Where the new line followed the course of the River Ankh as it narrowed towards its source high in the Ramtops, barges came up or down the river with wood for sleepers, iron ore, coal and other supplies. The smelters worked through the night casting rails and if you were lucky enough to be in the right place and sufficiently protected you could see them open their guts and spill the glowing liquid steeclass="underline" dancing and living like a creature from the underworld. If you were not lucky and stood too close then quite probably you would end up in that underworld facing the deity of your choice.
And all was fuelled by money, money, money, eager investors turning gold into steel and coal in the hope that it would turn back into even more gold.
The company was building bunkers everywhere along the tracks and it truly came home to Moist that when it came to the railways the engines and carriages and so forth were just the show up front, the iron horse, which needed to be fuelled and watered. And all of this was done by people almost the same colour as the coal, momentarily spotted as you went past, and then forgotten. He knew, because he had attended all the meetings and listened, that running a railway was a lot of small puzzles which, if you opened them, presented you with another sequence, full of constraints, and lists of things that definitely had to be done before anything else could happen. In short, the railway was complexity on wheels. It was amazing that Mr Simnel’s sliding rule didn’t glow as red-hot as the furnaces he worked.
And in Swine Town the workshops were turning out more and more engines: little tank engines that trundled up and down the ever-growing compound, shunting trains and carriages together; night trains, slow and heavy, that picked up wagon after wagon from the watercress farmers and others who needed to get their produce to the cities by dawn; the new Flyer Mark II, which had a roof to the footplate and wonderful new green livery; all now with names such as Spirit of Scrote and King of Pseudopolis[55].
The scream of steam was no longer an intrusion, just one of the noises of Ankh-Morpork, like the explosions in the Alchemists’ Guild, and, as one old man said to his wife, ‘You don’t need a clock to tell you the time when you know the sound of the seven o’clock to Quirm.’ It seemed only weeks since Iron Girder had first puffed gently around Harry King’s compound, but now, inside a year, branch lines were springing up all across the Sto Plains, connecting little towns and villages in every direction.
And near these little towns and villages spanking new houses for the new railway staff were beginning to appear. Houses with baths! And hot running water! Admittedly the privies were outside, but nevertheless the plumbing was well maintained.[56] You could say that for Harry: if something was to be done then it was to be done properly, and doubly so if Effie was around.[57]
It was as if there had been a space waiting to be filled. It was steam-engine time, and the steam engine had arrived, like a raindrop, dripping precisely into its puddle, and Moist and Dick and Harry and Vetinari and the rest of them were simply splashes in the storm.
Then one day at the Ankh-Morpork terminus, as Moist was setting out yet again to the Sto Plains, a lady got into his carriage, introduced herself as Mrs Georgina Bradshaw and sat down, gripping her expensive-looking bag with both hands. When Moist got up to offer her his forward-facing seat as railway etiquette apparently demanded, she said, ‘Oh, my dear sir, don’t worry about me, but thank you. I know a gentleman when I see one.’
‘Moist von Lipwig at your service, ma’am.’
‘Oh — are you the Mister Lipwig? Mister Lipwig the railwayman? I’ve heard all about you.’
‘Yes, I am, I suppose,’ said Moist, ‘when no other contender is available.’
‘Isn’t this fascinating?’ continued Mrs Bradshaw. ‘I’ve never been on a train before. I’ve taken the precaution of bringing some pills in case I feel nauseous. Has that ever happened to you?’
‘No, madam, I quite like the rhythm of the railway,’ said Moist. ‘But tell me, where did you get those precious pills?’
‘It was a gentleman called Professor Dibbler, a purveyor of nostrums against the railway illnesses. He was quite persuasive.’
Moist couldn’t help his smile and said, ‘I imagine he was. Madam, Mister Dibbler is at best nothing more than a charming scamp, I’m afraid. And I’m quite certain his nostrums will be nothing more than expensive sugar and miscellaneous substances. I fear he’s in the vanguard of the pedlars of patent medications which tax my patience.’
She laughed. ‘Well put, sir. I’ll consider that tuppence ha’penny down the drain.’
‘So may I ask what is your business on the railway?’
‘None, really. I thought, well, you only live once, and when I was a little girl my mother said I was always following carts to see where they were going and now that my husband Archibald has passed on I thought that this should be the time to go and see the world … you know, faraway places with strange-sounding names … like Twoshirts and Effing Forest and Scrote. One imagines all manner of exotic occurrences must take place somewhere with a name like Twoshirts. So many places I’ve never been to … I have a whole world to experience before it’s too late, and I’m keeping a journal of it all as I go, so I’ll be able to enjoy the world all over again when I get back.’
Something struck in Moist’s head, causing him to say, ‘May I ask, Mrs Bradshaw, if your handwriting is good?’
She looked down her nose at him and said, ‘Indeed yes, Mister Lipwig. I used to write a beautiful cursive script for my dear late husband. He was a lawyer and they expect excellence in the writing and use of the language. Mister Slant was always very … particular about that, and no one appreciates the judicious use of Latatian better than dear Archibald did.
‘And, may I add, I was schooled at the Quirm College for Young Ladies, where they are very solid on the teaching of foreign tongues, even though Morporkian rather seems to have become the lingua quirma of late.’ Mrs Bradshaw sniffed. ‘And in working for my husband I learned a lot about people and the human condition.’
‘Mrs Bradshaw, if you were to go everywhere where the trains go and write about all those places, perhaps you could send me a copy of your notes? They could be useful to other intrepid passengers … People would know what to expect from the Effing Forest or Twoshirts before they’d even paid a penny for their ticket. Already so many people from Ankh are travelling to Quirm just for the sunshine. It’s become our heaviest service! And some of them go just for the day! I’m sure they’d think about going on other trips too if they saw all the little details of every place you visit, and perhaps you could include notes on accommodation as well as other places of interest en route?’ he added, on fire with his own imagination. ‘All the things that you would like to see and would be interested in. Wherever your travels take you, you can address your manuscript to Moist von Lipwig and give it to the nearest station master, and they’ll see to it that it gets passed on to me.’
Moist thought about the amount of gold accruing in the coffers of Harry King’s accounts and added, ‘And I’m sure we could arrange some remuneration …’
As Mrs Bradshaw settled into the journey and looked out of the window Moist took out his notebook and scribbled a memo to Harry King: ‘Please allow Mrs Georgina Bradshaw to travel anywhere she wants, even those little branch lines we haven’t fully opened yet. She went to one of the best girls’ schools I know of and understands language, and she is writing notes on all our destinations which may come in very useful. My instincts say that she will do us proud. I have an inkling that she will be either meticulous or humorous or, hopefully, both. And a widow who wears the kind of gold and diamond ring that she is wearing to travel through Ankh-Morpork and is still wearing it when she leaves is not going to be a fool. She speaks as well as Lady Sybil; that’s Quirm College for you. Up School! Isn’t this what we’re after? We want people to widen their horizons on the train, of course, but why not day trips? You know what, there are people in Ankh-Morpork who haven’t even got as far as Sto Lat yet. Travel broadens the mind, and also railway revenue.’
55
Moist suspected Vetinari had had some say in that coinage since Pseudopolis had never had a king and was beset by the curse of democracy, an affliction the Patrician couldn’t abide.
56
Around the Sto Plains, as in other places, it took a while for country people to come to terms with indoor … facilities. A privy in the garden with fresh air all around was considered much more hygienic and, if you were careful, the tomatoes you grew would be most excellent.[*]
* If you don’t know what this means, your grandparents will tell you.