Greatrix explained that he had escorted some men up from Port Louis. He wouldn’t be here for long but it was good to see his friend. ‘You lucky blighter, you’ve a cooler billet than I have.’
‘You’re joking!’ Probyn indicated the sodden patches on his uniform.
‘You don’t know you’re born!’ Greatrix raked at the large red blotches of prickly heat on his neck that made life a misery. ‘I’d swap with you any time.’
Wandering away from the camp, the two strolled through tropical greenery, discussing the terrible news that had filtered from South Africa. In the wake of Dr Jameson’s disastrous foray into the Transvaal and the subsequent arrest of his troops which had left Rhodesia unprotected, the Matabele had seized the chance to get their land back. Not one white settler remained alive outside the four main towns in which the survivors had barricaded themselves. Men, women and children slaughtered without mercy by household servants.
Probyn reacted with disgust. ‘I just knew the Mats weren’t finished!’
‘Little babbies though!’ breathed Greatrix with disbelief. ‘I mean, how could anyone do such atrocities on them?’ And he detailed some of these atrocious acts until his friend begged him to desist. ‘Decent white women murdered by the people they gave hospitality to. I wonder what our pompous Miss Gower thinks about them now?’
Probyn was less judgemental towards the missionary. ‘That poor lass might be one of their victims an’ all.’
‘True enough,’ Greatrix delivered a thoughtful nod. ‘I’ll tell you what, it’s just as well the brutes have no tactical strength. We’ve given them a good hammering by all accounts. I just hope we sort them out good and proper this time. Shall us sit down here and have a fag?’
They had come to a waterway, its banks lined with native women. Saris hitched around their knees, the females beat and scrubbed the clothes then laid them out to dry on plant spikes. Selecting a flat slab of rock, Greatrix and Probyn sat down to enjoy a cigarette and the view.
Probyn had heard enough of barbarity. ‘All’s peaceful here at any rate.’ He marvelled at the women’s appearance. ‘It beats me how they manage to look so crisp and clean in this sticky heat.’
Greatrix took his usual time in answering. ‘I love that long, black glossy hair.’
Probyn nodded. Emily had had nice hair, not dead straight like these dusky beauties but attractive all the same, thick and wavy. It was good that he was able to think of her without pain now. He singled out a girl for approval. ‘Now that one, she’s the sort of woman I like, not red and freckly like me sisters.’
‘Aye, they’re lovely to look at,’ agreed Greatrix, drawing on his cigarette, ‘but not for weddin’.’
After maintaining privacy for so long, not simply because of what his friend might think but because it was hurtful to speak of it, Probyn finally revealed his secret. ‘I already have.’
A delay. ‘Have what?’
‘Married a dark lass.’
Greatrix was stunned and merely gawked at him. For a moment there was only the sound of rushing water and women’s voices.
‘Not here,’ murmured Probyn, flicking ash from his cigarette, ‘on St Helena.’ And he related the full story then, telling his friend all about his beloved Emily, knowing that Greatrix would not laugh or gossip to others, otherwise he would not have entrusted him. ‘She were lovely, Trix. I hated having to leave her.’
His friend’s deep voice held sympathy. ‘I don’t know what to say, Kil.’
‘Not much you can say.’
‘So is it legal?’
Probyn shrugged. ‘Wedlock said not, and I don’t think there’ll be any record of it.’ Taking a last draw on the cigarette he ground the butt into the river bank, then rubbed his glistening face. ‘Anyway, there’s nowt I can do about it. Right, maister, do you want to wander back now and have a cup o’ char?’
Greatrix nodded, trying to think of some way to make his friend smile. ‘Aye, and you can provide the bloody cigs this time.’
* * *
The sharing of his secret helping to remove the last dregs of misery, Probyn accepted his friend’s invitation to come to Port Louis on his next leave, and even agreed to Greatrix’s suggestion that they find themselves some women.
Having grumbled about his own environment, he was quick to change his opinion on sampling the dry tropical heat of Port Louis, expressing gladness that he did not have to live in these hot narrow streets where the climate was foul and the oppressive heat seemingly trapped by its surrounding mountains. The fort might give excellent views over the city and of the coral reef and the islands beyond dotted around the turquoise sea like jewels, but he was far better off in the wooded slopes of the uplands.
The evening of his arrival was spent in a very good saloon, dancing and sharing a pint of claret with two very attractive young white women, and though no intimacy took place it felt good to be in legitimate female company once again. Feeling less sensitive over Emily, he even began to seek answers. Was he married or not? What if he met someone else, how would it affect him legally? He even entertained a certain amount of regret at his decision to marry so hastily. Oh, he had loved Emily … but had he really? For if that were true how would he even be able to contemplate marriage to another?
On the second day of their leave, the young lance-corporals arranged to visit a beach, Probyn suggesting they purchase some tea and sandwiches from the canteen of the Citadel to take with them.
‘No chance,’ growled his friend. ‘They only serve beer and tinned stuff. You can buy something on the way if you want, I’m not hungry.’
With the exchange of seventy-five cents for a pint of lemonade, they departed for a fishing village where they found a shady spot beneath a group of casuarinas and fell down on the white sand to slake their thirst, taking turns from the bottle. After this they removed boots and stockings, rolled up their sleeves and reclined beneath the pendulous tassels to enjoy their bohemian existence. Over the years Probyn’s fair skin had lost its angry glow and he was now deeply tanned, his hair and moustache more blond than red, the fuzz on his arms glistening like gold.
A cloud of butterflies fluttering around them, they talked about what they would do when they got home. Fixing his eyes on the elaborate tattoos on his friend’s arms, Probyn spoke without enthusiasm. ‘I should go to Ralph Royd and see me stepmother but I won’t stay. There’s nowt for me there now that Father’s gone.’ Remembering that Greatrix had no one at all, he made guilt-ridden apology. ‘Sorry, Trix, you must get sick of me moaning. Eh, why don’t you come and spend some time at Aunt Kit’s with me? She always said my pals are welcome. She serves lovely grub.’
‘Aye, but is she as tight with the baccy as her nephew?’ enquired Greatrix.
‘Oh, is it my turn?’ Probyn brought out a squashed packet. ‘Sorry, I forgot. I only ever smoke when I’m with thee.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’ Greatrix examined the deformed cigarette before lighting it.
Sharing a smile, the two sat and smoked for a while, then Probyn murmured, ‘Our Merry’s asked me if I’ll get her some seashells. I suppose I better had, seeing as how she’s the only one good enough to write to me.’
‘You’d best do it now,’ observed Greatrix, squinting through the branches. ‘It’s turning overcast.’ Scrambling to his feet, he took a last drag of the cigarette then dropped it and ground it into the sand, letting out a yell as he did so. ‘Christ! I forgot I didn’t have me boots on.’
‘You noodle!’ Probyn laughed as his friend hobbled to the water’s edge and dabbled his injured sole. ‘What’s up with you? You’ve been in a trance all day.’
Then, knotting the laces of their boots and draping them around their necks, they wandered along the warm sand, Probyn looking for shells, his companion limping and grumbling. Further along the beach a group of native fishermen sat amongst their boats unravelling nets. Glimpsing the wanderers, several children came rushing to sell food which a scowling Greatrix refu
sed but Probyn bought and ate as they meandered along, alternately snatching a bite then bending to pick up a conch or a cowrie, his knapsack slowly filling.
After walking for quite a while, a tired-looking Greatrix paused to lean against a large black rock and suggested they make their way back. The sky was a deep shade of purple now, the ocean in contrast pale jade. ‘I feel a bit groggy, I think I’ve had too much sun.’
Retracing their steps, Probyn continued to drop shells into his bag, though voicing dubiety at how they would survive in the post. ‘Ooh, there’s a good un!’ He made a darting grab, but immediately let it fall with an exclamation of pain. ‘Damn! I’ve cut me blasted finger.’
Greatrix was concerned. ‘It isn’t one of them cone shells is it?’
‘Dunno, why?’ Probyn sucked his injury.
‘Well, I don’t want to worry you,’ drawled Greatrix, ‘but they’re deadly poisonous.’
Probyn was aghast. ‘Bloody hell, we’d better get to hospital right away!’
* * *
The fevered rush back to the garrison was extremely stressful, Probyn sucking constantly at the wound in an attempt to remove any poison.
But when they finally arrived at the military hospital and he breathlessly conveyed his fears, they were met with mockery.
‘Cone shell?’ scoffed the orderly. ‘You’d be dead long before now if it had been. That’s just a scratch, but I don’t like the look of your friend.’ Dismissing the cut finger he frowned at Greatrix who appeared to be on the point of collapse, sweating more profusely than was normal.
Relieved that he was in no danger himself, Probyn lent support to his friend. ‘He said he wasn’t feeling too well, too much sun.’
‘I think it’s more than sunstroke. Poke your tongue out.’ Exclaiming over the yellow fur on the protuberance, the orderly took Greatrix by the arm and began to lead him away. ‘Looks like enteric to me. We’re rife with it at the moment. I’ll get the doctor to see him.’
Alarmed, Probyn called after them, ‘What shall I do?’
‘Stay there in case you’re infected!’
Probyn fell onto a chair and rubbed his hands over his sweating face. Enteric! Ingham had died of it. God forbid that Trix would suffer the same fate. Worried and impatient, he sat there for a while, then jumped up, unable to bear the suspense, and began to walk up and down the corridor.
Hearing footsteps other than his own he looked up expecting to see the same orderly but instead was presented by a more familiar face.
Mick’s face creased into his self-conscious grin. ‘They can’t seem to keep us apart can they?’
‘Seems not.’ Probyn grinned and shook Mick’s hand, though remained somewhat preoccupied with Trix’s fate. ‘Another kooshi posting is it, Mick?’
‘Ah, I’d no choice in the matter, but ’tis acceptable, and not so lonely as me last billet.’ Mick stood admiring the other’s khaki uniform for a moment. ‘Any more luck attracting the women in the new rig-out, or perhaps you’re even married?’
‘Not me,’ lied Probyn. ‘How about you?’
‘No, no. I’m sure there’s a saint out there that’ll put up with me but I’ve yet to find her.’ Mick beamed. ‘So, what brings you into my clutches, Pa?’
Probyn revealed Greatrix’s predicament.
‘Chroist not another,’ groaned Mick. ‘We’ve got enteric cases coming out of our arse, so to speak. Had to call for volunteer orderlies to sit with them.’
Probyn immediately offered his services. ‘I’ll sit with him!’
‘’Tis a shitty job, ye’d have to be awful fond of someone unless you were being paid for it, and will ye not be needed elsewhere, you being a lance-corporal and all?’
‘Stuff that! I’m not deserting Trix, he saved me life!’ And Greatrix was facing a deadly situation now. ‘Anyway I’m on leave. I just wish I could do something more positive to help him.’
‘Ah, he’ll be fine, we caught it early.’ Mick steered him to the relevant ward. ‘Come on, if you’re intent on sitting with him I’ll show ye how to help. And won’t you be in the right place if you go down with it yourself.’
The Irishman had been right, it would require great devotion to sit with his friend, for the ward where he and numerous others lay reeked of diarrhoea. Mick was obviously not inured to it either and began to throw open the windows.
The orderly who was settling Greatrix into bed, voiced objection. ‘They’re not meant to be in a draught.’
‘Sure the bloody stench is more likely to kill them than a puff of air,’ said Mick, using a helmet shell to prop the door wide open and circulate a current. ‘It’s like a blessed farmyard in here.’
He took over from the objector, telling him that Probyn had volunteered. With a perfunctory hello to Greatrix he shoved a thermometer in his mouth before the other had time to reply, then took his pulse. Whilst Probyn stood by impotently, Mick asked the patient a series of questions then drew back the sheet and laid a hand on his belly, at which a gurgling emerged.
‘I’ll have to run!’ Greatrix began to climb out of bed.
‘You’re running nowhere. Your friend will fetch you a bedpan. Well ye might as well start as ye mean to go on,’ Mick told Probyn, to the embarrassment of both. ‘Come on, I’ll show ye where to find everything.’
* * *
The bedpan was only the first in a series of intimate services he was to provide for his friend over the days that ensued. From being slightly raised, Greatrix’s temperature proceeded to soar, robbing him of any coherent chat he might have enjoyed with the friend who looked after him, leaving only a gurgling listless form on sweat-soaked sheets. Weakened by constant diarrhoea, he was in no state to object to any indignity performed upon him.
Every morning and evening Mick would come round with a pill and an enema of starch and water and opium to limit the violent bowel actions, and in between these times a deeply concerned Probyn would sit by his friend’s side, sponging his body with cold water in an effort to lower his raging temperature, cradling his head to offer sips of water, trying to coax him into taking a glass of milk to keep his strength up, whilst thoroughly neglecting his own welfare.
‘You should get some proper rest,’ Mick had warned Probyn on the first evening at the sight of him about to spend the night at Greatrix’s bedside. ‘You’ll be no good to man or beast without sleep.’ And he had thrown down a mattress in his own room.
But after only a few hours’ nap, whilst it was still dark, Probyn had crept back to his friend’s bedside, afraid that Greatrix might die in his absence. No matter that Mick swore he was going to be fine he could not bring himself to trust the Irishman’s word, for others on the ward had died as he watched them, and he could not allow that to happen to the friend who had saved his life.
This loyal vigil was to be maintained throughout the week, Probyn snatching just short naps before returning to his tender ministrations, his wrecked appearance drawing forth acid comment from Mick.
‘You’ll soon be lying in the next bed to Greatrix if you’re not careful.’
Exhausted, Probyn said nothing, just automatically sponged his friend’s brow.
Mick brought over a glass of milk. On being told that Greatrix was asleep he replied, ‘It’s for you. Get it down ye.’ He stood and watched as Probyn complied. ‘When are ye back on duty?’
Probyn could not even think what day it was. ‘A few more days I think. It doesn’t matter, I’m not going till he’s better.’
‘He might not look it but he’s doing fine,’ said Mick, testing Greatrix’s brow with the back of his hand. ‘Got away lightly, I’d say. Why, I was bad for three months when I had it.’
‘So you told me,’ muttered Probyn.
‘It’s ironic ye know, I haven’t suffered a day’s illness since I joined the Medical Staff.’ Mick stood for a while, stroking his chin, one finger moving underneath to rub thoughtfully at his neck. ‘I’m just a bit concerned about this. Have a dekko, does it look like a l
ump to you?’ Tilting his head he invited Probyn to feel his flesh.
Irritated that Mick could be so self-absorbed whilst another was genuinely ill, Probyn declined to feel it. ‘Can’t see anything.’ His eyes remained focused on Greatrix who had once more begun to effuse beads of sweat. ‘Punkah wallah!’ A native came hurrying with a fan.
‘I’m sure there’s something,’ said Mick rubbing worriedly at his neck.
Probyn felt he might strangle him. ‘Have you got a needle and thread?’ A button had come off Greatrix’s tunic whilst he had been cleaning and pressing it.
‘Taking up surgery are we?’ At the angry expression Mick threw up his hands. ‘All right, don’t chew me head off! I’ll go fetch ye one.’
He returned in more subdued fashion with a tin of assorted haberdashery. Raking through it, Probyn came up with a tiny bell, bits of wire and all sorts of other things, laying them on the bedside locker before finding what he wanted. Then he sat quietly stitching the button back into place. Whilst he sewed, birds wandered in and out of the open door, amongst them a black crow whose strutting arrogance began to grate. The punkah wallah made comment that it was bad juju, and several times Probyn got up to chase it off fearing that it was a bad omen too, but it kept coming back.
The button finally attached, he hung up Greatrix’s uniform, stroking it reverently into place before attending to his friend’s bodily needs.
‘Want some water, Trix?’ He held the glass to the patient’s lips.
Barely awake, his hazel eyes half concealed beneath drowsy lids, Greatrix supped gratefully. ‘Wouldn’t mind a beefsteak.’
Probyn grinned. ‘Oh, the man was right, you are getting better!’
‘Well, I can fart without messing the bed at any rate,’ mumbled Greatrix.
‘I’m gratified to hear it, but please there’s no need to give us a demonstration.’ Much relieved that his friend was on the road to recovery, Probyn sent a native servant to go and ask Mick for some food.
The latter duly arrived at the bedside, but only to say, ‘Sorry, no solid food until your temperature’s been normal for a week, maybe some softly scrambled eggs.’
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