There were, too, accolades from the parade ground, the men sending up three rousing cheers for their respected colour-sergeant, even men from whom he had heard the private grumble that they hated his guts.
A final enthusiastic flurry of handshaking … and that was that, came his desolate thought.
All that was left was to supervise the loading of his family’s belongings on a wagon and catch a train. No more the bold soldier but a colliery employee. Denaby Main was a company town, its houses, shops, the parish church, the public house and even the school built and owned by the coal masters, just as they now owned him. A company man.
Arriving before the furniture, Grace could not believe her luck upon being shown around her new house, delighted that even if the outside walls were grimy with coal inside it was clean and she could see green fields from its windows.
She examined each of its rooms, only two of them being bedrooms but these were very large, a ducket lavatory and a shed filled with gleaming coal that would never run out, eventually exclaiming, ‘Oh it’s lovely!’ And she hugged him, both for the house and his sacrifice. ‘But the best thing of all is that you’ve not been forced underground. I had awful visions, felt really guilty that I’d made you leave, but you’ve got a safe job, a sitting down job, an important job.’ She squeezed him reassuringly. ‘This is surely going to make your changeover from the army a lot smoother, Probe.’
And Probyn returned the hug, agreeing with her, though in truth he felt that nothing could fill his empty heart.
* * *
He was to see little of his uncle. Owen lived only in the next street but worked at the Denaby pit which, though amalgamated to the same company as Cadeby, was almost a mile apart from it. The few times they did pass in the street Owen’s only acknowledgement was a nod and Probyn expected nothing more.
Grace’s own transition was much easier, her kindness and pleasant personality endearing her to her new neighbours straightaway and making up too for the fact that her husband was a weighman, and most showed a willingness to help the Kilmasters settle in. The parish priest, Father Flanagan, became a regular caller and a good friend. With a fire in every room, including the bedrooms, the house was as warm as toast, and the atmosphere too, the children being as adaptable as their mother.
Probyn wondered if he was the only one not to have settled in. Seated in the dark little office that he shared with the check weighman day after day, watching a procession of tubs rumble past his window, having to weigh each one … he tried to project enthusiasm, he really did, but it took every ounce of willpower to look cheery as he set off for work on a morning, especially now that winter had really set in with heavy snowstorms blighting his passage. There had been a spark of excitement upon receipt of the letter that had gone out to all reservists, telling him to hold himself in readiness for mobilization. A cheque had accompanied the letter, to be cashed if he was called up, enabling him to pay for the train to the depot, and giving rise to the idea that some matter of great import was pending – there had been concern over Germany’s naval build-up for some time. Quivering with excitement he had held himself in readiness for days, but nothing had happened. He was still sitting here watching his tubs. At least the colliers had come to know that if he reprimanded a miner it was because his tub was genuinely underweight and not done out of pettiness, and with his fines being not so punitive as they might have been he did not have to bear any more resentment than that which usually went with the job.
But occasionally, when his wife took the children to Sunday Mass, he would demur, saying his legs were troubling him and preferring to remain in bed. Then, once alone, he would take his dress uniform from the wardrobe and polish its buttons, reverently pick off each speck of lint, and gaze upon it longingly, thinking of battles and comrades long-dead, before reluctantly restoring it to its hanger.
* * *
That mining was a precarious existence, he had always been aware; but a few weeks after he had started work Probyn was given a stark reminder. A sudden outpouring of men from the shaft signalled that something was wrong, for the shift was not yet over. Their frightened faces confirming his worries, he came out of the office into a snow-covered yard to investigate.
Eyes narrowed against the cold driving flakes, he saw that a few of the men had signs of injury, and hence took immediate charge, telling a boy, ‘Get me a first-aid box!’
But the under manager was to countermand him – ‘Go back to your office, I’ll see to this!’ – giving rude reminder that he was no longer in the army.
Feeling belittled, he stood there for a moment in the bitter cold, whilst others gave expert management, then asked one of those who had come out what had occurred.
‘Gas in t’old one-twenty-one’s stall,’ explained the informant, hunched against the weather. ‘We were working a hundred and fifty yards away and felt t’blast. Lucky they weren’t more badly burned. There were a gob fire back in November, I reckon this were in t’same place, though there’s allus one somewheer. She’s a fiery owd pit.’
Nodding, Probyn watched for a moment longer, snow settling on his cap and shoulders, before the cold drove him back to the comparative comfort of his dingy office.
Before long, the fire was brought under control, the men persuaded to go back down and work resumed.
However, the dangers of explosion were not the only hazards in the mining industry and Probyn was shortly to find his new employment threatened from a different angle. He was aware of the Federation rumblings over a minimum wage that had been in motion previous to his appointment as Owen and others argued that no man working underground should receive less than five shillings per shift, the boys no less than two shillings. Probyn agreed with the principle. It was not fair that those working where the seam was thin were unable to earn the recognized minimum wage for the district. Nevertheless, if the miners were to strike, without union membership himself he could expect no financial backing, and he dreaded the outcome.
Some agreement had been reached, but not enough for the Federation. A ballot was taken on the question of handing in notices to establish the principle. A large many were in favour and, to Probyn’s dismay, notices were handed in to terminate at the end of February. From the first of March the pit was on strike, as were those over the entire country.
He feared that Grace would take it out on him. She had been very unpredictable since ‘the visit’, it didn’t take much to disturb her equilibrium and at the slightest upset she would begin to neglect herself, which would make her prone to any transient infection, which usually precipitated another bout of bed rest.
However, upon his news, she did not fly into a panic, but sympathized and said, ‘You can’t be blamed, dear. We’ll manage somehow.’
Though relieved at her response, it was hard to see how they would manage for, during the weeks that followed, no amount of negotiation could bring about an end to the national deadlock involving three-quarters of a million men. Foreseeing that the situation would become dire if no intervention occurred, the Prime Minister wasted no time in calling each of the sides to meet him in conference. Yet with such bitter opponents, even he had no sway, the dispute extending from one month into the next and spreading financial distress over the nation.
With no wages, the debts began to build. The level of coal in the shed fell dangerously low, having to be eked out by anything else that might burn. Food had to be purchased on credit.
‘The others in my class have breakfast at The Big Drum,’ announced Clem over his bread and butter one morning during the long drawn out boycott. ‘They have these nice tea-cakes. They get their dinner there too. Why can’t we go?’
Teapot in hand, Grace looked questioningly at Probyn, who told his son, ‘Because their fathers are in the union and your father’s not. If the union didn’t pay for their food they’d starve.’
Anxiety filled Madeleine’s big blue eyes. ‘Will we starve?’ Whilst her elder siblings had seats, she and the younger ones m
ust stand at the table, there being insufficient chairs.
Probyn smiled reassuringly. ‘No, we have money from the army to live on.’
Little Joseph chipped in. ‘The army’s good, isn’t it, Father?’
Probyn gave a wistful smile and nodded.
Grace offered no argument, for once grateful to the military and adopting all blame for landing them in this situation.
‘There’s a German spy in my class,’ announced Augusta, nibbling the corner of her bread.
Grace threw an amused glance at Probyn. ‘Really, dear? What’s his name?’
‘Ruth Kaiser – she’s a girl.’
‘Oh, she must be Mr Kaiser’s daughter, the man who has the butcher’s shop.’ Grace prevented the gossip from spreading further. ‘They’re not spies, they’re lovely people. Well, Mr Kaiser is.’ She murmured now to Probyn in a confidential tone, though it was easy for the children to overhear, ‘I hear his wife was involved with that violent suffragist demonstration in London. Much as I’m a great believer in votes for women and don’t hold with the treatment they’re getting, being imprisoned and force-fed, I detest wanton destruction. What good do they expect that to do? It just drags us all down. As if there isn’t enough violence in the world. They’d set better example by putting forth intelligent argument rather than behaving like vandals.’ She handed another slice of bread to the youngest child. ‘And nine times out of ten it’s the posh folk who are in the thick of it, pretending they’re representing the poor downtrodden women like me. What the devil do they know about how we’re forced to cope, what with servants at their beck and call? I don’t need them to speak for me I can speak for myself thank you very much.’
‘We can see that,’ teased her husband.
Grace laughed.
‘Why aren’t you in the union, Father?’ asked Clem.
Probyn was slow in responding. ‘It’s a bit too complicated for you to understand.’
‘What’s complicated?’
Grace ignored the question, telling Madeleine, ‘Stand still whilst you’re eating, and don’t lean on the table.’
‘Can I be in the army when I grow up?’ asked Joseph.
Probyn glanced at his wife, saw her purse her lips. ‘We’ll see. Now, no more talking at the table. By Jove, if my father were alive I don’t know what he’d have to say. I were never allowed half the freedom you are. Let’s just finish our breakfast in peace.’
‘Finished it,’ said Clem looking down rather miserably at his empty plate.
Grace tore her own piece of bread in half. ‘Here, gutsy!’
Probyn shook his head in reproof. His wife often shared her portion with the children.
‘Well, he’s a growing lad,’ came Grace’s excuse as she dribbled the last drop of tea into her cup.
‘Aye, he’s growing at his mother’s expense – you’re looking right scrawny.’
‘You cheeky ’a’porth!’ Grace flicked him with the back of her hand, though she was laughing. ‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black. If this strike goes on any longer we can always eat you!’
* * *
But it was really no laughing matter with this austerity seemed set to continue for many more days. Only when a bill was put before Parliament, and the Royal Assent given, did the miners’ long struggle for a minimum wage finally appear to be won. Yet stubborn to the end, they were to drag the strike into another week before taking the ballot that would signal a return to work.
To a flourish of banners and brass bands the pit reopened in April. Though making a less boisterous entry to his workplace, Probyn was relieved to be back here too, and felt rather proud of himself for being able to exist on his army pension without having to cross the picket line, which made his return to work a lot less hostile than it might have been. Bad as things were, he was fortunate enough to have a job at all, for some of the collieries were never to reopen.
With the pit in bad condition, it took another week for normal work to be resumed, thereby extending the financial misery. Added to this came another report that a flash had been seen in the district of the last explosion, though nothing was found and officials placated fears by saying that the fire had been put out.
‘There’s going to be trouble down there if some bugger doesn’t sort it out,’ Probyn was informed by the check weighman, a quite elderly chap with fifty years’ experience at the face. ‘I warned them last year about fire in that seam but they wouldn’t pay any heed. That’s why I decided to pack it in and come up here. There’s going to be a big un if they don’t fettle it, mark my words.’
Whilst Probyn could only claim ignorance, others were in agreement with the old fellow. But then in a few weeks a disaster at sea overcame all talk of fires and strikes as the whole country expressed its horror at the calamitous sinking of the ship Titanic.
‘My Aunt Flora’s married to a fellow on the White Star Line!’ exclaimed Probyn, aghast at the newspaper report of the disaster. ‘I hope he’s all right. I shall have to ask Kit.’
‘How dreadful it must have been! I’m sure it was that eclipse of the sun that had something to do with it,’ said Grace close to tears. ‘It felt really eerie when it went all dark, as if something wasn’t right in the world.’ She shivered. ‘I keep imagining the icy water closing over my head, those poor women having to leave their husbands behind, watching them perish … ooh, it doesn’t bear thinking about!’
And though she could ill afford it with their debts not yet settled, and feared that Probyn would be annoyed, she contributed secretly to the Titanic Relief fund that was set up, and helped to put on concerts in aid of those lost souls.
* * *
With the blooming of May came yet another Home Rule bill for Ireland spawning more grumbles from Probyn over the attempted carve-up of the Empire. In England the great industrial conflict that had marred previous years was to repeat itself, this time amongst the dock and transport workers.
But in summer came excellent news for those in Yorkshire.
‘The King and Queen are coming to visit!’ Grace told Probyn when she and little Beata came to fetch his dinner to the office that noon.
‘What, us personally? You’d better get t’house cleaned up then.’ He winked at the check weighman.
She hit him on the head with the newspaper. ‘I’ve brought this so you can read it yourself but we’ll take it back if you’re being cheeky, won’t we, Bea?’.
Smiling his apologies, he thanked her for this kindness and, wiping his coal-smeared fingers on a rag, poked about in the basket to see what she had brought him for dinner. Satisfied with the contents, he bit into the thick sandwich, waved her and Beata off, then spent his break reading the newspaper report. Besides visiting the manufacturing centres of the county, the King was to review the National Reserve of the West Riding. Probyn’s heart soared. A chance to get out his uniform!
With this exciting prospect under his belt he could scarcely wait to get home to Grace that evening and tell her his intentions. He would have to take the day off, but she was not to worry for everyone else was talking of doing the same for the visit had created great excitement in the village, and he would go to Wentworth Woodhouse to parade before the King. She and the children did not have to go so far, for their Majesties would be driving right through Conisborough on their way to be entertained by Earl Fitzwilliam. It would be a grand day out for all of them!
Happy for this burst of enthusiasm from one whose life had been all drudgery of late, Grace laughed and clapped and hugged him to show that she too was thrilled. Dear, Probe, he deserved a treat.
On the day of the visit the weather was glorious. The Royal couple would not be arriving at Doncaster until almost four o’clock but Probyn had to leave early in order to report to his military commanders. Grace, too, voiced her intention to set off in plenty of time so that she and the children could get a good place along the route. They could take a picnic lunch with them.
Leaving his wife to get the children r
eady and to make sure the boys did not slope off to climb trees in their best clothes and the girls’ pinafores stayed clean and their hair ribbons intact, he himself went to put on his uniform. Last night he had polished his boots until they gleamed like patent, the brass buttons on his tunic equally bright. With great care and reverence, he took it from the wardrobe and suspended its hanger from a hook. The July sunlight streamed through the window, setting the buttons a-glint.
Having waited to shave until now, he stood before the mirror and lathered his chin, the reflected eyes twinkling back at him as he dipped his razor into the bowl of water and began to scrape off his whiskers. Once shaved and washed, his moustache faultlessly trimmed and waxed, he finally put on his uniform, complete with medals, donned his helmet and made a last-minute inspection in the wardrobe mirror. Then, for old times’ sake, he saluted himself, before going downstairs.
Having heard his boots thud against the floorboards as he performed his salute, Grace alerted the children that their father was ready to go – ‘I thought he was going to come through the ceiling!’ – and by the time he got down they were at the open door, Grace in her kingfisher gown and white gloves, with feathered hat, his offspring equally smart, not a hair out of place on each auburn head and pink cheeks a-glow with excitement. Union Jacks in hand, they set off for their appointment with the King and Queen.
Whilst Probyn went off to catch a train, there were hours to wait for Grace who, along with other excited families, seated her own by the roadside along which the King would travel, all squashed onto a rug to spare their best clothes from grass stains. Having to cope with much fidgeting over the following hours, and constant questions from the children who demanded to know when, oh when, was the King going to come, she was forced to open the picnic hamper early and by noon everything in it was devoured.
By the time their Majesties’ motor car drove through more than four hours later the children were once again complaining about their hunger, pinafores had acquired wrinkles and satin hair-ribbons had slipped from their neat bows, but this was all wiped away in an instant as the King and Queen dealt regal waves to right and left and the welcoming crowd of miners and their families erupted into a frenzy of cheers and flag-waving. Nothing mattered but that they were here.
Family of the Empire Page 59