* * *
Others in the world were realizing their own dream. In America the new-fangled flying machine called an aeroplane was maintaining its flight for longer periods and higher altitudes.
Probyn could not fail to be impressed. ‘The US authorities say it won’t be of military use but I’ll tell you what, Grace, I wish we’d had one when we were fighting the Boers. Why, you could just sit there lobbing bombs to your heart’s content! We’d have had them beat in half the time. Come the next war and it’ll be the side who has the aeroplanes that’s the winner.’
Grace objected to his pessimistic forecast. ‘Oh, don’t talk about war! There’s enough of it in the papers.’ All over the world there seemed to be political unrest, if not outright war then some kind of revolution. Russia had been in a state of open revolt for months, vast crowds marching behind red flags to petition the Czar for better conditions, five hundred of them, not just men but women and children, having been shot down in cold blood. Nearer to home, further outrage had been committed by Russian battleships who whilst heading for Japan with whom they had been at war for the last twenty months, had sunk two Hull trawlers off Dogger Bank, claiming that they were torpedo boats and refusing to apologize. Recently had come the news that their forces both military and naval had been crushed by their opponent.
‘I’m glad the Japanese beat them,’ said Grace. ‘It serves them right for sinking those poor fishermen – and they still haven’t apologized.’
Such turbulent times seemed destined to continue, the years ahead beset with a series of political upheavals. The resignation of the Prime Minister Arthur Balfour over tariff reform occasioned a general election in which not only did the Liberals enjoy a landslide victory but the Labour Party made remarkable gains, trebling its share of the vote. ‘That’ll please Uncle Owen,’ declared Probyn, whilst for him the most significant outcome of this was the new Prime Minister Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman’s announcement that annexation of the Boer republics had been unlawful.
‘So is he going to give them their independence back?’ Grace responded to her husband’s anger as he read aloud from the newspaper.
‘As good as!’ spluttered Probyn. ‘He’s granted them self-government!’
And soon added to this was the galling news that an amnesty act had given seven thousand ex-rebels readmittance to the franchise. ‘Well there you are!’ Probyn dealt the offending newspaper an angry rap with the back of his hand and threw it aside. ‘You might as well hoist the Dutch flag for them. They couldn’t defeat us with bullets but they’ll do it with the ballot box, mark my words.’
Grace stooped to pick up the paper. ‘At least the Zulus are starting to surrender.’ She had been afraid that her husband would be called upon to quell the bloody uprising that had arisen over taxes, and was relieved to find he would not.
The reply was grim. ‘They’ll wonder what they had to complain about when the Boers take charge.’
It was issued satirically, but to his horror as the months wore on Probyn’s statement began to adopt an ominous portent. In February 1907 an election was held in the Transvaal and General Louis Botha was appointed Premier with Mr Smuts as Colonial Secretary, moreover, the new cabinet voiced optimism on the eventual federation of South Africa. ‘What did I tell you?’ came Probyn’s bitter sigh to his wife. ‘It doesn’t matter whether the map is pink or navy-blue now the Dutch have got a foothold. They’ll take over the whole country.’
And as the months progressed it appeared that his prophecy might come true, for in the Orange River election the Dutch were to triumph again.
* * *
Whilst 1907 may have been a bad year politically, on a personal front there was much cause for joy. For Grace came the deliverance of another son, Joseph Fitzroy; for Probyn a reward for all his hard struggle, the achievement of his first-class certificate.
How he celebrated, could hardly keep still while relaying the news to his wife, pacing up and down excitedly, stopping to straighten a picture, before pacing again.
‘Oh Lord, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see the back of that classroom!’ he cried to her. ‘And that snooty bloomin’ schoolmaster.’
‘I thought you were taught by a sergeant?’ With her husband’s back turned, a mischievous Grace tilted the picture he had just straightened.
‘He might have three stripes but he’s not a soldier! Just a jumped up clerk in uniform!’ Frowning over the crooked picture Probyn came back to straighten it again, then bent to address his four-year-old daughter excitedly. ‘Isn’t your dad clever?’
Lifting his smiling eyes from her, he frowned. ‘That dratted thing keeps going crooked!’ And he went to straighten the picture yet again.
‘It was Mother,’ divulged Clement, sniggering behind his hand.
‘Ooh you little tell-tale!’ Grace shrieked as Probyn made a grab for her as if to tickle, and the room erupted in the joyous laughter of children and adults.
But even this moment was to be surpassed in terms of pride and happiness upon his consequent promotion, and at the Church Parade which followed, when, dressed in all their finery, Grace took her children to watch Probyn march to his place of worship to the sound of band and drums, and pointed him out to them loudly so that all in earshot might know his worth: ‘There’s your father – the guardian of the Colours!’
* * *
The year was to close with serious rioting in India, the Labour leader Keir Hardie being held to blame for the tone of his speeches which claimed that the British ran India like the Czar ran Russia. Though fulminations of disgust at this attack on the Empire were to be heard in the Kilmaster household, as the year turned there were to be fewer outbursts from Probyn, for his new administrative chores and his desire to be fully efficient in all the regimental duties that would elect him to the eminence he sought were to take him away from home even more. Added to these responsibilities, a new Territorial Army was formed, merged from the Yeomanry and the Volunteers. Having been concerned over events in the Balkans, Probyn acclaimed the move, saying, ‘The more the merrier. Who knows what the Kaiser’s got up his sleeve?’ Upset by the German leader’s insult of Britain in a recent interview, he added, ‘I won’t forget that he sided with the Boers.’
Grace agreed – ‘He’s got mad eyes,’ – before saying goodbye to her dear one yet again and waving him off to his manoeuvres.
Though missing him, Grace reminded herself how lucky she was that her husband had such a high position that provided a regular wage, for the amount of industrial unrest that year was frightening. The country was racked by disputes, in ship-building and engineering and the cotton trade, each of them stemming from a reduction in wages. Yes, she should surely consider herself fortunate to know where her next loaf of bread was coming from when others were starving, especially as she had quickly fallen pregnant again, giving birth in November.
‘I shall have to call you Mrs Fruitful,’ teased Probyn, visiting his wife’s bedside to greet the new arrival and wondering what his men would say if they could see their stern and respected colour-sergeant indulging in such tender moments.
Having been accustomed to having only Clem and Augusta for so long, Grace was now overwhelmed to find herself with four beautiful offspring. ‘And what shall we call this one?’ She smiled down at the crumpled little face in her arms. ‘I thought Emily would be nice, Emily Madeleine.’ She noticed a look of panic flicker over his face. It was as if she had slapped him. ‘What on earth’s wrong?’
Trying desperately to recover from the shock, Probyn merely succeeded in making a fool of himself, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish, his heart beating at a tremendous pace. Staring down at his daughter he saw not a babe but Emily’s smiling brown face. Struggling to rid himself of it, he finally blurted, ‘Oh nothing! I, er, sorry, I just had an awful thought that I’d forgotten to carry out an order.’ He stared down at the baby as if mesmerized. ‘Er … I’d hoped we might call this one after my mother Sarah.’ It had be
en the last thing on his mind – he did not even particularly care for the name, but it was the first thing that jumped into the gap.
‘Oh, of course!’ Grace looked chastised and reached out to him gently. ‘How selfish of me.’
‘You’re never selfish!’ He grabbed the hand she offered.
‘I didn’t mean to take over, Probe.’ She looked most concerned. ‘It’s just that you’ve never been really bothered before what we call them.’
‘No, it’s me being daft!’ He shook her hand in reassuring manner. ‘Call her what you will.’
‘No, Sarah it is,’ Grace insisted.
‘We’ll compromise: Madeleine Sarah.’ He could hardly look his wife in the eye. Emily: how could the mere sound of her name shake him so? He was quivering like a jelly.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing the matter?’ asked Grace. ‘You look as if you’re in pain.’
‘As a matter of fact I have got this dreadful earache.’ Probyn raised his hand to the side of his head. It was not a lie. His ear had been throbbing for hours.
She sighed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t be such a martyr!’
‘Oh, thanks!’ He managed to laugh.
‘Well, you wouldn’t have said anything if I hadn’t asked – would you now?’
He admitted this was the case. ‘I shall have it seen to once you’re back on your feet.’
‘Get it seen to now!’ instructed Grace. ‘Never mind the children, Mrs Mackenzie will look after them.’
‘I won’t argue.’ The pain was becoming so bad that it almost took his mind off his previous shock. ‘I’ll go across and see the doctor now.’ He kissed her and left.
* * *
The result of his following examination was not good. Probyn was admitted to hospital where he was to spend twelve days waiting for an operation, only to be told at the end of that period that it could not be done in Pontefract and he would have to go to York.
In the time it took to arrange this, Grace was back on her feet and able to cope, and the pain in his ear had become agonizing. Transferred to York, he was told that the operation could not be done today and he was sent back to Pontefract where he was to wait for another month, during which time the pain became all consuming and the ear had set up a discharge.
Shuttled off once more to York, today he sat once again in the waiting area of the hospital, holding a handkerchief to his throbbing pus-filled ear, head to one side in an attitude of misery, when a voice sent volts of fresh pain through him. ‘Pa!’
He hardly dared turn for the discomfort it caused him. ‘Mick, I was just thinking of you, I had this terrible pain …’
‘Oh charming!’ Mick seized his hand and shook it.
Wincing, Probyn looked him up and down, thinking how youthful he looked to say he was over thirty. ‘So, you’re working here?’
‘No! I’m here as a patient.’ Mick rubbed his neck. ‘They keep saying there’s nothing wrong with me and I know full well there is.’ Without warning he knelt before Probyn and opened his mouth wide. ‘Just look at the back of me throat and tell me if ye see a lumpy thing.’
‘I’m not a doctor.’ Consumed by his own agony, Probyn was disinclined to take part in Melody’s hypochondria.
Mick was still kneeling, mouth agape. ‘But ye’ve got eyes, haven’t ye?’
Probyn’s brow had an impatient frown. He made a snap decision to tell this picture of health what he wanted to hear. ‘Yes, I think I can see something.’
Mick blanched. He sat back on his heels looking stricken. ‘Oh, God! I knew it.’
‘You’ll have housemaid’s knee too if you keep kneeling on that floor,’ said Probyn with little sympathy. In such a mode Mick was always an irritation but even more so when the recipient of his paranoia was in agony.
As if in a trance, Mick slowly rose and transferred his buttocks to the bench.
Probyn felt he ought to say something, if only to take his mind off his pain. ‘Are you married yet?’
Mick stared at him, blue eyes filled with thoughts of his own mortality. ‘No … just as well isn’t it?’
‘You’ll be all right,’ muttered Probyn – then looked up as his name was called and gladly departed for the examination room. ‘See you again, Mick.’
Petrified, Mick raised a half-hearted salute, saying nothing.
Completely forgetting about the other, Probyn gave himself up to the medical officer’s expertise, making no argument when this resulted in him being readmitted to a hospital ward, for at least it would mean an end to the continual pain.
Thirteen days later, though, still engulfed by the awful throbbing, he begged an orderly to tell him when this might be relieved.
‘Has nobody told you?’ came the careless reply. ‘We haven’t the instruments here so you’re being transferred to Millbank.’
Condemned, or so it seemed, to spend the rest of his life as a human shuttlecock, Probyn collapsed against his pillow, despair driving him to issue a rare four-letter word and to rave at the orderly over this inefficiency.
But it was not to do him the slightest good. Not until three months after it first erupted was his terrible pain finally assuaged.
Upon coming home that Friday and entering the house to the smell of fish, he found his wife crawling about on all fours giving rides to the children.
But Grace jumped up as soon as she saw him, her face joyous, making out that he was the most important person in the house. ‘Oh, Father’s home!’
Returning her warm embrace, Probyn gestured at the demolished meal on the table, plates littered with fish bones. ‘Looks as if the cavalry have been through here.’
‘You should have warned us what time you’d be coming,’ said Grace. ‘We’d have waited. Never mind I’ve got a lovely bit of smoked haddock in the pantry for you, it won’t take a minute to cook.’
‘Is your lug better, Father?’ asked Clem.
‘What’s that?’ Probyn feigned deafness and laughed when his son repeated the query. ‘I’m only kidding. Eh, it’s grand to be home!’ Making a grab, he planted a child on each knee.
Cooking the fish, Grace warned the children not to tire their father out, and spent the rest of the afternoon pampering him.
For once he was content to sit back and let her do so, telling her how lovely it was to see her after so long and to hear all that had been going on at the barracks in his absence; although, Grace was a dreadful storyteller, constantly having to stop and insert bits – ‘Oh hang on I forget to say,’ – so often, that the listener became frustrated and bored to tears with her vague commentary, though somehow he managed to sit through it, shaking his head and smiling upon her fondly, his heart filled with love.
Unrestrained by such emotion, the rest of the world seemed intent on killing each other. In India Moslems and Hindus committed mutual outrage, the situation mirrored in the Balkans where Austria had sent troops to the Serbian frontier. With atrocities in danger of spilling into full-blown war again, the European powers converged to bring about a solution, urging Serbia to drop its claim to Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Envisaging her husband being called away to foreign lands, Grace was vastly relieved when the crisis was defused. ‘Thank God,’ she breathed to Probyn. ‘I had visions of the whole world being at each other’s throats.’
His reply, delivered lightly, was somewhat cynical. ‘Oh, they don’t need to fight wars these days, Grace, when countries can be won more easily by the ballot box.’ What he had long feared now looked set to come to reality: the Cape, Natal, Transvaal and Orange River colonies were to be united under one government. Under the British crown or no, he knew which race would eventually emerge supreme. ‘Our scrap with the Boers was all for nothing. And there’s one thing for sure, the poor wretched blacks will be treated a lot worse under the Dutch. It wouldn’t surprise me if they take away the Cape niggers’ vote once they get in charge. They won’t even let their own blacks walk on the pavement.’
Grace diversified the topic. ‘
Did you see there’s been two more lynchings and burnings in America?’ Such outrages had almost become commonplace. Her face showed revulsion. ‘I can’t believe any human could burn another alive, can you?’
Equally disgusted, Probyn shook his head. ‘It’s bestial. I agree with Mr Balfour that giving the vote to blacks would threaten civilization but there’s ways of keeping people in line without such cruelty.’ He reached out to her, fondly. ‘Anyway, we shouldn’t be discussing this before bed, especially as we won’t be seeing each other for twenty days.’ Tomorrow he would be off to Whitley Bay for annual training. Taking her hand he pulled her onto his knee and planted a seductive kiss behind her ear, murmuring, ‘Away let’s to bed and have a cuddle.’
* * *
The next morning, though rather pleased at the change of venue, Probyn voiced further regret that the trip to Whitley Bay would take him away from his dear wife for so long. ‘But I’ll bring you back a stick of rock,’ he promised as he made ready to leave, then his smile suddenly vanished upon remembering that these had been Greatrix’s last words.
Sensitive over their parting, Grace went to him and put her arm around him in concern. Over the years she had witnessed such looks of indescribable sadness come over Probyn’s face and, after once receiving explanation, had no need to ask what was wrong now; he was thinking of his dead friends, or some abomination of war.
He gripped her arm in thanks of this unspoken support, then finished winding his puttee up his calf. ‘I’m all right, s’just somebody walking over my grave.’ Finishing at the knee, he secured the puttee and folded the upper part of his khaki trouser leg over it.
A knock at the door revealed his batman, come to deliver items of blancoed webbing and other items of kit.
With everything in order, Probyn made to be off. ‘Look after your mother,’ he offered cheery instruction to young Clem on the way out.
Family of the Empire Page 54