Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘Yes, he’s still with us, thank the Lord.’ Ann’s smile held sadness. ‘But I have to warn you he’s not the same as he was. He’s managing to drag himself around but he can’t speak.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Well, he tries but he gets the wrong words and he ends up so frustrated … anyway, you’ll see for yourself.’

  Happier now, Probyn was about to follow her into the parlour when someone made a swift exit. ‘Oh, hello, Wyn! Don’t feel you have to leave on my account.’

  ‘I was going anyway.’ Wyn did not appear in the least bit pleased to see him, donning her coat and brushing past, but not without an accusative whisper. ‘You’re the son, you should have been here to protect him!’

  Probyn cast a look of dismay at her departing form. So much for Merry’s opinion that they spoke more kindly of their brother these days. He turned to his stepmother who merely gave an uncomfortable shrug and escorted him onwards.

  Though relieved to find his father alive it was a great shock to see him like this, one side of his body looking as if it belonged to someone else as he dragged himself out of his chair and came shuffling to meet his son. ‘Ooh, don’t exert yourself now, Father!’ Probyn hurried to assist the invalid back to his chair, helping him to get comfortable. ‘Are you all right? Doest want this cushion behind thee?’

  Monty allowed himself to be fussed over for a moment, then gave an irritated flick of his hand ordering Probyn to sit down.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Ann. ‘Well now this is a grand surprise, Probe – I can’t get over how sunburned you are! I’ll bet this weather takes some getting used to.’

  ‘Aye, I can’t get warm!’ Out of relief and sheer nervousness Probyn was abnormally talkative, though he directed his comments to his stepmother, unable to look upon his father both out of discomfort and also consideration of Monty’s feelings. ‘By rights I shouldn’t even be here, but when I got Merry’s letter I had to come and see how Father was. I asked for leave but was turned down so the only solution was for me to buy meself out.’

  ‘That must have cost you a fortune!’ Ann looked aghast.

  ‘It would’ve done. The captain tried to talk me out of it but I wasn’t having any of it, I couldn’t sit by not knowing what had happened to Father so, as I said, I offered to buy my discharge but they decided they didn’t want to lose a good soldier so they gave me leave after all and here I am!’

  ‘And we’re glad of it, aren’t we, Father?’ Ann grinned at her husband. ‘Did you hear that? They think Probe’s a good soldier.’

  Monty gave a lopsided smile and nodded.

  ‘I couldn’t believe how bad things were in Ponty,’ continued Probyn, hoping to bring the subject gently round to the attack on his father. ‘Folk begging, getting really nasty when I ran out of summat to give them. I waited ages for a train but in the end I decided to walk.’

  Stirring the teapot, Ann explained that the lack of transport was due to the strike. ‘They’ve knocked lots of trains off altogether, and the railway workers are on short time.’

  Probyn nodded. ‘Bringing foreign coal in too by the look of it. I noticed a lot of unfamiliar wagons at the railway yards.’

  Ann glanced at Monty. ‘Yes, they started bringing it in from Durham, caused dreadful riots at Barnsley so we’ve heard. Mindst, we’ve had our moments here, haven’t we, Father?’

  At last Probyn was able to confront the matter. ‘Merry said in her letter a mob attacked you—’

  ‘Oh, they didn’t lay a finger on either of us,’ said Ann, ‘but they might as well have done for the damage they’ve caused. Bloomin’ bullies, trying to force your father to go with them and smash up blacklegs’ homes. Well, he got so angry something exploded in his head.’

  Over the next few minutes she related the course of Monty’s affliction to his son. ‘I thought we were going to lose him, didn’t regain consciousness until the next day and even then he was still dangerously ill. It’s been a miracle that he’s managed to get himself walking again.’

  Monty tried to contribute, wagging a trembling finger at his wife, but his words were slurred.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been massaging your leg, dear, haven’t I? It seems to help,’ she added to Probyn.

  ‘Toe, toe …’ slurred Monty, one flaccid cheek puffing in and out.

  Ann rose and assisted him with his teacup, but seemed only to frustrate him and eventually after several attempts to communicate he dashed her hand away, slopping hot tea everywhere. Without comment, she calmly went to fetch a cloth whilst Probyn looked away, deeply embarrassed.

  ‘Did the police do owt?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Oh, we didn’t want that lot involved.’ Ann shivered. The tea mopped up, she sat down again, diverting the topic to a more general one. ‘Anyway, at least the Welsh strike’s over,’ she said to her stepson. ‘It’s a start. I was hoping our lads would follow but the union’s just voted unanimously again to hold out against any reduction. Undoubtedly they’ve got a cause and I fully agree with the strike but I don’t like the way some of them are going about it. They’ve had to bring the military out to deal with them in some parts.’

  That explained the looks of hatred directed at Probyn when he arrived.

  ‘Who was it that came round here?’ he asked and duly received a list of names that were familiar. ‘Judson! That thug, he doesn’t care about unions or causes he just wants a good excuse to punch somebody or commit vandalism. Right, I’m off to sort him out!’ About to rise he was prevented from doing so by his father’s slurred command.

  ‘Echo!’ The flaccid side of Monty’s face puffed out in exertion. ‘Echo, echo!’

  ‘Sorry, Father, I didn’t catch that.’ Probyn bent to listen, straining to understand, pretending it was his own deafness that was the hurdle, but after several embarrassing moments his only reward was a swift cuff to his head.

  Snapping himself upright, he looked helplessly to his stepmother for assistance and Ann came to try and calm the frustrated invalid. ‘I think your father’s trying to tell you not to go round to Judson’s, weren’t you, dear?’ In apparent relief, Monty flopped back in his chair, nodding exhaustedly.

  ‘I’m not having him pushing my father about,’ began Probyn, but was stopped by the sight of his father’s renewed agitation. His stepmother, too, intervened.

  ‘And your father doesn’t want to see you pushed about or worse. You know what Judson and his cronies are like. Leave it be, Probe. You came to see your father didn’t you, not to make war? Even if you do manage to give him a hiding we’re the ones who have to live with him. Now, come sit down and tell us more about what you’ve been doing in South Africa. Eh, we could hardly believe the things you wrote in your letters!’

  Reluctantly, he fell back into his seat, and began to recount his adventures. But the sight of his father’s dribbling mouth, the look of torment on his twisted face when his wife or son misinterpreted some request, all made for a very uncomfortable afternoon. Tortured by helplessness over his father’s plight, forbidden even to punish the culprit, Probyn wished he had not come here, would much prefer to be at Aunt Kit’s or indeed anywhere else where he did not have to witness this suffering. But he had come here to see his father and would not desert him.

  * * *

  That five days, declared Probyn to himself at the end of his stay, must surely be the most exacting he had ever spent. For one who had undergone military training it was not issued lightly. To sit there, be forced to watch a once upright man drag himself around, slobbering and struggling to get out his words, constantly raging at the idiocy of those who could not understand him, berating his wife when she offered tokens of love … if Probyn had brought his gun he would surely have fired a bullet into his father’s head and put an end to his suffering.

  No one visited. It was obvious Wyn had broadcast his presence. Apparently Father had received plenty of visitors before, but not this week.

  Finally, mercifully, it was time for him to return to the depot. Riddled with
guilt at his relief to be going, he cornered his stepmother in the kitchen and handed over his entire savings, whispering instructions for her not to tell his father until he had gone for this would perhaps make him angry, and promising to send a regular amount when he got back to Africa.

  Her thanks was uneffusive but genuine. ‘How much longer will you be there, Probe?’

  ‘I’m not sure. You’ll write and keep me abreast of father’s health?’

  She promised to do so.

  ‘Will he ever be completely better?’

  Ann sighed. ‘Well, the doctor says he could be mended, but it involves him having to be taught to speak properly again and when you try he accuses you of treating him like a baby.’ Her eyes filled with tears but she quickly dashed them away. ‘Anyway, I’m sure your visit did him the power of good.’

  Probyn wished he could believe that. ‘I’d stay longer if I could but … duty calls and all that. Anyway, now that I’m gone the girls will feel able to start visiting him again. Have you heard anything from Uncle Owen?’

  ‘Not a word. You surely didn’t expect it?’

  Probyn shrugged, then wandered over to the doorway, secretly observing his father who was staring vacantly into space. Monty had obviously been out in the sunshine; freckles and a healthy glow taking the place of his usual coal miner’s pallor.

  Ann folded the banknotes and made to put them and the sovereigns in a tin, then had a sudden thought. ‘Have you left yourself enough money to get to the ship?’ When her stepson said he did not need it she took out some silver. ‘Here, have this couple of bob.’

  ‘Aye go on then, I might see if I can get a train back to Ponty.’ Feeling deeply sorry for his stepmother, he dashed a quick kiss to her cheek, the first he had ever given her. ‘Right, I’d best be off.’ Turning away from her astonished face he moved into the parlour and sat down beside Monty, trying to sound both regretful and cheery at the same time.

  ‘Well, Father, I’m afraid I must fly with the birdies.’

  Monty donated an unsymmetrical smile, and issued a few words.

  Not even pretending to understand, Probyn merely nodded and smiled in return. ‘I’m right glad to find you on the road to recovery. I can confess now I were a bit worried. Should’ve known they make ’em tough round here. Next time I come I expect to see you leaping about like a good un.’

  ‘You’re a good lad really,’ slurred Monty, but it came out as something completely different.

  Though not comprehending, Probyn grinned and nodded, and sat for a moment in pensive silence. Then, rising suddenly, he scooped Monty’s useless right hand from his lap and held it firmly, held it for a few seconds longer than was required from a normal handshake, before placing it gently back on his father’s lap. ‘Goodbye, Father, I’ll write as soon as I get back. Hope the strike’s soon over.’

  ‘Toe,’ slurred Monty and issued a little wave and a smile as his son departed.

  * * *

  He was glad to leave the village, for the atmosphere was not a pleasant one, though he did pause to stroke his old pit pony who, with others, was enjoying a greener existence due to the strike, their shaggy heads lining the fence expectant of some titbit, snorting and nuzzling his clothes. Just as he was imagining these to be the only friendly faces, along came Peggo Wilcox who shared a few sympathetic words about his father before relaying the information that a train was due in half an hour. Thanking him, Probyn hurried to the station in the next village and was just in time to catch the train, avoiding a six mile hike to the depot.

  On his journey he was to have more evidence of the miners’ strike, sidings that were blocked with vast accumulations of wagons bearing unfamiliar names, pathetic figures groping their way over slag heaps in the hunt for fuel, the dullness of the sky casting even more gloom upon the scene. At one point from his carriage window he saw a party of railway navvies who had been filling coal wagons scatter in panic as a mob of men and women descended on them wielding lumps of wood, they in turn were quickly routed by police accompanied by soldiers.

  Nearing his destination, Probyn became apprehensive as to what his own reception might be, and was therefore gratified to find another train had arrived before his and was disgorging scores of soldiers, the platform awash with red.

  However, as if in response to this, groups of miners had begun to gather, their numbers swelling quickly as the news was broadcast and others came trickling in from the streets.

  A good-natured jeer went up from a group of strikers as the lone figure alighted from the train. ‘Eh up, here’s reinforcements!’

  Ignoring this jibe, Probyn began to make his way through the crowd to the exit. But when some small missile hit him on the back of the head he turned sharply to confront the culprit. Faced with nonchalant stares he was compelled to proceed, clenching his jaw at the mocking laughter that followed him. Almost to the exit, he was accosted by a sergeant of the South Staffordshire Regiment.

  ‘Hold there, Private! Where do you think you’re going?’

  Probyn began to explain that he was not part of this unit, but the sergeant quickly dismissed his claim. ‘Never mind that! We need every man we can get. You stay here till you’re told you can leave.’

  ‘But I don’t have a rifle, Sergeant!’

  His objection was quickly stilled. ‘I’ll find you one!’

  It had been bad enough re-acclimatizing himself to England after eighteen months in the sub-tropics, but to be thrust into the middle of an imminent riot… Probyn turned to the soldier nearby, his bewildered face pleading for enlightenment.

  ‘Don’t ask me, chum.’ The private of the South Staffordshire Regiment shook his head. ‘We’ve been rushing about like loonies all day, chasing these buggers about from one place to another. First we’re told to go to Bradford, when we get there the bloody strikers have gone somewhere else to smash up a brewery … looks like they’ve had a skinful while they were at it as well. Now we’ve been told to go to Garbrough Colliery, probably another wild goose chase.’

  ‘Oh crumbs, that’s where my uncle works,’ breathed Probyn, dismayed, but at this point a rifle was thrust into his hands.

  ‘Don’t use it till you’re told!’

  Aghast at the prospect of having to quell a riot – he didn’t join the army to shoot his friends and relations! – Probyn gripped his weapon, looking anxiously about him as the number of demonstrators continued to grow. To be here in itself was bad enough, but to be without his fellows, those he had come to know and trust … He was overcome by a feeling of utter isolation.

  Under the watchful eyes of others, the soldiers were ordered to form up and march to the colliery some miles away.

  The mob followed.

  Upon arrival in the colliery yard it became clear that this was no wild goose chase. Hordes of men and women were swarming over the railway wagons and tipping out the contents whilst a small posse of constabulary stood watching helplessly. Now, joined by those newly arrived, the number of demonstrators swelled to threatening proportions. The roar that went up from them as they challenged the soldiers was alarming, although no violence was offered and the catcalls were good-natured as yet. Involved in previous lock-outs, Probyn knew how quickly the mood could alter. Feeling his hair stand on end, he glanced anxiously about him for a sight of Uncle Owen, but amongst such a mass it was impossible. Besides, it was now four o’clock and the light was failing. Surely they would have to quell the disturbance before dark.

  A relieved police inspector greeted the captain of the South Staffordshire Regiment. ‘Thank God you’re here! We haven’t been able to do so much as rap a knuckle, we’re waiting for somebody to come and read the Riot Act.’

  Captain Baker reassured him. ‘I was informed by your superintendent in Bradford that a magistrate would be on the train to follow ours so he shouldn’t be long now. Just as well.’ He surveyed the mob. ‘We weren’t anticipating such numbers.’

  Watching him deploy his troops, the inspector wished him
luck, but voiced doubt that they would be any more effective than the police in quashing the disorder.

  He was right. All efforts earned only contemptuous laughter. Worse still, news of the soldiers’ arrival had spread to other collieries with the result that numbers continued to swell and by dusk had reached massive dimensions.

  As night descended Probyn found himself enveloped by a mob of some ten thousand bearing banners, the majority of them already armed with bludgeons and others quickly arming themselves from a stack of timber in the yard, though no blow had as yet been struck.

  ‘Why don’t they give us the order to fire?’ hissed the nervous youngster to Probyn’s right flank. ‘If we’d shot a few earlier it wouldn’t have got to this!’

  It’s all right for you, thought Probyn, the most frightened he had been in all his life, they’re not your people, you haven’t lived and worked amongst them as I have. But like a good soldier he kept his opinion to himself, his body tense, eyes darting all around him, and was most relieved when the order was shouted to retreat to the comparative safety of the engine house.

  Crammed inside, whilst the rioters cheered and shouted for them to withdraw, the same question rippled through their ranks. Why were they standing here helpless with weapons at their disposal?

  The captain directed an oblique glance at the police officers amongst them. ‘Perhaps you’d like to answer that, Inspector? I was assured by your superintendent there’d be a magistrate here to read the Riot Act. That was several hours ago.’

  The inspector responded with an enquiry. ‘Is there a telephone in here?’

  ‘One in this office over here, sir!’ called a voice, at which the inspector struggled through the mass of tunics.