Probyn knew when his father spoke of the Federation he referred to Uncle Owen but would never mention him by name. ‘Well, at least if there is a strike it won’t affect you so badly, this not being a colliery house.’
A sharp exclamation. ‘They can’t evict us but we got to eat!’ At the look from his wife Monty bit his tongue.
The months of military training, the ability to withstand beastings like a man, all were suddenly expunged by the schoolboy blush. ‘I meant to say last time I was here, if you want me to send money home—’
‘You’re not living here now.’ Monty felt guilty the moment he had said it, especially under his wife’s reproachful moue. ‘What I mean is, son, there’s little sense in you sending us money when you get no benefit.’
‘I hardly need to spend anything, in fact I’ve opened a bank account. I’d like to help.’ Probyn hoped his father would not prolong this debate.
But Monty had no wish to humiliate his son. ‘Thank you, Probe, I shall bear that in mind if there is a strike.’
Grateful for this response, Probyn told his father and stepmother that they must write to him the moment there was any cause for alarm. ‘Do act quickly ’cause I don’t know how long it takes a letter to get to South Africa.’
‘Africa!’ Monty and Ann smiled at each other over this joint exclamation.
‘Oh, didn’t I mention I’m going next week?’
‘No, Probe, you didn’t!’ Ann gave him a gentle cuff as she passed on her way to put the kettle on. ‘And you’ve left it till bedtime to tell us, we’ll never sleep for excitement!’
* * *
Probyn’s own excitement was to make even this short stay at Ralph Royd a tedious, drawn out affair, eager as he was for foreign climes. Once all the information had been exchanged there was little else to do through the day apart from tending the family allotment while Monty was at work, and on an evening accompanying his father to bible class. But any such boredom was overruled by guilt that he had stopped an entire week at Kit’s, and the thought that he might not see his father again for a long time compelled him to remain to the end.
On the day of his departure he rose at four and breakfasted with his parents. Then, saying goodbye to his stepmother, he accompanied Monty to the highway, the thud of his soldier’s boots added to the noise of miners’ clogs. Through the dinge anonymous shapes made their way to the pit. Glad that he was no longer amongst them, Probyn came to a halt at the end of Pit Lane and turned to issue a final note.
‘Well, thank you for having me.’
‘Our pleasure.’ Monty seemed quite cheery for such an early hour. ‘You’re sure you’ve remembered to pack everything?’
‘Certain.’ Probyn held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Father.’
‘Goodbye, son. Mind those black savages now, won’t you? Don’t go getting yourself killed.’
‘I’ll try not to.’ With a last firm grip he severed the handshake with his father, hefted his bag and walked away.
Monty’s eyes followed him nostalgically for a second, his mind awhirl with things unsaid. Then he turned aside and went to work.
* * *
Once returned to Crinkle there was a hectic few days ahead, packing up and saying goodbye to friends made during the year. Probyn had not anticipated feeling anything other than relief at leaving Ireland, but on the final evening at a packed village pub he was surprised to experience a twinge of emotion as a singer came amongst them, her ballad exhorting them to return to Erin, a sentiment that appeared genuinely expressed. It was all he could do to hold back the tears.
Until Rook put things into perspective, coming up with one of the snippets of information for which he had become known. ‘It’s not us they’re sad to see the back of but our cash. I’ve heard the presence of a battalion can mean as much as sixty thousand quid a year to a town.’
Yet even recalling this cynical observation the next morning as he marched to the railway station behind the band, Probyn could not bring himself to believe that all those friendly faces who lined the route to wave him off had only his monetary value at heart. With few exceptions he had come to like the people of Birr and it was not without a tinge of sadness that he steamed away for more exotic shores.
During the temporary stop in England he and his pals were kitted out for Africa, had a medical inspection and were passed fit. All hale, they entrained for the docks and boarded a troop ship on which were drafts from other regiments, promising new friends and enjoyable competition in the weeks that would be spent on board.
Those first hours were sheer bedlam as attempts were made to bring organization to the ship. Probyn and his comrades were directed to their messes and hammock places and ordered to change into sea kit – blue serge jacket and trousers, blue jersey and stocking cap. When the ship sailed the following day all land clothing had been packed and stored and the men were detailed for various duties: ash parties, swabbers, mess orderlies, pickets. Probyn found himself posted sentry over one of two fresh water taps which were allowed to be used twice daily; hardly the role he had imagined for himself, but then, waste of water was a serious crime.
Initially the food was quite good, fresh meat being served on the first couple of days. But this happy state was soon to regress into the diet he had suffered as a raw recruit, soup as thin as dishwater, dry bread and porridge, and consequently there was endless queuing at the canteen. However, few were in a state to eat very much as the ship crossed the Bay of Biscay where the seas were incredibly rough, waves sweeping over the bulwarks drenching everyone and everything. Probyn had suffered this awful feeling before on his voyage with Kit to Spain, but had forgotten how bad it could be. Despite the rivalry between army and navy, at this moment he held nothing but admiration for those who endured such a life on the waves. Wet and miserable, wanting to vomit, he careened about the deck, trying to maintain his position. A passing sailor cheerfully advised him to put a cake of tobacco in his mouth and that would ease the nausea, but imagining this to be a trick he declined and thus continued to suffer.
During this squall, Melody fell badly and damaged his back, hence whilst Probyn and others slithered about the decks, attempting to stay upright and hang onto the meagre rations in their bellies, Mick was tucked up in the sick bay, somehow managing to remain there until the ship had left the Bay of Biscay and the decks were once again dry. As if this were not great enough cause for resentment, the news that he had acquired a kooshi job made him even more unpopular. By some quirk the ship’s steward had taken a shine to him and asked for his assistance in selling biscuits, cheese and tinned goods in the canteen; only by promising to show favour did he escape his friends’ wrath.
Boredom became the order of the day, especially if one were on guard duty with nothing more to do than watch the horizon go up and down for hours on end. Deeply grateful at being relieved after one such vigil, Probyn loped stiff and aching to the latrine in the hope of some blessed relief from his constipation caused by a poor diet and irregular hours. Had he been at home his stepmother would have been ready with the rhubarb and liquorice powder but there was none so affectionate here.
Sighing, he unbuttoned his trousers and prepared for a long sitting. The stench here was abominable and he probably wouldn’t be able to escape it for ages. He had tried smoking a pipe to mask the foul odour but it had only made him bilious and so he was compelled to merely sit and think; thoughts of home, of his father and Aunt Kit and his sisters, of what lay ahead in South Africa, whether he would be required to fight, and how it would feel to kill a man.
A bugle percolated his reverie. There was an instant of confusion as it sounded Commence Fire, but soon he was to relax again; bugle calls had different meanings on board ship and this one was only instructing the troops they could begin smoking. For once it was welcome to his ears. They would start pouring in here in droves now, the clouds of their tobacco serving to cover the appalling reek.
Mick, as usual, was first to take advantage of the thrice dail
y occurrence, spotting Probyn and seating himself nearby. Forced to give up his cigarettes upon boarding in exchange for a pipe, he remained irritable at their loss. He whipped out his pipe, removed the compulsory metal disc that prevented sparks flying and began to cram the bowl with tobacco, desperate for a smoke and jabbering all the while about his new job. Obliged to sit there, Probyn was selective in what he listened to, occasionally drifting off into his own thoughts. As predicted the latrine was fast filling up with smokers, all of whom used the special lamps placed there for that purpose. Ready to light up, Mick found he had been talking too much and now found it impossible to gain access to a lamp.
‘Jesus, it’ll be time for Cease Fire before I get me smoke!’ Highly frustrated to be restricted to three smokes a day, he swore and pulled out a box of matches.
At the sight of this contraband, Probyn immediately gave warning. ‘What you doing with them? You’ll have the bloody ship ablaze!’
‘To hell with it I’m desperate!’ Puffing frantically on the stem of his pipe, Mick sucked the smoke into his mouth and with a quick flourish extinguished the flame and made to slip the matches back into his pocket. Had not an infernal piece of bad luck caused a guard to poke his head in at that moment he would have got away with it.
Their eyes meeting through a pall of blue smoke, the guard ejected vitriol. ‘How long have you had those bloody matches? You’re supposed to hand them in!’
Mick tried to object that he was ignorant of this rule but it only landed him in deeper trouble. Providing amusement for rows of men with trousers round their ankles and pipes in their mouths, he was hauled away.
Knowing this would mean a term of imprisonment, Probyn sighed and straightened his back, his bare knees showing patches of red where he had leaned upon them so long. He was hoisting his trousers when the reality hit him. If Melody was indisposed who would help run the dry canteen? An enthusiastic grin came over his face. Finished in the latrine he rushed off to inform the ship’s steward that his helper would not be back for some days and to volunteer his services for the post.
Though there was little glory to be had selling goods through a small hatch in the hold of the vessel, the conditions might be stifling and it might only be for an hour every day, to be rewarded by good food and a tidy little sum was very welcome indeed.
Mick, however, upon release, was most unimpressed by his friend’s opportune move. ‘Would ye be so quick to jump into me coffin?’
Probyn defended his action but looked suitably ambivalent. ‘Sorry, but you could hardly do the job if you were in clink could you? If I hadn’t grabbed it somebody else would.’
‘Ah well, I suppose I should regard it as some sort o’ favour then.’ Mick gave an exaggerated nod, voicing no further lecture, except for the parting reproach. ‘I’ll be leaving you to examine your conscience.’
And though the job was to remain Probyn’s for the rest of the voyage, it retained the taste of being acquired by doubtful means.
* * *
Following days of monotonous backdrop it was exhilarating to spot land, however insignificant a place. Upon the horizon appeared a dull red rock. As the ship grew ever closer, its colour intensified, contrasting sharply with the intense azure sea that lapped its flanks. St Vincent seemed to Probyn a barren place, with little vegetation apart from scrub, but anywhere was welcome after so long at sea and he was delighted that they were to stop here to take on coal and fresh water.
Even before it anchored the ship was encircled by swarms of natives in bumboats selling goods, calling out to the troops in unfamiliar tongue. Probyn was more interested in the women whom, it was noted, did most of the fetching and carrying, the men being content to lounge and smoke.
‘Look at the lazy hounds,’ he objected to others. ‘I’d take a blinking stick to them.’
Coaling took fourteen hours, during which a layer of black dust spread over everything, provoking ironic amusement amongst the ex-miners. Then, stocks replenished, they resumed their voyage to South Africa.
Life reverted to the humdrum. When Probyn had perused his map of the world before, even having travelled to Spain, the large expanses of blue hadn’t meant much at all; only now did he begin to appreciate how vast were the oceans. Day after day there was nothing but endless sea. Apart from a couple of parades a day consisting of physical drill and kit inspection the troops were allowed to spend the time as they wished, through the daytime leaning over the side watching dolphins – which, after primary wonderment had now become commonplace – their evenings watching a concert or playing housey or other more illicit games.
The weather grew hot and muggy. A flurry of excitement was provided by the news that they were to cross the Equator but this turned out to be an anti-climax, for there was nothing at all to see.
Like hundreds of others, Probyn had taken to sleeping in the open air at night. Row upon row of cocooned moths, their low-slung hammocks filled the troop deck, rocking them gently to sleep. This evening, though, assigned as night picket, he could only envy those who slumbered thus, whilst he crawled beneath them on hands and knees, trying to negotiate a route to his post. And once there, he sighed again at the prospect of having to remain still all night long and the aching limbs that would ensue.
‘That was a big sigh, Private.’ A grizzled sergeant had appeared alongside him, his speech unusually soft for one of such rank. ‘Bored are we?’
After an initial startled glance, Probyn remained looking straight ahead. ‘No, Sarnt, I just wish we were there.’
The old sergeant murmured something he could not grasp, and seemed in no hurry to leave him, passing some moments gazing up at the starry sky. Finally, he asked, ‘Do you know a cure for constipation?’
Dumbfounded to be consulted thus, Probyn replied, ‘Liquorice powder usually works on me.’ Then, the sergeant’s glare informing him that he must have misheard, he blurted, ‘Sorry, Sarnt, what was it you said?’
‘I said, do you know your constellations?’
‘Oh, a few!’ Laughing inwardly, Probyn looked up at the heavenly formations, trying to pin a name on them. But the sky looked unfamiliar tonight.
Smiling at his confusion, the sergeant explained why. ‘We’re in a different hemisphere now, lad. See that there? That’s the Southern Cross.’
Fascinated, Probyn continued to gaze at the firmament as the sergeant pointed out various other deviations. ‘Even the man in the moon looks different down here.’
‘You mean he’s a black fellow?’ Probyn grinned, then showed youthful contrition at the sergeant’s narrow-eyed rebuke. ‘Sorry, Sarnt.’
Giving him one more disparaging look, the sergeant moved on. Probyn raised his eyes once more to the heavens and sighed again. Please, Lord, move the land a little closer.
* * *
Land was eventually sighted, though he was not to set foot on it. Anchored only long enough off St Helena to transfer certain supplies to the boats that rowed out to meet them, they were soon on course again. Assuming to offer encouragement, a sailor informed Probyn that he had only five or six more days aboard, but to one unaccustomed to such voyages the news brought a wail of despair. Probyn had heard of men driven insane by the sea; was he to be one of them?
Then, early one morning before the stars had left the sky, he was awoken by an encouraging noise; the rattle of an anchor chain. The ship lay still! Instantly awake, he remained in his hammock with ears cocked for further evidence that they had at last arrived, hardly daring to risk a look for fear of being disappointed. Around him, men slept, their snores irritating him more than at any time during the voyage. Lashing out with his foot at various culprits, he almost tumbled from his hammock, beseeching them to be quiet. ‘I think we’re there!’
Disturbed from their slumbers, his drowsy comrades yawned and stretched, and, urged to listen, complained that they could hear nothing, only the gentle lapping of water.
‘Exactly, we’re not moving!’ Gripping the edge of his hammock Probyn swu
ng his feet onto the deck and began to crawl towards the side of the ship, only one or two of the others sufficiently interested to follow him. Now at the rail he squinted through the mist at what he at first assumed to be stars, then realized from the halo around each that these were artificial lights. Beyond that nebulous shroud must surely be land! Excitement rising, he cried, ‘We’re here!’ But at the barrage of complaints, was forced to lower his voice which was no less excited. ‘It’s South Africa!’ And he wondered how others could continue to lie there with such a magical sight to be witnessed.
By reveille, though, all were alert and waiting for the sun to rise. With all the apprehension that accompanied a theatre concert, Probyn watched with bated breath as the curtain of mist began to lift, revealing first the harbour and its waterfront buildings, then the massive mountain wall behind, inch by inch in golden light, he watched the splendours of South Africa slowly reborn, gasped in surprise at the long flat top of the summit that appeared to have had its pinnacle lopped off. Then, too moved to speak, he simply stood and watched this beautiful land take form and for that one instant he knew what it was to be in love.
The sun rose higher, revealing Cape Town harbour in all its magnificence. So tantalizingly close, a beautiful woman with outstretched arms, the sea that lapped her ankles a deep inky blue, it was torment having to remain anchored in the roadstead, wanting to embrace her, but instead having to spend the whole day until evening in the preparation to disembark. Only the provision of fresh meat for the first time in weeks could dissuade mutiny.
Towards tea-time Probyn and Bumby, appointed mess orderlies, lined up at the galley with others to draw the tea. They were back in uniform now but still would not set foot on land until morning. The ship lying steady, Probyn cast yet another wistful glance across the calm waters at the remarkable flat-topped mountain, imagining what lay beyond it. Containers filled with steaming brew, he and Bumby were on the way back to their messing place when Bumby said, ‘Oh, crumbs there’s Wedlock reminiscing with Melody again.’
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