And then, reddening as he registered the hush all around him, Simnel said, ‘Apologies to all the ladies here for my straight language. I do beg your pardon.’
‘No apologies necessary, Mister Simnel,’ called out Sacharissa Cripslock, reporter for the Times. ‘I believe I speak for all the ladies present when I say that we appreciate your candour.’ And since Sacharissa was not only respectable in the same way that other people are religious, but was also invariably armed with highly sharpened pencils, the rest of the crowd suddenly found that they too had the greatest admiration for Mr Simnel and his plain talking.
On board, there were many marvels to show off, including the lavish lavatories, apparently another brainchild of Effie, which came as a surprise even to Moist. He wondered what the press would make of Effie’s gift to railway travel. Sometimes the art editor of the Ankh-Morpork Times could be quite creative.[35]
‘This is as good as those they have in the poshest hotels,’ Moist said privately to Sir Harry, who emerged from the cubicle flushed with pride.
Harry beamed. ‘You should look in the ladies, Mister Lipwig! Scent, cushions and real cut flowers. It’s like a boudoir in there!’
‘I suppose the, er, waste can be dropped straight down on to the tracks, eh, Harry?’
Harry looked shocked. ‘Oh, some people would do that, but not Harry King! Where there’s muck there’s money, lad, but don’t tell the Duchess. There’s a big cistern under one of the carriages. Waste not, want not …’
Questions were coming thick and fast from all sides. For those people who hadn’t already taken a ride behind Iron Girder in Harry King’s compound, the matter of railway etiquette loomed: could you stick your head out of the window? Could you bring your pet swamp dragon if it sat on your knee? Could you go and talk to the driver? On this occasion, Moist was pleased to say yes; the editor of the Ankh-Morpork Times being selected for this accolade. The smile Mr de Worde gave as he stepped from the platform on to the footplate cemented this moment on to the front page, assuming this journey was a success — although you had to be aware that it would also make the front page if the engine blew up. Journalism was, well, after all, journalism.
The train pulled away with a whistle and a cloud of smoke and everything was moving along nicely, especially when the trolley with the refreshments rattled through the carriages. Harry and All Jolson were in complete agreement about what made a good meal — namely, calories — and had not stinted. There was enough butter on the slumpie to regrease Iron Girder from top to bottom. The scenery flew past, to the guests’ well-oiled admiration and gasps of awe, until the train approached the first bridge.
Moist held his breath as the train slowed down almost to a halt. There was a troll and he waved a big red flag and cheerfully announced[36] that he and his gang had worked on this bridge and were so pleased to see it being used and thank you for coming ladies and gentlemen. There was laughter, assisted most certainly with alcohol, but nevertheless there was laughter and it was genuine. Moist let the breath go. He supposed few of the passengers could remember the days when to see a troll was to be frightened (or, if you were a dwarf, want to kick his ankles in). Now here they were, building the railway, quite at home.
Moist looked across the First Class carriage to where Lord Vetinari was seated. He had openly commended Effie on her part in the planning and design, and given his usual urbane, anodyne answers to journalists looking for a quote, but Moist couldn’t help but notice that the Patrician was smiling, like a granddad at a newborn grandchild. Moist caught his eye and thought he saw his lordship wink with the speed of a cyclone. Moist nodded and that was that, but he hoped that it might be at least one sin forgiven. Three deaths in one lifetime would definitely be over-egging it.
But it was a nice day, the sun was shining, and as Iron Girder raced along the track a couple of horses in the field alongside tried to catch up with her. So much for Mr Hardwick, and poo to him again because Iron Girder chugged her way down through gentle slopes to the township of Upunder where they stopped to allow the passengers to enjoy the very best of brassica hospitality.
After that it was a short run down to Ankh-Morpork itself, which was beckoning with long smoky fingers. They crossed the new iron bridge over the Ankh and wheezed on to Harry King’s compound, where a brass band was playing the national anthem, ‘We Can Rule You Wholesale’, to the cheers of the waiting crowd.
At the banquet that evening the rail travellers were joined by other Ankh-Morporkian and Sto Plains dignitaries. And in the peroration of his address Sir Harry announced that the next city to receive the magnificent railway would be Quirm, it was hoped very shortly. In the thunder of applause, Harry toasted the Quirmian ambassador, Monsieur Cravat, and this was followed by more toasts, including one to Iron Girder herself. Lord Vetinari opined that it had been a very helpful day; and the unknown quantity of sphincters that had been tightened once again relaxed somewhat.
When the party broke up, some of the guests were walking sideways or hardly at all. Dick, seeing a familiar face swim into his happy world of coloured lights, said, ‘Ee, that were champion, Mister Lipwig! All those tiny places in the distance all along t’track … I were thinking that the railway could be like a tree: you know, one big trunk and then all branches … You’d make ’em cheap and small but I reckon people’d like ’em … Make folks’ lives easier if they could get a train from anywhere—’
Moist, resolutely ignoring the beckoning possibilities, cut him short. ‘Steady on, Dick. First we have to get to Quirm.’ And then drive that express train route to Uberwald, he added to himself … His lordship was so very keen on international relations.
Later that night, Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs proceeded in a policeman-like fashion around the railway compound. After all, they bore the Majesty of the Force and therefore had a right to be absolutely anywhere they liked, looking at anything they wanted to.
And as their boots swung in unison, Fred Colon said, ‘I hear they’re taking the railway all the way to Quirm. My old woman’s always going on at me about us taking a holiday down there. You’ll know about that, Nobby, now you’re practically married and got responsibilities. But you know me, I’m allergic to all that avec, and I hear you can’t get a good pint there for love nor money.’
‘Actually,’ said Nobby, ‘it ain’t all that bad. When I was working the rota last week on the goods yard there were a load of cheeses that got broken open by accident, as it were. Of course, they couldn’t be sent back and it’s amazing what Shine of the Rainbow can do with cheese. It’s good stuff, especially with snails.’ Nobby realized he was talking treason and so hurriedly added, ‘Their beer is still like piss, though.’
35
The caption as it turned out was ‘