Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Probyn re-entered wearing a look of discomfort and sat on the fender, all the chairs being taken. Mrs Carr’s adult son and daughter were here with their respective spouses and offspring. Probyn bore no personal grudge for any of them; he was always relegated to the fender whenever there were visitors, and at least they offered sympathy for his plight.

  ‘Well, I’ve no sympathy for ’ee,’ reproved his father, massaging his painful swollen knees. ‘You made a pig of yourself at dinner. Get some o’ that jollop down you before Mr Lund arrives. I don’t want you hopping to the farleymelow every five minutes while he’s here.’

  Obediently Probyn opened his mouth for the spoonful of chalky liquid offered by his stepmother, knowing full well it would not ease his nerves. He found himself actually praying for the minister’s arrival, though only to get the episode over and done with. How he wished it was tomorrow morning and he was on his way.

  Whilst his father, stepmother and sister chatted happily to their visitors, Probyn suffered torment. Clad in his best navy-blue suit, starched collar and tie, he shifted nervously on the fender, going over his plan.

  Eventually, the minister made his appearance. Probyn had never cared for Mr Lund without really knowing why. Nevertheless, he jumped up and responded with a courteous smile when Mr Lund deigned to address him, though the minister was obviously more interested in the feast that awaited him on the table. Barely had six words of grace emerged from his mouth than he was cramming it with pork pie and pickles.

  Probyn would have enjoyed it too had his father not issued a warning cough, instructing him not to over-indulge, whilst the ravenous guest polished off one delicacy after another, including an array of iced buns that Probyn loved so well.

  Gauging her stepson’s disappointment over the empty plate, a smiling Ann began to rise. ‘There’re more cakes if anyone wants them. Probe, what about you?’

  ‘He’s had enough for everybody.’ Monty wagged a finger. ‘You’re not here to run about after him.’

  No, she’s here to run about after you, sulked Probyn; or that greedy old codger, or anyone else who might be deemed more important, which included just about everybody except him. It had been the same at dinner time, with the visitors receiving the choicest cuts of meat whilst he was left with the fatty stuff. A desire to be free and the current resentment made his memory selective. Never during his entire lifetime could he recall one single word of praise from his father. He was nothing in this house. If he had suffered any indecision about running away it vanished at this moment.

  But there was just one more thing to be done before his plan could take effect. ‘Please may I leave the table?’

  ‘Where are your manners?’ asked his father. ‘The minister’s not finished yet.’

  Forced to wait whilst the minister extended his teacup for a refill, Probyn turned his attention to what must inevitably come. Though worried at the thought of confronting Judson, he could not be seen to be running away. Probyn Kilmaster had never run away from anything. Finer by far that he seek the thug out than be labelled a coward. Nothing must hamper his intended getaway tomorrow morning, he must meet Judson tonight, if only the wretched minister would finish quaffing.

  At last, the elderly man smacked his lips, raked a currant from between his teeth and mopped his white-bristled chin. Paying compliment to his hosts, he duly took his leave.

  Probyn jumped up to help the man into his coat. ‘I’ll walk you back, Mr Lund!’ Thus did he finally manage to escape the house, bent on confrontation.

  * * *

  After accompanying the minister far enough through the drizzling rain along Main Street, he made as if for home, but instead of keeping to the highway he turned off between the church and the post office and headed up an incline. Passing the allotments and Savile Row where he had been born, he strode on up the hill to the very top where a row of houses overlooked the dark expanse of Coney Moor. It was the boldest move he could make, going directly to the enemy’s door, yet the move was not without apprehension. Judson was well known for using the dirtiest methods when fighting, even resorting to knives. Unable to reciprocate such vile practice, Probyn envisioned himself lying injured and bleeding, felt the sting of imaginary wounds. By the time he had reached Judson’s home his stride was somewhat less confident. Nevertheless, he injected a false boldness into his knock and waited to face his enemy.

  But the door was opened by a listless slattern.

  Even to a thug’s mother one must be polite. ‘Hello, Mrs Judson, is your Clarence in?’

  There was little animation in the reply. ‘He’s locked up, love. Got nabbed poaching last night.’

  A huge rush of relief flooded Probyn’s breast – he could have laughed aloud – though he tried to sound sympathetic in his response to Mrs Judson. ‘Oh dear, then would you please tell him, when you see him, that I called?’

  ‘Aye, I will.’ She made to close the door.

  ‘You won’t forget will you?’ It was vital that Judson knew Probyn was not intimidated.

  With Mrs Judson’s promise, he returned down the hill oblivious to the drizzle, a new buoyancy marking his homewards passage. He had faced up to the threat of violence. No matter that it had not occurred, he had gone there just the same. He was now at liberty to fulfil his ambition with a lighter heart.

  * * *

  Normally, Probyn would be roused by the sound of his father’s coughing, but this Monday morning he was awake hours before anyone. In fact he had hardly slept for excitement. However, it was not his intention to slope away now: far better to set off for work as usual. That way they would not know he was missing until this evening. He couldn’t leave a note: it might be found too early and give the game away. He would write from Pontefract and tell them he was safe. Amidst his machinations there had been a slight worry that, when he did not return, Father might think he had been involved in an underground accident, but he had dismissed this. Upon enquiry Father would ascertain that Probyn’s numbered disc had never been taken out that morning. Lacking a corpse they would know he had gone of his own volition.

  He stared up through the darkness, wondering over their reaction. Certainly they would be angry, but would they miss him too? More rational now than the night before he recalled all the nice times: himself as a three-year-old standing by his father’s knee waiting to receive the top of his boiled egg; the songs and stories Monty had recited … Yes, he supposed he would miss them in a way, though nothing would make him change his mind which was fired with all manner of exciting images. Unable to lay there any longer, he rose and used his chamber pot. Then, dragging a haversack from the cupboard, he stole down the chilly staircase to the kitchen. His pit clothes had been left on the hearth overnight. He struggled into them, grateful to be encased in their warmth. Once into his clogs, he rushed outside to stow his haversack in the shed, then scuttled back into the cottage and rammed a poker into the banked-up fire. By the time everyone else came down at five o’clock the flames were flickering merrily.

  ‘Stomach trouble again?’ asked his father, thumping his chest to ease the overnight congestion and expectorating a gobbet of grey phlegm at the fire.

  Ignoring the cynical tone Probyn merely nodded, then, at the sound of the milk cart, went outside with a jug.

  ‘Without even being asked!’ remarked an impressed Merry, laying the table.

  When he came back his stepmother had a pan of oatmeal on the stove. Father had never taken breakfast so early in the old days, preferring to eat his snap later on down the pit, but Mrs Carr insisted he needed something inside him especially on cold mornings, and today Probyn was glad of it too, devouring a large bowl of porridge. Who knew when he would get fed again?

  It was not unusual for father and son to set off independently to the pit. So, when Probyn dawdled over a cup of tea Monty saw nothing odd and went off to work. ‘See you this evening, the Lord willing.’

  Upon hearing this invocation, and watching his sister bustle around happily wit
h her housework, Probyn felt a twinge of guilt for deceiving them both; which was why he delayed his exit until Meredith had gone upstairs to strip the beds, for how could he take his leave face to face?

  When she had gone he rose as casually as possible and said without looking at his stepmother, ‘Well, I’d better be off. So long.’

  ‘Yes, see you tonight, Probe,’ murmured Ann quite innocently, and bent over to light a fire under the copper in preparation for washing day.

  Once outside he crept into the shed and retrieved the haversack packed with his best suit and other necessary items. Hefting it over his shoulder he paused for a few nervous seconds then, glad for once of the December darkness, he made hastily away from the sordid grime of Ralph Royd.

  Upon reaching the bridge over the Calder, he hurriedly took off his pit clogs, then exchanged his garments for the ones in his haversack. Creased and cold from their stay in the shed, they came as a shock to his skin. Bundling up his working clothes he hid them under the bridge. He would tell his father in the letter where to find them. They might be of use to someone else.

  Best boots laced, he sprang to his feet and set off on the three mile walk. The air was damp but at least the rain had stopped. Depending on how tired he was upon arrival in Castleford, he might use the money Aunt Kit had given him to buy a train ticket to complete his journey. At this stage, though, his exhilarated spirit would have carried him to the ends of the earth.

  * * *

  For one accustomed to walking miles underground, the first leg of his expedition proved no difficulty and as it was still very early by the time he reached Castleford he decided to go the next three miles on foot too, saving his half-crown for emergencies.

  Given much time to ponder, his excitement burgeoned further still, every corner of his mind crammed with matters military. Images of comradeship, of daring acts and foreign climes, of valiant deed and glorious battle, the invincibility of youth obliterating any thought of his own death. Oh, there would be injury, yes, but Probyn Kilmaster would bear every wound with fortitude. At last, at long last he was going to achieve his dream!

  On arrival at the market town of Pontefract he was tired but not excessively so and when he stopped it was only to get his bearings and to buy a bottle of lemonade from one of the few shops that were open. It was not yet light. Apart from those who worked in the local coal industry most folk were still in bed and many of the windows remained shuttered. He glugged thirstily at the bottle until it was empty, the fizzy liquid burning a passage to his stomach where it mingled with the juices of excitement. Too agitated to linger, he was soon bouncing onwards for his ultimate goal, the barracks.

  On a stretch of high ground above the road leading to Wakefield was an imposing red brick fortress. Gaining access, he was directed to an office wherein resided a Corporal White who unsmilingly informed the auburn-headed lad that he was late.

  ‘The rest of ’em arrived yesterday. Where’ve you been?’

  Cap in hand, Probyn gave hasty explanation. ‘Oh, I’m not expected! I just decided to come on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘Must be mad,’ responded the other. ‘I can’t wait to get out of here. Roll on my pontoon. Which regiment are you for, then?’

  Taking great interest in everything military, Probyn knew that two regiments shared the barracks. Wishing to avoid Michael Melody who had signed up for the York and Lancasters, he had intended to say that he wished to join the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, but the man to whom he spoke now was wearing the former regiment’s emblem, the Tiger and Rose, and so not daring to offend he changed his mind. ‘The York and Lancasters.’

  ‘You address me as Corporal,’ corrected the other, though not in unpleasant manner.

  ‘Sorry, Corporal.’

  ‘Never mind, you can’t be expected to know all the rules. That’s what we’re here for, to pass on our knowledge. But you’ll only be told once, so take heed.’

  ‘Yes, Corporal.’ Probyn displayed an eagerness to learn.

  ‘So, you want to join the Young and Lovelies do you?’ The corporal looked up and down Probyn’s sturdy frame, noted the toughness of his jaw. ‘What did you do before – miner?’

  ‘Yes, Corporal.’

  ‘Thought so.’ The corporal rose and set paper and pencil on the table. ‘Well, we’ll expect a bit more of you here than digging coal.’

  Somewhat concerned over what appeared to be a sheet of arithmetical questions, Probyn was relieved to find upon closer inspection that these were very simple and could have been done by an infant. He had them finished in seconds.

  The corporal merely glanced at the completed page without comment, then demanded, ‘Right, open your bag!’

  Probyn unbuckled his haversack, displaying the few garments and the razor within.

  These did not appear to be of interest to Corporal White who sniffed and asked, ‘Anything valuable you want me to take care of? A watch?’

  ‘I haven’t got one, Corporal.’

  ‘Any cash at all?’

  Probyn dipped into his pocket and displayed the money Aunt Kit had given him.

  A kindly gleam lit the other’s eye. ‘Ooh, better let me look after that for you.’

  Watching his coins disappear into the man’s pocket Probyn felt he might have made an error, but before he could object he received another order.

  ‘Right, young man, follow me!’

  Stuffing his few belongings back into the haversack he put on his cap and hared after the swift-footed corporal. It was light now. There was activity on the tree-lined parade ground, a sergeant barking commands to scarlet-clad ranks. Erstwhile, Probyn had been at ease in his best suit, but now he felt horribly conspicuous, shoddy even, beside these skilled and polished individuals. However, he had little time to observe for the corporal had entered a hut and he was compelled to follow.

  ‘Wait in ’ere!’ Offhandedly, the corporal shoved him into a room and closed the door behind him.

  In keeping with the rest of the garrison the room was very modern, but as regards to furniture had only a row of beds down either side, upon which sat fifty or more young men in civilian garb, all of whom turned to gawk at the new man.

  Clutching his haversack, Probyn’s eyes toured the inquisitive assembly, his lips muttering a cursory, ‘How do.’

  ‘Why, if it isn’t me old marrow!’ One of the group leaped up to approach him, hands outstretched, his face bearing the open friendliness of a young animal.

  Probyn’s heart sank as he returned Michael Melody’s greeting. He had hoped that amongst such a large assembly of men the risk of bumping into the Irish youth would be minimal.

  ‘So ye took my advice!’

  Probyn was offended. ‘It was always my intention to join!’

  ‘Was it?’ Mick seemed genuinely pleased to see him, pumping his fist as if this were their first encounter in years. ‘And how the divil did ye manage to get round your ould fella?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story.’ As diplomatically as he could, Probyn disengaged himself and regarded the other occupants who were still gaping at him.

  Mick gave a sly laugh and nudged him. ‘He doesn’t know you’re here, does he? I suppose the thought of a pasting from Judson had nothing to do wid you running away?’

  Probyn clung to his temper. ‘Who said anything about running away? I’m me own man, I go where I please. As a matter of fact I went to sort Judson out last night.’

  A cry of incredulity. ‘You’re mad!’

  ‘Aye well, turns out he’s in clink.’

  ‘Best place for him.’ Judging by Probyn’s curt reaction, Mick had the idea he might have upset him in some way. To compensate he told him smilingly, ‘Well sure, ’tis grand to see you anyhow,’ and for the next few moments he stood there looking awkward until he realized that Probyn expected to be introduced to the others. ‘Oh, em, can’t remember all the names, but this here is Billy, Fred – sorry, Charlie – Joe, Alf and Sid. This is my pal Probe.’

>   ‘Probyn,’ the newcomer corrected. After nodding to each of those named he looked around for somewhere to sit. There were no vacant beds.

  ‘Sit yourself next to me!’ Eyes smiling, Mick watched Probyn’s every move, as usual over-compensating for his shyness by jabbering non-stop. ‘Well now, isn’t dis a turn up? Yes, yes indeed.’

  Balanced on the edge of the bed, rubbing his cold hands and feeling ill at ease, Probyn felt he ought to say something. ‘So, how long have you lads been here?’

  Mick was first to speak, apparently not suffering any handicap from last week’s split lip which had almost healed. ‘Most of us arrived yesterday tea-time, and a nice tea it was that they gave us, wasn’t it, lads?’ This instigated a short but animated discussion between him and the others.

  ‘Bit different this morning, though,’ grumbled the big, raw-boned youth whom Melody had called Joe. ‘Lump o’ rooty and a swill o’ coffee.’

  ‘Rooty?’ Probyn frowned.

  ‘That’s what you call bread in the army,’ explained Joe, assuming the role of old soldier. ‘They give you your ration in the morning and you have to make it last all day.’

  In the short silence that followed Mick laughed at the gurgling noise that emerged from the newcomer’s intestines. ‘Sounds like ye left before breakfast.’

  Probyn laid a hand over his churning stomach. ‘Nay, it’s just excitement.’

  ‘Good, ’cause I’m not sharing my rooty with anybody,’ muttered Joe. ‘And soon as we get our Queen’s shilling I’m off to buy some butter to put on it from t’canteen.’

  ‘Bring any money with ye, Probe?’

  Probyn wished Melody would stop calling him that. ‘Aye, but the corporal’s looking after it. Seems a good sort of bloke doesn’t he?’

  In agreement, the other recruits said he was guarding their valuables too, then went on to discuss various aspects of garrison life as they had found it, all of them obviously conversant with the rules and regulations. It transpired that much of their knowledge had been gleaned from an introductory speech by the colonel last night. A very nice gent by all accounts. The non-commissioned officers seemed decent enough too, giving the recruits a guided tour of the barracks and explaining various bugle calls to them.