another two months, its butchery regarded as the sacrifice that must certainly mark an end to the war. So, 1917 opened on an air of optimism, an emotion that especially prevailed in the Kilmaster household. With Charlotte’s debt repaid, Grace had been able to afford a proper festive dinner and even some fruit and nuts to go in the children’s Christmas stockings. Even presented with the news that Probyn had been posted to the Durham Light Infantry, Grace did not, as she might have done long ago, complain that he was taking her away from her friends and family, but was simply grateful that her husband was not being sent further afield. It would, of course, mean getting to know one’s way around a new town, making new friends, but Grace was well used to this, and with her sisters residing in York she saw very little of them anyway.

  The saddest thing to bear was that it would mean an end to Charlotte’s already infrequent visits, especially with her friend still grieving over her tragic bereavement. Grace swore to keep in touch by letter.

  Emotions were stirred too by all the farewell cups of tea amongst neighbours, in particular Nurse Gentle and Mrs Rushton. The parting with Father Flanagan and Canon McLafferty had also been sad. A good few tears were shed before it was time to pack.

  ‘Bless me, I never knew I’d been sitting on this!’ Having been sorting through the sheets of music in her piano stool, a red-eyed Grace paused to hold at arm’s length a piece by a German composer as if it were contaminated. ‘Here, Gus, put it with the old newspapers. It’ll do to make a firelighter.’

  ‘We could put it in the privy,’ grinned Joe.

  ‘No need for vulgarity,’ replied his mother sternly. ‘And what’s all that rubbish you’re shoving in the packing case?’

  Joe put his hand on his hip. ‘It’s not rubbish! It’s pictures of heroes.’ Before the newspapers were disposed of, he had made it his job to cut out the photographs of soldiers who had been killed. He had amassed a thick pile now.

  ‘There’s no room for those, dear!’

  ‘But it’s not right to burn them,’ defended Joe.

  Grace capitulated with a sigh, reminding herself to remove them after Joe had gone to bed.

  Then, all that was to be done was to lay down her own head and pray that this new beginning would go well.

  * * *

  There was quite a thrill upon arrival to find that West Hartlepool was on the coast, the tang of salt and the yelp of gulls conjuring visions of picnics on the sands. This was just as well, for the streets of this shipbuilding port were as grimy as the ones they had left, and further uglified by bomb damage, nor were there any green fields in which to romp. But at least the rented accommodation was not so cramped as they were used to, the garrison was situated nearby, meaning that Father could live at home, and the convent school that the children were to attend was just at the end of the street so they would be unlikely to get lost in this place of unfamiliar accents.

  With a sovereign much reduced in value these days it was a relief that Clem found clerical work almost immediately. There was to be money from another source too. Augusta reasoned that there was no point in starting a new school; she would be of more use to her mother in earning a living. Whilst not disagreeing, it saddened Grace that such an intelligent girl was compelled to do menial work and her heart went out when first she saw the twelve-year-old trundling up the street with her milk churns.

  Madeleine, Joe and Beata were dispatched to their place of education on Monday, any apprehensions they might have soon dispersed, for the other pupils were very friendly. Unfortunately this did not apply to the rest of the population and they were ambushed on the way home by a group of Protestant children whose name-calling extended to violence. Threatened by the bigger number, the Kilmasters ran, Beata’s short legs taking her only yards before she received a thump in the back that sent her tumbling. They were on her then, slapping and pulling her hair.

  Still running, Joe and Maddie took a moment to realize that their sister was not with them. No longer the quarry, they retraced their steps and peered around the corner to investigate.

  On her feet now, a weeping Beata came towards them, taunted by her enemies.

  ‘You’ll have to learn to run faster,’ advised an unsympathetic Madeleine, Joe offering no better help.

  But just then a saviour came along in the person of their father and all fear vanished. Taking their oppressors to task, Probyn dabbed Beata’s tears and shepherded his youngsters home.

  When he opened the door there was no sign of his wife, just Mims sitting on her own, drumming happily on a pan with a wooden spoon. Then a movement caught his eye and he saw Grace crawl from the kitchen on her knees and elbows and disappear behind the sofa, trying to hold a jug of water upright.

  ‘What’s this, a commando raid?’

  Her head bobbed up and a little sound of frustration emerged. ‘Oh, Probe, you’re early! I was just trying to get this over with before you came home. Can one of you just keep Baby occupied while I finish getting things ready for w-a-s-h-i-n-g her h-a-i-r.’

  ‘Hair-washing at this time of day?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve said it!’ accused Grace as a loud bawl emerged from Mims. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  Probyn uttered a laughing gasp. ‘How was I to know?’

  ‘You’ve heard what a fuss she kicks up when she has her whatsit washed! I was just trying to lessen it. Well, that’s it! All that crawling about wasted.’ Wearing a look of disgust, she clambered to her feet and took the jug of water back to the scullery, calling over her shoulder to Mims, ‘No, no, stop crying, there’s no hair-washing today!’

  Still, Mims’ yelling raised the roof for a good few minutes.

  ‘It’s a ruddy madhouse,’ muttered Probyn to himself.

  Madeleine looked disapproving of the term but dared not correct her father.

  Noting Beata’s tear-stained face, Grace bent down to ask what was amiss.

  ‘Some kids brayed her,’ explained Probyn, ruffling his daughter’s hair to lessen her hurt.

  ‘I don’t like living here,’ sniffed Beata. ‘I want to go home.’

  But, though her mother gave her a comforting cuddle, the response was delivered with a laugh. ‘This is home now, Beat. You’ll just have to get on with it, I’m afraid.’

  * * *

  There was to be further unpleasantness for the rest of the week and Beata was glad when Easter provided a break from school. With Marmaduke’s fourth birthday occurring in this period, it was decided that it was time for him to be breeched, thus lending an excuse for celebration, and even though food shortages were to prevent any extravagance, Mother still managed to lay on some kind of party.

  Wanting to contribute, Beata asked for paper with which to make her brother a card and, this provided, settled at the table with a box of crayons.

  Clad in white knitted trousers and jumper, shorn of his light-brown curls, a reluctant Marmaduke was shoved before his father for inspection: this was brief. Since the child seemed to cry every time a paternal eye was so much as cast in his direction, Probyn rarely wasted time on him. Today however, there was reward both laudatory and financial.

  ‘Why, Mother, those breeches have worked a treat. He hasn’t e
ven cried one tear! Here you are, my big boy, that’s all for you.’ And with a broad smile Probyn extended a new sixpence. ‘Put that in your pocket, sonny.’

  Whilst Duke enjoyed this unaccustomed praise, Beata was to come in for chastisement as her father turned his attention to her artwork.

  ‘Eh, what have you been taught about holding your pencil in the wrong hand?’ An admonishing finger was directed at her. ‘Don’t let me catch you again or you’ll be off to the Marmalade Home.’

  Vilified by teachers for this sin, the six-year-old was now made to feel like an outcast at home. Dutifully, she swapped her pencil from left to right before continuing her task, even though it felt as if she were using someone else’s hand and the writing it formed was atrocious. And though she bravely held back her tears and still handed over the finished card to Marmaduke, its presentation was robbed of all lustre.

  * * *

  Whilst the children might have had a difficult time of settling in, their mother had always been quick to make friends and within weeks had formed acquaintance with most of her neighbours, not a day going by without one or another of them visiting her kitchen for a cup of tea. Always a gregarious soul, Grace found their sisterhood even more welcome in the months to come, for, despite their army’s valiant struggles, it had begun to look as if the Hun might win.

  Fear had been ever-present, of course – fear that their husbands, sons and brothers might be killed. But never, never had anyone even contemplated that the British could be beaten. Today, the faces around the Kilmasters’ table were drawn with worry as Grace and her neighbours discussed the unthinkable.

  ‘The minute I hear they’re across that Channel,’ said one, ‘I’ll take a knife to me kids then kill meself. I’ve heard what they’ve done to the Belgian nuns, I’m not letting that happen to me or mine.’ Grace privately marvelled at the blithe way this statement was issued. Be that as it may, they were facing a very real threat and the question had to be asked. What would she herself do if the Channel was breached? She cast a tormented eye at little Mims, who played innocently on the rug, knowing she would never be able to stick a knife in her, even to prevent a worse fate.