‘Probyn’s aunt made it.’ Grace smiled self-consciously, her gloved hand displaying the folds of the kingfisher blue silk. ‘I don’t get chance to wear it very often.’
More compliments were passed on the dress, a good fifteen minutes being spent in Mick’s company, the children growing more hot and bored whilst the adults shared each other’s news and commented on the abnormal temperature and the amount of people who had died from it, which finally led Probyn to say, ‘Well, we’d better not keep your good lady standing here in this heat.’
Glad to be off, the children perked up and began to move.
‘Ah well, ’twas great to see ye, Pa!’ cried Mick, doffing his hat to Mrs Pa. ‘God Save the King! Don’t forget where we live now.’
‘I won’t!’ And with that the two couples parted.
But the sight of Mick’s face seemed to have struck a chord in Probyn’s mind and even after they had long been home he was to make comment on it. ‘I can’t get over how happy he looked.’
Grace was changing the baby ready for bed, napkins and ointment and safety pins spread out on the red chenille tablecloth, whilst Augusta got the others ready. ‘His wife too. I envy her – oh, not for her husband!’ she hastened to explain, things were quite good between herself and Probyn again and though she doubted they would ever enjoy the passion they had shared in the earlier days she could not complain. ‘But because she’s only married to the one man, not an entire army.’
Probyn offered gentle reproof. ‘Nay, a man couldn’t ask for a finer career, you’ve got a nice house, regular pay.’
‘Yes, well, we won’t have that much longer will we?’ murmured Grace, pulling Beata’s nightgown over her renewed napkin and picking her up off the table. ‘Would it not be better to start looking for work now rather than leaving it till the last minute?’ To date he had made no mention of his termination in December, possibly because it was a sensitive subject. She did not wish to upset him now but the matter had to be discussed.
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,’ tendered Probyn, stooping to retrieve a woollen bootee that the baby had kicked off. ‘We have to be realistic, I’m not going to achieve RSM in the time that’s left to me, so I’m going to ask permission to stay on.’
Grace could not believe what she was hearing, was crushed by disappointment. Knowing it was useless to hold up his own poor health as reason not to stay in the army, she saw that she would have to raise her own selfish needs.
Probyn saw that she did not share his confidence. ‘I don’t imagine there’ll be any problem.’
There came a gasp. ‘Not with your blessed officers maybe!’
Still holding the bootee, he looked at her askance.
Hot and exasperated, Grace hugged the baby whose blue eyes were round with apprehension at her mother’s raised voice. ‘Don’t you ever consider what army life is like for your wife and children, not seeing you for weeks on end, not knowing whether we’re going to be uprooted or whether you’re going to be sent to war? I’ve spent my whole married life at the army’s whim. For God’s sake, when are you going to put me first? You just seem to regard this marriage as a … as a sideline!’
‘No, I don’t!’ He was grossly affronted.
‘Yes, you do! Just look at your children, each one of those boys is named after an officer. It’s a wonder you haven’t called the girls after officers too! The army’s your proper family, not us.’
So flabbergasted was he by this that it took a few heart-searching moments to recognize the fundamental truth of what she said, and he was thenceforth compelled to examine his motives: had he not joined the army because he wanted a family? But did he not have a family right here? Fingering the bootee, his stricken gaze fell on the perspiring row of little red-haired watchers. Only a fool could have been so blind.
He came then swiftly to examine other truths, saw that talented though he might be at interpreting the moods of men, could spot the malingerer trying to wangle his way out of Church Parade, could tell at a glance whether a man would make a good soldier or let the side down, he was totally inept at penetrating the female mind – could not even understand his own wife. Having always assumed that because she had not complained Grace loved being part of the army as much as he did, yet here she was telling him that not only did she not like it, but that she would stand for it not a moment longer.
He stared into her blue eyes, seeing in them the awful challenge: me, or the army.
Faced with losing his happy family, there seemed little choice. She had forgiven him over Emily, had let him have his own way during their entire married life, now he must consider Grace’s needs. ‘Well … if you want me to quit …’ he paused, playing with the woollen bootee, allowing himself the chance of reprieve.
But none was to come, forcing him to conclude, ‘Then, all right, I will.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grace firmly but with relief and gratitude in her eyes, and her attitude softened as she reached out to take the bootee, her fingers issuing an intimate squeeze as she took it. ‘Besides anything else, it’s not doing you any good at your age all this marching. Maybe you could get an office job, I mean you were clever enough to pass all those exams. It’ll be a nice change for you to sit down instead of tramping about, won’t it, Bea?’ She kissed the baby reassuringly, smoothing a lock of hair from its sweaty little brow.
He gave a nod, trying to look bright but feeling wretched, and to hide this he wandered over to stand by the open window. The heat seemed even more oppressive now, the curtains hanging as limp as his spirits.
Reading his disappointment, Grace felt selfish that she had been the instigator, but even if she could have tolerated another ten years in the army, it would not do Probyn any favours. She formed a sympathetic smile. ‘We’ll discuss it further when the children have gone to bed.’
And so it ended, thought Probyn dismally as he presented his somewhat stunned cheek for the children’s goodnight kiss: his illustrious career plucked in half bloom, to wilt and wither before his eyes.
* * *
Though a competent clerk Probyn was soon to dispense with all thoughts of office work upon discovering the pittance he would earn. Generous though his army pension might be, it would not keep the seven of them in the manner they had been used to, he must find better paid work. But what could he do? His only occupation before joining the army was mining and he was strongly indisposed to the dangers of underground labour again – there had been two big pit disasters in recent years. Perhaps there would be work on the surface. One thing was certain: any job would have to come with accommodation. With Grace’s benevolence to others there had been no money put by for such an emergency.
‘What about being a cook?’ asked Grace. ‘You’ve got your certificate.’
He contorted his mouth. ‘I don’t mind cooking at home but I don’t know if I’d be any good doing it for a living. Still I could try.’
But once again he discovered that the wage was not commensurate with his needs. He could have been a cook in the army, but then Grace wanted to have nothing further to do with the army.
Other job interviews yielded the same disappointing results. Only the coal industry, it seemed, would pay the bonuses needed to provide for a family of seven. But with his sole experience being in pony driving it was inevitable that others more skilled would fill the vacant posts.
The months wore on but even with the commendations of his officers he could find no suitable position. The date of his expiry loomed dangerously close, and still in between looking for work there were his regimental duties to attend. Moreover it looked as if he might be involved in military action, for Italy had declared war on the Turks and the Balkans had exploded into violence again; the British army could be required to quell the situation. Life became almost as tense as when Emily had dropped her bombshell.
‘I told you there’d be a military use for aeroplanes,’ Probyn commented on the news that aviators had dropped bombs on Tripoli. ‘It mu
st have been a nasty shock for the Turks.’
Grace, fearing that he was making excuses so that she would let him stay in the army, began to accuse him. ‘Yes, well, it’s nothing to do with you any more, you’ll be leaving it all behind in a month or so – and if you don’t find something soon we’re going to be homeless!’ This was all going wrong. Her main concern had been for her husband’s constitution but there had been panic on finding out that a desk job was too badly paid. Now, that same panic caused her to envisage them being destitute, she just wanted him to find anything.
‘I’ve tried!’ His voice begged her to understand. ‘I’ve been to just about every mine in the area. I’d go to Ralph Royd if I thought I stood a chance but my involvement in the strike of ’ninety-three has put paid to that. There’s only two things that have longer memories than an elephant – an Irishman and a Yorkshire miner. I’d just be a target for violence.’
‘Well, you have to do something!’ Grace spread her hands in despair. The ideal of moving closer to her family had now been displaced by expediency. ‘What’s the name of that pit where your uncle works? Your face isn’t known there, is it?’
‘No, but it wouldn’t take long for word to get round.’
‘But couldn’t your uncle help you?’ asked Grace who had enlisted her own relatives’ help in finding Probyn a job, as yet to no avail.
‘My family isn’t the same as yours,’ he told her gently. ‘Once they’ve made up their minds that they’ve cut you off, that’s it, forever. And Owen’s the worst of them.’
‘God, your lot are stupid!’ Grace was angry, and nothing he could say would make her otherwise.
In fact, she was to become even more distraught, for the search was to continue right into the third week of December, causing Grace to fall ill and take to her bed.
Deeply concerned himself, and feeling something of a failure, Probyn was finally compelled to swallow his pride. ‘I don’t suppose it’ll do the least bit of good,’ he told her, seated at her bedside, ‘but I will go and see Owen. He can only throw me out. I can’t think of anything else to do.’
* * *
Even the wearing of mufti could not conceal his soldier’s bearing, and he was to receive inquisitive looks from a couple of housewives on his arrival at the colliery village. Apart from these, the streets of Garborough Junction were strangely deserted, but then it always was quiet whilst the men were down the pit.
But the moment he knocked at Owen’s door he knew that the sense of desertion was more than just an illusion. There were no curtains at the window. A quick look through the pane showed that the house was completely empty. He now noticed that most of the others in the street were uninhabited too.
Shocked, he went back to the main street and entered the post office. The post office was also a general store though its shelves were depleted. The woman behind the counter was looking bored until he came in. Now she brightened at the thought of a sale.
With little from which to choose he bought some cigarettes. He had been smoking more recently. ‘You’re quiet today.’
‘Quiet every day,’ came the disgruntled reply. ‘Since His Lordship closed the pit. It’s worked out, or that’s the excuse he’s given. Myself I think he’s just got fed up and washed his hands of it. He’s selling the land.’
Probyn showed genuine concern, and not just for himself. Such closure was a death knell for the whole area. ‘How long’s it been closed?’ He could not recall having seen anything in the newspaper.
‘Oh, months.’ Handing over the cigarettes she folded her arms under her pinafored bosom and looked him up and down. ‘Why, come for a job? You don’t look much like a collier to me.’ His fingers were too finely-tapered.
Putting one of the cigarettes between his lips and lighting it, Probyn shook his head woefully, the lie emerging on a cloud of smoke. ‘No, I’ve just come to see my uncle, Owen Kilmaster, do you know him?’
The woman nodded. ‘Aye, Owen’s moved to Denaby Main so I believe.’
Probyn’s heart fell even further and he drew deeply on the cigarette. The Denaby Main branch of the union had a reputation for militancy against a ruthless owner, with a record of major strikes and lock-outs. He had no wish to become embroiled in this. Still, he had no choice.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t believe it!’ The woman’s voice made him jump. ‘I’ve just seen one of his grandbairns pass the door. Go catch him, he’ll tell you.’
Thanking her, Probyn hurried from the shop and, seeing only one figure loping down the street, called to him. ‘Hold on, lad!’
The young man, about fourteen, turned to wait for the other to catch up.
Probyn approached him in friendly manner. The lad was as tall as himself, though several stones lighter. ‘Is your granddad called Owen Kilmaster?’
The other’s brown eyes remained wary. ‘Aye, what of it?’
‘I don’t think you and I’ve met.’ Since the brothers’ rift their families had not associated much. ‘But your granddad is my uncle.’ Swapping the cigarette to his other hand, Probyn extended his right.
The lad relaxed somewhat, nodding, and engaged in a handshake. ‘I’m Roy.’
‘Probyn.’
There was a slight change of expression on Roy’s face. ‘The sodjer?’
Probyn’s gaze remained steady. ‘Aye, but not for much longer. I’ve come to see your granddad but they tell me he’s moved to Denaby. Do you have his address?’
The young man hesitated. ‘I don’t think he’ll’ want to see thee.’
‘It’s important,’ said Probyn firmly, using the gimlet gaze that had unnerved many a soldier.
Only through feeling intimidated by the man’s strong character did the boy finally give him the information he sought.
Thanking him, Probyn wasted no further time and went to catch a train to Denaby.
* * *
His arrival coincided with the end of the six-to-two shift. His uncle was still in his pit clothes and came with bare arms and braces dangling to answer the knock, though he had undergone a wash and still held the grey towel in his mutilated hand as he opened the door.
Owen had grown even more goat-like in his sixty-second year, the lines that led from his nose to his small pointy chin deeply engrained with coal. Only the black astrakhan eyebrows remained unaltered, a strange combination when everything else about him was grey. Except for these Probyn would hardly have recognized the wizened old man who peered suspiciously round the edge of the door.
But seeing past the extra weight Owen recognized him and a look of disdain accompanied his words. ‘By heck, you’re taking your life in your hands.’
Unafraid, Probyn held the other’s face, to which bits of lint adhered. ‘Hello, Uncle Owen. Can I come in?’
After a moment’s shaking of head for his nephew’s audacity in coming here, Owen finally admitted him.
Probyn entered the parlour to be greeted coolly by his Aunt Meg. ‘By, you’ve put weight on; you’d make three of your uncle. Not in the army now?’
Not being invited to sit, Probyn remained standing but took off his cap. ‘I’m nearing the end of my time. That’s partly why I’m here.’
Age had not atrophied Owen’s brain. Guessing the motive, he gasped and cried out to his wife, ‘He’s only got the nerve to come and ask if I’ll help him get a job!’
Humbled, Probyn sought to explain. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate, Uncle.’
‘Oh, that makes it so much better!’ Owen’s stick-like body marched across the room and seized a newspaper over which he pored for a moment before folding it noisily and presenting it to his nephew, striking the relevant page with the back of his hand. ‘There’s a job at Cadeby that’ll suit thee!’
Taking hold of the paper, Probyn read the advertisement for a master’s weighman; the most detested position in the colliery.
‘Thou bloody hypocrite,’ muttered Owen, shrugging himself back into his braces.
Hypocrite? Yes, Probyn
supposed he was. But, ‘If it’s a choice between hypocrisy and making sure my family don’t starve, I’ll choose the former.’ He studied the twisted face for a moment longer, then said, ‘Thank you, Uncle. I’ll go and apply now.’
No one stopped him from leaving.
He had gone several paces before he realized that he did not know the location of the manager’s house and had to ask a passer-by. Going there, he first offered his apologies to the manager for disturbing him, adding that he had come many miles to apply for the job.
The official seemed influenced by his military bearing and manners, sufficiently so to invite him in. Discovering that Probyn was a colour- sergeant he looked even more impressed.
‘Why, you’re just the kind we want, know how to get the best out of the men! The job is yours if you want it.’
No he did not really want it. He would be a hated man among strangers. But at least it would save him from going underground, and it would be good news for his wife.
Enquiring over remuneration and inspecting the house that went with the post, he made his acceptance, agreeing to start after Christmas when the pit reopened. Then he went home to tell Grace.
* * *
Naturally his wife was overcome with relief and happiness, having envisaged them out on the street the moment the Christmas festivities were over. Now, she could start to eat again, could relax and enjoy all the dances and parties, knowing that they marked the beginning of a new life, whilst for Probyn it was perhaps the worst Christmas he had ever encountered, including all those spent flooded out in South Africa.
Certainly it was marvellous for him and Grace to be invited into the colonel’s office, where all the officers had gathered to show how much he was valued and to present him with a handsome gold ring.
‘For your energetic devotion to duty,’ announced the colonel to applause, afterwards presenting Mrs Kilmaster with a bouquet of flowers for her excellent work with the officers’ laundry.
Family of the Empire Page 58