And a little cheer went up to mark the occasion, sending him on his way with a buoyant heart.
* * *
By the time he arrived home his child was almost three months old. Fascinated by the tiny auburn-fuzzed creature, Probyn was hardly able to take his eyes off him in those first few days, voicing regret to Grace that he had missed his entry to the world.
‘Never mind,’ she smiled up at him happily from the fireside rug where she sat bathing the infant, including the baby in their conversation. ‘At least we’ve got you here for the christening haven’t we, Clemmie? I thought he might be frightened of his father when the two of you finally met but he never batted an eyelid did he?’
‘Ah well, he’s the son of a soldier,’ came the proud reply. ‘He’s got backbone.’
‘Whoops! A wobbly backbone,’ laughed Grace as the baby’s buttocks slipped from under him in the bath.
Momentarily, Probyn removed his attention from the baby to look at his wife, under that heavy-lidded seductive gaze becoming instantly aroused. She was if anything even lovelier since the birth of their child. Upon homecoming, his first instinct after inspecting the baby had been to seize her and take her up to bed. He had done so many times since and wanted to do it again now, but she was otherwise involved. Turning his eyes back to the baby, he smiled. ‘I like the names you’ve chosen.’ She had called him Clement Michael, the second being after her father. ‘Would it be too much if I added another?’
‘Of course not!’ cried Grace, adoration in her eyes. It was obvious that having a baby had displaced none of her bridal feelings for Probyn. ‘I only named him because you weren’t here.’
‘Does Clement Michael Buller sound all right?’ His eyes glanced at her swollen breasts.
‘Very noble!’ Out of love for her husband Grace hid her aversion well, knowing how Probyn admired his famous general.
Lifting the baby from the bath she proceeded to dry him, singing to him as she dabbed and dusted. ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay! Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay! He likes that one don’t you, Clemmie?’ She sang again, every time she came to the boom planting a kiss on the baby’s bottom which he appeared to delight in.
Probyn delighted too in watching the tender scene.
‘Feel his little heart!’ Grace held out the tiny body, instructing Probyn to lay his palm against its chest.
Doing so, the father voiced his wonderment. ‘Ooh aye, it’s pumping away there like a little piston! Better wrap him up now though or he’ll get cold.’ It was teeming with rain outside. ‘Does Aunt Kit know he’s born? I didn’t receive a word from her while I was in Africa.’
Grace shook her head, presenting a carefree air but underneath quite hurt. ‘Me neither. Not a word nor a visit. So I assumed she wasn’t interested in hearing about Clemmie and didn’t bother informing her.’
Probyn felt hurt too. ‘Aye, blow her if she’s going to be like that.’
A knock came at the door.
‘Oh, who’s this come to disturb us?’ Grace asked the red-headed baby, then passed him to her husband. ‘Here, hold Clemmie!’ She went to admit the caller.
Balancing his tiny son on his knee, the proud father jiggled him up and down, showing no awkwardness and obviously enjoying himself, which drew comment as the visitor was admitted.
‘Eh, I see you’ve got him trained!’ exclaimed the neighbour, another sergeant’s wife. Then at Probyn’s cool smile she realized she might be interrupting his homecoming and said hurriedly to Grace, ‘Sorry to bother you, both, I just wondered if you’ve been able to—’
‘It’s done, love!’ Grace rushed off and returned with a parcel, handing it to the visitor with a broad smile.
‘Eh, you’re a good lass!’ The recipient beamed. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Oh not a thing – no, I wouldn’t dream of it!’ Grace refused all offers.
‘By, I hope you know what a good un you’ve got here, Sergeant Kilmaster!’ called the woman to Probyn as she left.
‘I do,’ he answered, though much bemused.
‘’Twas just some mending I did for her,’ explained Grace. About to close the door she let out a cry of ecstasy. ‘Oh, come and look at the rainbow! Bring the baby. Oh look, look! Isn’t it gorgeous?’
And, carrying his son, a smiling Probyn came to look, sharing Grace’s love of simple things and thinking that his dear wife’s face was a picture in itself and how lucky he was to have her.
* * *
Now that his father was safely home the baby’s christening was arranged for that Sunday afternoon, attended by Grace’s relatives, her friend Charlotte who was to be godmother and a few soldiers. Probyn chose not to invite Kit, remembering the distaste she had shown at his wedding upon having to enter a Catholic church. Though he himself had converted to his wife’s religion it had only been done for her sake, and it was with some self-consciousness that he marched to Mass at Church Parade and later to the baptism. He doubted that he would ever make a good Catholic, but if all this embarrassing genuflection kept Grace happy then he would have achieved his aim.
The absence of his own relatives was of little consequence to him, for he had replaced his sisters with Grace’s who were much kinder to him, as was Charlotte who was indeed like another sister to his wife and in the short time they had been acquainted he had come to share Grace’s affection for her. As for his stepmother, he had not been in contact with her since the day he had met Grace, and though he sometimes thought about her, intending to write and check on her health, this invariably slipped his memory.
On prolonged leave after his spell on the war front, he spent the first week of it helping his wife about the house, for Grace seemed to find it hard to adjust in having him here, her attendance of the baby often causing her to be late in the serving of meals – not to mention that soldiers’ wives kept popping in to beg a favour from this charitable body.
‘Tell you what, why don’t I cook dinner this week?’ he said watching her hurry about trying to answer both his needs and the crying babe’s. ‘Seems daft me having a Master Cook’s certificate and not putting it to good use. You see to the lad, I’ll see to us.’
‘I can see to all of us.’ Though her face did not show it Grace was profoundly insulted, taking his comment as a slur on her abilities.
But he was insistent on helping. ‘I can’t sit here and watch while the bairn runs you ragged. No more arguing, I’m doing it.’ And he began by peeling the potatoes, leaving his deeply hurt wife with no option but to smile.
The fortnight that followed was to pass similarly, Probyn taking it upon himself to do all the cooking and Grace having to pass compliments on his prowess when she really felt like screaming. It was all she could do to persuade him to leave the house for an hour with the excuse that he should be out enjoying his leave before winter set in.
‘Then come with me!’ he bade her, reaching for her coat. ‘We’ll go into York, have a walk round the walls.’
Grace stalled him. ‘I can’t be out that long, Clemmie will want feeding in a while, but you go. Go on!’ She gave him an affectionate push. ‘Enjoy yourself. I’ll still be here when you get back.’ And she gave a sigh of relief as he finally complied.
It was odd, thought Probyn, as he wandered around the leaf-strewn city walls in the autumn sunshine, how accustomed one became to the noise of battle and how deathly quiet was England in comparison. Odd, too, that despite the horrors he still occasionally found himself homesick for Africa. That was the trouble with furlough. It gave one too much time to think.
Reaching the end of this stretch of wall he came down the worn stone staircase and, missing Grace and Clemmie, made his way back to the hansom cab rank.
A street sweeper was brushing up the leaves and tipping them into a cart. He was halfway past the man when he realized who it was.
‘Felix?’
Matching the speaker’s frown, the sweeper looked long and hard at him before breaking into a rapid response. ‘AchiftisntyoungPa!’ And hi
s hand shot out to grasp the other’s. ‘Whdefecknhellreyedoinhere?’
‘More to the point what are you doing here?’ asked Probyn marvelling at his own interpretative skills.
‘Ah sure, I left Ponty a while back. Answered an advert for a job here, but lost that and now I’m doing this. Listen, d’ye remember when … ?’ And this sparked a flurry of reminiscences with the battered seashell of a face hardly drawing breath, obviously eager to relive his army days, his old cot-mate being forced to stand there and grin and nod as each instance was excitedly recounted, gaining no enjoyment but embarrassed and sad for this pathetic display and deeming it a sorry ending for an old soldier.
After ten minutes or so, Felix’s attitude suddenly changed and he faltered mid-stream, a strange look coming into his eye. ‘Ah well now, I’d better not be keeping you, nor must I be shirking my task. It’s been good seeing you, Pa.’ And he made ready his broom.
He knows, thought Probyn with a jolt, he can tell what I’m thinking, and his own cheeks were momentarily overtaken by the kind of burning display he had not suffered since boyhood. Trying to convey pleasure at having run into his old friend, he patted the other’s shoulder then backed away. ‘Yes, we’ll have to have a drink together some time. Look after yourself, Felix!’ And with that he turned his back and hurried home.
* * *
Thankful for the few hours respite, and fully restored to cheeriness, Grace had begun to feel almost guilty at wanting to be rid of the man she loved and had ached to be with for the past nine months. When Probyn came through the door she launched herself at him, hugging and kissing him as if he had been away another nine months instead of just an afternoon.
Laughing, he asked what he had done to deserve this.
‘Oh, I just feel so lucky to have you!’ Face gleaming like a beacon, Grace squashed his cheeks between her cool hands then led him to a chair. ‘You’ve spent all your holiday doing work that should by rights be mine, sit there and I’ll cook you a nice tea. No arguing!’ She forestalled him. ‘Clemmie’s asleep, I’ve nothing else to see to.’
Obeying, he sat back to watch, a beneficent smile under his moustache.
However, she appeared to be having difficulty in finding something. ‘Where’s the blessed potato peeler?’ She was opening and shutting drawers and frowning.
‘Ah, I forgot to say!’ Probyn shoved himself from the armchair. ‘While I’ve been doing the cooking this week I’ve shifted everything round.’ He began to point out the different utensils. ‘See, if you put that here it makes more sense than where you used to have it, then it’s nearer to hand. Felix Lennon taught me there was always an easy way, always a way you could save time and shoe leather. Much better now isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes,’ agreed Grace brightly, wondering how she could sound so convincing, only the fact that she loved him so much barring her from screaming in frustration. He looked so delighted with himself.
‘Then when I go back on duty life’ll be a lot easier for you!’
In more ways than one, sighed Grace to herself.
* * *
Having become rather edgy towards the end of his furlough, Probyn was glad to return to soldiering, though he felt sorry for Grace who would miss his help around the home. Still, his assistance during those few weeks had provided her with a good foundation and he could happily leave her knowing she would no longer be torn between tending the baby and getting her husband’s dinner ready on time.
With plenty of new recruits to knock into shape for South Africa, he himself had enough to concern him throughout the autumn months and by the time Christmas drew near he was rather looking forward to another rest.
However, there were sorrowful elements to it. ‘This is the first Christmas I haven’t had an invitation,’ he told Grace upon receipt of a letter from Aunt Kit who explained that if she invited him the others would not come and so it would not be very festive – but perhaps another time, she added. He treated the news with indifference. ‘Can’t say I’m bothered. I must be getting old.’ He smiled at Grace. ‘Eh dear, another two and a half years and I’ll be thirty.’
Grace smiled back, but wished he would not keep reminding her of the difference in their ages. She herself was not even twenty. ‘Never mind, our Ellen’s invited us to eat with them.’
‘Has she?’ He became enthusiastic. ‘I shall look forward to that.’
Never had Probyn been made to realize how austere his own Christmases had been until he witnessed its celebration in an Irish household. Oh, they might none of them have ever been to Ireland but that did not put a cork on Celtic emotions. Being amongst them made Aunt Kit’s parties seem like life in a closed order. After the meal came roisterous singing in which he was forced to participate, then followed a fight between two of Grace’s cousins, a no punches pulled hammer and tongs of a ding-dong in which blood was drawn before the antagonists were finally made to kiss and make up and all parted the best of friends at the end of the afternoon as if nothing had happened. Amazed at how such violence could be so brushed aside and normally hating such displays of abandon, a dazed Probyn conveyed his admiration none the less, wishing that his own relatives could be so forgiving.
1901 did not start well, being only three weeks old when the Queen died, prompting an interval of mourning not only in the populace but the regiment too.
To add to the awful weather, heavy snowstorms marking the first three months of the year, there was further despondency on the war front. Peace talks in South Africa had failed to end hostilities. The Boer still continued his dirty method of fighting, refusing to make war like a gentleman, his audacious guerrilla raids even taking him into Cape Colony, though this was more of a nuisance than an invasion, Probyn told his wife. Somewhat removed from the war, he had taken to following its progress by means of a map from the Daily Mail, every week moving the lines of little Union Jacks to show the British position and including Clement in his routine, even though the child was less than a year old.
Grace tried to show an interest over these sessions too, though her concern was more at the result of South African weather on her husband. Since he had come home Probyn had suffered from rheumatism in his legs, especially in the cold damp slush that followed the regular snowstorms. He hardly ever complained but she could see the discomfort in his face.
‘Look at you sitting there squirming and saying not a word,’ she reproved him this evening. ‘Swivel round in your chair let me rub your legs.’
‘I won’t argue.’ Clemmie still on his knee, he put the map aside and shuffled around to give Grace access. Whereby she unwrapped his puttees, tugged up his trousers and began to massage his stocky calves, her hands gentle and loving.
He closed his eyes as if in ecstasy. ‘Eh, this is luxury, Clemmie. Make sure you find yourself a wife like your dear mother.’ A knock interrupted his enjoyment then. ‘Oh, pizzle-pozzle!’
Grace left off to answer the door, whence a lot of whispering ensued. When his wife temporarily came back into the room and seized her purse, Probyn looked at her questioningly, though she did not immediately explain. Only after effusive thanks were given and the door closed did she come back to say, ‘It was just Private Rowland’s wife. The poor soul, her mother’s died and they’re running a bit short what with the funeral—’
‘So you lent her some.’ During the past year Probyn had seen frequent examples of his wife’s generosity.
‘She’ll give me it back!’ A slight note of reproof for his lack of charity, but a ruffle of his hair to show she did not mean it. ‘I couldn’t see them struggle. Now, where was I?’ Grace sat down at his feet and began to knead his aching muscles again. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking—’
‘That’s dangerous, Clemmie,’ he joked to the baby.
‘You haven’t seen your Aunt Kit for ages and the two of you used to be so close. Maybe we should invite her for dinner one Sunday, once all this slush has gone.’
‘If you want.’ Eyes closed in rapture at the mas
sage, Probyn hardly seemed to care; for him there was sufficient family here.
Grace smiled. ‘I’ll drop her a line.’
‘But I don’t want you making lots of work for yourself. She’s my aunt, I’ll cook the dinner.’
Piqued, Grace faltered in her rubbing and kneading. But when Probyn opened one eye to investigate why she had stopped, she merely gave a tight smile and continued her ministrations. But it did not stop her thinking. Something must be done about this.
* * *
In fact Grace did not send her invitation for another month, until she was certain there would be no further snowfall and the bulbs had started to push their heads through the sodden earth. Expecting to receive some excuse from Kit to say she could not come Probyn was therefore surprised upon receipt of her acceptance.
It was even nicer when Kit turned up in the flesh with her gigantic husband and fast-growing son, ostentatiously dressed as ever, behaving the same as he had always known her, making a beeline for Clemmie and taking him on her lap as she had done with Probyn in his infancy.
‘Oh, little gingernut!’ she hugged the little boy who did not seem to be overwhelmed by the fuss and smiled obligingly. ‘Just like his father.’
The child’s mother issued a gracious smile, knowing there was no malignancy in the remark, besides, Clemmie was like his father.
‘And look at you!’ Kit turned to Probyn who was still dressed the way he had been for church, her eyes flitting over the scarlet tunic with its gleaming white cuffs and piping, its white stand up collar on either side of which was a shiny brass badge of a tiger and a rose, brass Y’s and L’s on his white shoulder epaulettes, but her eyes drawn most of all to the three lace chevrons on his arm. ‘Sergeant Kilmaster!’
Laughing, her nephew displayed suitable modesty, whereupon Kit finally deigned to address his wife, taking in the plain white blouse and brown skirt. ‘You’re looking well, Grace.’
Family of the Empire Page 51