‘Father, I weren’t—!’ His attempt to explain was lopped by another terse response.
‘I know what ’ee were at! ’Ee shameful, sneaking varmint!’ Monty stabbed a coal-black finger in the direction of home, obviously expecting to be obeyed.
Probyn was compelled to move, averting a face that was crimson with shame – thank goodness for the layer of coal dust – but nothing could shield him from the eyes of Melody and the sergeant as he was chivvied like an infant. ‘I were just watching Mick sign up, that’s all!’
‘Mick!’ A contemptuous bark from an irate father. ‘How long have ’ee been consorting with the likes of him? Long enough to be tainted by his bad ways. Thank the Lord your mother bain’t alive to witness your shameful behaviour! Not just trying to sneak off to the army behind my back but in the company of Catholics!’
What thought did you ever spare for my mother’s feelings? Probyn wanted to yell. Marrying another woman before Mother was even cold in her grave! But no one would ever offer such rude retort to Father. There was no argument at all in the Kilmaster household: Father’s word was law.
Nevertheless, the boy was upset enough to persist with his explanation. ‘I only met him today! He kept hanging around me ’cause I protected him from Judson.’
‘Huh!’ Monty jerked his blackened chin skywards in a gesture of derision. ‘A fine soldier he’ll make if he need the likes of you to fight his battles, and if you’re hoping to follow suit you don’t set foot in my house again.’
‘Father, I weren’t signing up!’ Thoroughly humiliated, Probyn tried to speed ahead of his oppressor. Notwithstanding the stooped posture, his father was a lofty man, six inches taller than he, making Probyn appear even more of a child; the image this must portray to onlookers would make him a laughing stock for weeks. Without knowing why, he’d always imagined he was something of a disappointment to his father: this confirmed it. They had nothing whatsoever in common.
‘Better not’ve been! I already seen my name blackened once today!’ Monty had been told by the deputy of his son’s involvement in the roof fall incident. ‘There’s a man lying half dead because o’ you!’
Probyn was mortified. ‘No!’
‘You were larking I’m told!’ His father delivered a hefty shove between his shoulder blades. ‘Larking at your age!’
‘I weren’t! Judson was after Mick, I was—’
‘Mick this, Mick that! Well I hope you think your protection of him was worth the loss of John Cox’s livelihood.’
‘That were just an accident!’ came the humiliated gasp, the injustice of it all making Probyn rash. ‘He should have propped his roof up better, we could all have been killed.’
‘Why you—!’ On the verge of losing his temper, Monty fought to restrain the outburst. ‘I’ll tell you which one would’ve been most missed if you had all been killed! He was a fine collier, John Cox, but he won’t be going down there again will he? Won’t grow another leg! Well, you can kiss farewell to any pocket money this week. I already promised it to his kin.’
Of all the indignities heaped on Probyn this was surely the worst. After such hazardous occupation a man should be entitled to keep what he had earned.
But things were to grow even more dire. As he was prodded along the street, the assault was witnessed by a smirking Judson who, before disappearing into the taproom, offered the taunting reminder: ‘See you after Christmas, Ginge!’
Monty paid him little heed, now focusing his attention on the sight of a horse and cart outside his house and groaning, ‘Oh no, that’s all I need.’ His youngest sister and her husband were here – and Kit usually brought trouble.
Taking some small comfort in this distraction, Probyn swerved in at the cottage gate and, trained not to enter the house until rid of his layer of coal dust, hurried round the back. In contrast to his father he welcomed a visit from the kind and jolly Aunt Kit. At least she breathed warmth into the place, so empty these days. In fact it was due to his aunt’s generosity that they lived here at all; the cottage had once been hers, but upon marriage she had bequeathed it to her brother, little guessing at the time what financial misfortune was about to befall her.
Her nephew showed delight at seeing her in the back garden when he rounded the corner of the cottage. She was chatting to his nineteen-year-old sister Meredith who waited with towels and water.
Both women noticed that his greeting masked another emotion, and when he was closely followed by his father’s annoyed face they understood the reason why. No comment was made on the obvious bad feeling though.
‘Probe!’ Kit greeted him with a fond smile and a West Riding accent like his own, but did not hug him for he was covered in grime. ‘Here give us your coat, if there’s two of us on t’job we’ll get done quicker.’
Meredith objected. ‘Nay! You’ll mucky your clothes.’ Whilst she herself was modestly clad in black wool, Aunt Kit, a fine seamstress, always wore beautiful gowns. ‘I’ve got it down to a fine art now. Just stand there and talk to us.’ She was a large-boned and well-fleshed girl, a good-natured sort like her aunt, possessing a similar shade of auburn hair, though not quite so tall.
Handing over his coat Probyn had to look up to both women, which never ceased to irk him, much as he loved them. What cruel joke had made him, the only boy amongst six girls, the shortest of them all?
At Meredith’s prompting he handed over his wages which, along with her father’s contribution, she put in her apron pocket. Probyn took off his cap, feeling the solitary curl at his brow spring to attention. That was another perversity: why had he been the only one to inherit his mother’s short stature, yet was denied her dark good looks? True, all the Kilmaster children had red hair but whilst his sisters’ ranged from deep auburn to copper his was an insipid sandy colour and dead straight, except for that ridiculous forelock. Concealing his bad humour, he took off his trousers.
Wondering what had caused the upset between father and son, Kit hugged her unnaturally small waist. To the north and south of this restricted circumference ballooned great domes of flounced and satin-clad flesh. Only on special occasions these days did Kit lace her corset so tightly and she was beginning to regret it today for who was there here to appreciate her effort? Nevertheless she passed warm greeting to her brother who was also disrobing.
‘Your better half inside, is he?’ asked Monty, trying to relax the lines of bad temper from his brow as he handed each garment to his daughter.
Kit’s crystal clear blue eyes shone with affection. ‘Yes, Worthy’s inside talking to Ann. Er, by the way, will you please not leave boxes of Pomfret cakes by the side of your chair? Our Toby’s been into them, must’ve crammed a dozen in before we noticed. Goodness knows what sort of Christmas we’re going to have.’
Monty gave a theatrical wince. Probyn forced himself to grin too. Stripped to their shorts, both underwent a quick wash in the enamel bowl on its old wooden stand. Whilst they scooped hot water over their heads Meredith hurried further along the garden and proceeded to beat the clothes with a stick, removing as much dust as she could before returning to scrub her father’s back, her brother waiting for the same treatment. Crossing her plump arms under a voluptuous bosom, Kit remained to watch the steamy ritual, occasionally passing jugs of water to her niece who tipped them to order, two lathered backs slowly turning white again, save for the coal scars that were a tattoo of their trade and the pink weals from an enthusiastic scrubbing brush.
It was too cold and damp to linger over ablutions today and, leaving a black scum on the water, they were soon towelling themselves dry and pulling on fresh clothing. Then, rosy-cheeked, all went indoors, where only a pathetic sprig of holly on the mantel betrayed that it was Christmas, though the blazing fire was sufficiently cheerful. In a cage by the window a canary hopped from perch to perch. Worthy, a colossal man even when seated, was chatting to Monty’s wife Ann, keeping tight hold of Toby’s dress lest he delve into prohibited areas, unaware that his baby son was gnawi
ng on a chair leg to relieve the pain in his gums.
‘Oh, blooming heck he’s eating the furniture now!’ Kit swept the baby up and held him out to her brother to show how big he’d grown. ‘Nine months old. Bless me, this last year’s really flown.’
Monty paid due interest, then ran a comb through his remaining wisps of damp red hair and sat at the table, massaging his knees that were swollen and painful from years of bending at the coalface.
Averse to sitting alongside the man who had just humiliated him, Probyn fabricated interest in his nephew who sat chewing his fist and slavering. ‘He’s a big lad for his age, isn’t he?’
‘Is there any wonder?’ Kit shared a laugh with her ox of a husband who, never one for grand gestures, merely nodded.
Clamping one hand to his wet, disobedient forelock in the vain hope that this might flatten it, Probyn continued to chat to the visitors.
Ann, a neat, dark-eyed woman, attractive despite the housewife’s pinafore, came to her husband’s side with a knife and a fork and a quiet smile. Married into the Kilmaster family for only a couple of years she still felt out of place, especially when Kit came to visit. Nice and kind as the latter might be, the sheer presence of her made Ann feel somewhat awkward, not to mention the way her husband felt about his sister’s reputation.
‘I suppose they’ll be stopping for tea,’ he murmured, below the level of others’ babble. ‘I shall have to take out a loan to cover the cost.’
‘Ssh!’ Keeping her voice low Ann Kilmaster replied, ‘It’s no hardship, I’ve done plenty of veg.’
‘Wonder what trouble she’s brought with her today,’ grumbled Monty.
But Kit had not brought trouble, replied his wife, only a leg of ham and two jars of preserves. ‘You don’t expect me to take their gifts and not offer them a crumb,’ came her scolding whisper. ‘Anyway, what’s up with Probe? Have you been having words?’
‘Oh, I’ll tell you later,’ he promised, without enthusiasm. ‘Don’t want to spoil tea.’
Holding one ear to his father’s mutterings in case they were about him, Probyn conversed with the visitors. ‘Will you be staying the night, Aunt?’
‘Pray the Lord she’s not,’ mumbled Monty, receiving a nudge from his wife.
‘We’d love to, Probe, but there’s haminals to be fed.’ Since selling their house in York – her husband unhappy with city dwelling – they were now settled on a smallholding a few miles east of there. ‘A neighbour’s lad’s taking care of them this evening but we must be back before bedtime.’
‘I shall have to come and see you when I get me new bicycle,’ promised Meredith. Having finished rinsing the men’s stockings she put them by the fire to dry.
‘Oh, you’re not wasting your hard-earned money on one o’them are you?’ Kit touched her huge frilly bosom in concern.
‘Yes! I’ve nearly saved up enough.’ Whilst her stepmother laid out more cutlery for the guests Meredith put a slab of Yorkshire pudding onto her father’s plate and doused it in gravy.
‘Ooh, don’t get one, lass,’ begged her aunt.
Meredith chuckled. ‘Why on earth not?’ With Father served, she put a similar plateful before her brother.
‘Well …’ Kit seemed loath to reply, glancing at Probyn, who looked away and started to eat. ‘It can’t be good for … you know.’ When Meredith looked mystified she mouthed as best she could, ‘Your works, love. Women aren’t built to ride machines. I thought you were keen on getting married and having bairns?’
‘I am,’ declared Meredith with a laugh for her aunt’s oddly old- fashioned stance on this. Kit had always acted outrageously in her own youth. ‘But I’ll never even get to see my sweetheart without transport. He’s had to move to Huddersfield, been promoted.’
Kit showed a keen interest. ‘You never mentioned anything about a sweetheart last time I came.’
‘It was what you might call a whirlwind affair.’ Ann Kilmaster smiled demurely.
‘Ooh, what’s his name?’ Kit thrived on romance.
The big girl turned coy, primping her fringe of red curls. ‘Mr Clegg.’
Her aunt pulled her chin into her neck and shivered, creating rolls of fat. ‘What a name to be called! Couldn’t you find anybody with a better one? It always makes me think of a horsefly. Doesn’t he have a first name then?’
Probyn raised a smirk but said nothing as he devoured the delicious pudding, dribbling gravy.
‘I’m not telling you. You’ll only make fun, like this lot did,’ said Merry, but there were laughter lines around her blue eyes. Then, at Kit’s insistence, she mumbled. ‘If you must know, it’s Christmas.’
Kit could not help a cry of glee. ‘Merry and Christmas! Aw, dear – no I’m not laughing really I’m not!’
‘Yes you are!’ accused Merry, but was chuckling herself as she waved her aunt to the table.
‘Well, I suppose you can be thankful it’s not his surname,’ finished Kit, and prepared to dine, the chubby babe on her lap.
‘Sit next to me, Uncle Worthy,’ invited Probyn. For such a big fellow he never seemed obtrusive, an unsophisticated country man who was happy to remain in the background whilst his dear wife took centre stage. Probyn liked his uncle, though it was not simply this that had caused the invitation. If Worthy sat opposite then Probyn would not be able to take his eyes off the mangled ear that was the result of a shotgun accident. He found it horribly fascinating. In this way it was out of his view.
There was a hiatus then whilst the family consumed their meal of roast pork and vegetables, all of which had been raised on the family allotment.
Afterwards, though, there was more talk of matrimony. Kit noted with pleasure that Monty did not seem so averse to his daughter leaving home now that he himself had remarried and, hence, had someone to take care of him. Questioning Meredith on her sweetheart’s occupation, she learned that Merry, like her sisters before her, was to be the wife of a non-manual worker, and commented, ‘Your mother’ll be up there wearing a proud smile.’ Sarah Kilmaster had made a great effort in encouraging her girls to look further than the colliery village for their husbands.
‘A smile for her daughters, maybe.’
Kit sensed an underlying sarcasm to Monty’s remark and sprang, as she always did, to Probyn’s defence. ‘Well, there isn’t much choice of employment round here for lads.’ She turned to her nephew. ‘Eh, next time I come you might be the only one left at home, Probe. We’ll have to see if we can find you a nice chapel girl.’
‘Oh, this one’s too busy dallying with papists,’ came Monty’s sour utterance.
Kit’s expression changed. ‘What? Eh, never!’
Monty nodded. ‘Fallen in with the wrong type.’
Annoyed to be in the line of fire again, Probyn tutted. ‘May I leave the table please, Father?’ Granted permission, he went to sit on the fender.
But there was no escape; to his greater indignation his father, unable to contain himself any longer, relayed the episode of John Cox being trapped by his leg, told of his own shame upon hearing that his son had been involved – and with an Irishman of all creatures – after all his parents had warned him about folk like the Melodys! Ear lobes burning red, Probyn should have been grateful his father had chosen not to mention the business with the recruiting sergeant too, but with everyone in the room except Worthy heaping their bigoted opinions upon him, it was no relief. Prejudice ran deep in the Kilmaster abode. Even the liberal Kit looked down on the Irish. They might live in the same street and the same kind of house but morally they were poles apart. No insult was made to their faces of course. Oh no, Monty’s creed was to treat everyone with courtesy, as low as they might be; but one did not have to socialize with them.
‘Well, I’m surprised at you, Probe,’ scolded his aunt. ‘You’re usually such a sensible lad.’
Whilst others continued to discuss the shortcomings of their neighbours, Probyn cupped his chin in his hand and sulked, becoming nostalgic for the old days when
he had a family; a real one. Since his eldest sister had died, he had watched that family disintegrate as, year by year, the others went off to form their own lives. Since Mother passed away things had grown even bleaker. Sister number five, anxious not to be burdened by an ageing father, had deliberately got herself with child in order to be allowed to wed. Now it looked as if Merry would be going too, leaving him to play cuckoo in the nest.
Despite the strictness, for Monty was no stricter than others in the village, Probyn loved and respected his father but there was no great comradeship between them. He, a calm, intuitive youth, always able to see the other side in any disagreement, would seldom explode unless pushed beyond endurance. His father rarely lost his temper either, yet Probyn sensed that this was only achieved by years of self-discipline. Should one dare to differ one would immediately sense a menacing glow of lava bubbling beneath the artificial crust.
Probyn had noticed, though, that his father had seemed more contented in the years since his mother’s death. To one whose sense of loss was as fresh as ever, the boy was unable to understand this attitude. However, there was one area of the relationship that was unequivocal. Monty despised his son’s ambition to enter the army. Soldiers were drunken, uneducated riff-raff. That was that.
His eyes strayed to the map of the world on the wall. It had been in the family’s ownership for as long as he could remember. With age and sunlight the vast expanse of deep pink that signified British territory had now faded to a shell-like hue, yet in reality Queen Victoria’s glorious Empire remained unconquerable. Probyn knew every inch of it, longed to play a bigger role in its upkeep, to hold the savages at bay with musket and derring do, rather than simply wave a Union flag and eat buns at a celebration party.
Love of Empire was one of the few things he and his father did have in common, and about which they could meet in friendly conversation. All this rot about Home Rule for Ireland, Father had told him, start lopping bits off here and bits off there and before you knew it centuries of achievement would have vanished. Nobody was foolish enough to suggest the Indians or Africans could rule themselves, why then should otherwise intelligent people think the likes of Michael Melody were fit to rule? And if Ireland was so good why were half its inhabitants living over here? No, it was imperative that the Empire be upheld at all costs. This was fine, Probyn had dared to put forth during one of these lessons, but who exactly had the job of maintaining the Empire? Why, Her Majesty’s army! He had been told to shut up then, that he did not know what he was talking about, soldiers were rabble, only kept in order by their officers and if this was his way of wheedling a favourable response out of his father about him joining the army then he could jolly well think again.
Family of the Empire Page 3