'No, mixed goods and passengers. It's not what you might call.. He seemed to drift away for a minute here, but he came back galvanised: 'Of course, with the sort of running I'll be putting up, I'll be off the half-link and on to suburban runs in under six months, you bloody watch. After that the sky's the limit.' "The Bournemouth Belle!' I said.
'You've got it, brother. Eighty miles to the fucking hour, and the big penny in the pocket. Do you want to see where the half-link drivers have their twenty minutes?' "That would be fine,' I said.
The half-link mess turned out to be hanging in the blackness off the side wall of the engine shed. It had a wooden staircase leading up to it, and a metal pipe connecting the back of the shed with the floor, and I wondered: now, what is holding this thing up, the pipe or the staircase? because neither looked up to the job.
'We can't go in, of course,' said Vincent when we'd got to the top of the stairs, 'but we can look through the window.'
There were proper tables and chairs, though of a rough sort. Two men were sitting in the mess, both smoking pipes and reading newspapers, the nearest one's being all about sport – 'GOLFING NOTES', I read, and 'ROWING FROM THE UNIVERSITIES' – while the chap at the far end was behind a newspaper of a smarter sort: 'EAST LONDON WATER, PRESENCE OF DANGEROUS BICCILLI'.
The sportsman was side-on to me so I could see that he was a wide, pinkish bloke with curly yellow hair, and a face that seemed to have burst a long while ago. All I could see of the other was his paper, with pipe smoke rising above it, and two thin legs shooting out from underneath with shiny boots on the end of them.
'That's Barney Rose,' said Vincent, pointing to the sporting paper, 'and that there's Arthur Hunt,' he added, pointing to the second man, and I could tell from the way he spoke that this fellow Hunt was really the man for him. 'Are they the only two drivers on the link?' "The only two full time on it, yes.' 'And they've only got one fireman between them?' 'Apart from the relief blokes who come and go.'
In all my years of reading The Railway Magazine I had never heard anything to match it.
'And that one fireman is the fellow called Mike that we've just seen in the firemen's mess?'
On the subject of this toothy lad Vincent just nodded, and I could tell that it wasn't a matter of dislike but something more.
'Henry Taylor,' I said, 'the one who went missing… Was he firing on the half-link before he vanished?' Here I came in for another of his stares. Henry Taylor was the great unmentionable, but Vincent did bring himself to a shake of the head eventually. 'Cleaning,' he said. 'So I've been taken on in his place?' Another pause. "That's it,' said Vincent.
'Don't these fellows ever do any work?' I said, turning back to look at the two engine men.
"They're on their twenty minutes,' Vincent whispered. 'I told you that.'
We carried on watching them. They had both turned over pages, 'WRESTLING NOTES', I read on the sporting paper; on the other, 'TODAY'S SPEECHES'. Then TODAY'S SPEECHES collapsed and I saw the thin, wolfish face of the man behind the paper, like a dagger. He didn't glance at me but nodded quickly at Vincent before disappearing again behind the journal.
This nod was electrifying in the effect it had on Vincent, who blushed as if that man had been his best girl. Then the other one, the comfortable one, put down his paper and nodded, but this nod was for the two of us, and quite genial. He stood up and opened the door, while the other just carried on with his paper and his pipe.
'Well, lads,' said Barney Rose, 'Ranjitsinjih has hit thirty-four off one over for the second time in three weeks.' I tried to think of something to say.
1 just had to pass on the news to someone,' said Barney Rose. 'He's new,' said Vincent, pointing at me, and making no attempt to continue with the cricket talk. 'He's cleaning for the link.'
There was a short silence; Rose moved his hand to his face, then away again. 'What's your sport, young man?' he asked, finally looking at me. 'I'm not so hot at any game, sir. I concentrate on my work.' 'But even so,' said Rose, in a dreamy sort of way.
'I have most energetic aspirations,' I said, still hoping to bring the talk back to what it ought to have been, 'and my supreme goal is the footplate.'
'Oh, my eye!' said Rose, before adding more quietly, 'Another Henry Taylor! He was always pretty keen to come up.' He was sweating and smiling in a strained way. 'Taylor was quite an ardent lad like yourself… but that's all right.'
'I believe that any young railman aspires to the footplate,' I suddenly heard myself saying, 'and I see no mystery in that, because I hold the life to be a grand one of freedom, healthy effort, endless variety, and delightful good friendship.'
'Where on earth did you get all that?' asked Rose, and he really did seem astonished at my remarks. But I was watching the hard-looking fellow at the far end of the room who'd put the paper down once again and started staring at me. His shirt had no collar but it was clean and pressed. He looked like a grey wolf, and was obviously the right sort, but I did not like him, whereas I had always assumed that I would like men of the right sort.
Tt has been indicated to me,' I carried on, giving this fellow back as straight a look as I could, 'that I might be climbing onto the footplate of a slow-goods in six months from now, and that I could be wielding the shovel pretty freely from then onwards.'
Hunt took his pipe out of his mouth, and pretty well demanded, 'Who has given you all these promises?' For a working man, he talked like a swell, but with too much of London in his voice. 'Mr Rowland Smith,' I said.
From the look the man gave me – a look of nothingness -1 at first assumed he did not know the name, but that I could hardly credit.
'Mr Rowland Smith,' I said, 'is a director of the company that employs you, sir: the London and South Western Railway.'
'And you', he said, settling back on his bench in a way that made me realise that this wooden room was the kingdom over which he ruled, 'are his little friend?' 'It is not -' 'What wage has he started you at?' the wolf cut in.
'Fifteen shillings,' I said, at which he caught up his paper sharply, spitting at the same time, then muttering something I could not catch, save for a single word which I could not help but think was 'devil', however much I wanted it to be something else. The man was at his paper for only a second, then he was moving fast towards me, saying, 'There need be no further -'
There was more, but again I couldn't catch it for he had booted the door shut in my face.
Chapter Five
Grosmont Rowland Smith came to Grosmont on 30 August 1903. Even after all these years, and all that went on at Nine Elms and the Necropolis, it's the day I remember, and it runs through my mind like one of the old bioscopes – going too fast, I mean, which is how it was at the time.
Thirtieth of August was a Sunday, and I had been in the ladies' lavatories at Grosmont, as usual on the quiet days, getting the sand out of the sinks, trickling the Jeyes into the khazis, shuffling about with my bucket and dreaming of the main line. I had to give most of my attention to the ladies' conveniences because the Board would from time to time send out a Mr Curtis to inspect them. As far as I could tell this fellow did nothing all day but pounce on North Eastern stationmasters and peer into their ladies' conveniences – a very out-of-the-way line for any respectable gentleman to be in.
I was thinking what a rotten sort of day it had been. The bike ride in had been worse than usual because it had been so hot. The sign in Baytown pointing to Grosmont said seven miles but when you got to Grosmont the sign pointing back the other way said nine miles, and I reckoned that was the one telling the truth.