by E. Nesbit
Bobbie began to feel sick with suspense.
It seemed to her that they had been standing there for hours and hours, holding those silly little red flannel flags that no one would ever notice. The train wouldn’t care. It would go rushing by them and tear round the corner and go crashing into that awful mound. And everyone would be killed. Her hands grew very cold and trembled so that she could hardly hold the flag. And then came the distant rumble and hum of the metals, and a puff of white steam showed far away along the stretch of line.
E. NESBIT
THE
RAILWAY CHILDREN
INTRODUCED BY
JACQUELINE WILSON
Illustrations by C. E. BROCK
PUFFIN
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
puffinbooks.com
First published by Wells Gardner, Darton & Co. 1906
Published in Puffin Books 1960
Reissued in this edition 2010
Introduction copyright © Jacqueline Wilson, 2010
Endnotes copyright © Penguin Books, 2010
All rights reserved
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-196360-0
To my dear Son
Paul Bland
behind whose knowledge of railways
my ignorance confidently shelters
INTRODUCTION BY
JACQUELINE WILSON
The Railway Children was one of the first children’s classics I ever read. I wasn’t sure I was going to enjoy it. It was a strange old-fashioned hardback copy that I found for threepence at a jumble sale. It was very battered, with all the illustrations coloured in very badly, which was annoying. I always took immense care not to go over the lines when I did any colouring. The children in the pictures were wearing very odd clothes too, and I felt they’d look silly even if they hadn’t been scribbled on.
I took exception to the author’s name too. E. Nesbit. Was that a man or a woman? Why didn’t they use their first name? (I later found out she was a magnificent unconventional woman called Edith – so perhaps the use of the initial was understandable.)
I started reading the story and was immediately gripped. It wasn’t hard to read at all; it was wondrously easy. There were a few things that seemed a little strange because The Railway Children was written in 1905, but it was easy enough to work out that Maskelyne and Cook’s was probably a posh toy shop like Hamleys in London and that pigeon-pie (yuck!) was a treat, like being able to order a giant pizza with every single topping.
The Railway Children might have been written over a hundred years ago but in many ways it’s very modern in its viewpoint. The children’s father is very encouraging to Roberta when she says she’d love to be an engine driver, and reminds Peter that girls are just as clever and capable as boys. The children’s mother certainly proves herself incredibly capable and courageous when the family’s circumstances change dramatically. She shuts up their suburban villa, dismisses the servants and sets up home with the children in a little country cottage overlooking the railway. Money is very tight, so Mother works all day writing stories to pay the bills. Whenever she sells a story the family celebrate with buns for tea. I loved this idea, and when I was a young mother writing lots of stories to pay the bills I always bought big buns with thick sticky icing and a cherry on the top when a story sold.
Mother is very determined and brave, even when it seems as if there are rats scuttling in the dark cottage. The children are exceptionally courageous too, especially when they go into the dark tunnel to search for the missing boy in the running race. But Roberta, Peter and Phyllis aren’t noble and insufferably good. They are wonderfully real children who squabble and fuss and fall over and break things. But they can be extraordinarily inventive at times (turning those red-flannel petticoats into flags to stop the train crashing!), and are gloriously independent. They ramble all over the countryside without any adult supervision and wander along train tracks in ways that would make today’s Health and Safety officers keel over in a dead faint.
There’s a lot of interesting detailed information about railways and engines explained in an easy and friendly way. E. Nesbit obviously did her research thoroughly. But, best of all, she remembered exactly what it felt like to be a child in strange and exciting new circumstances. She brought it all vividly alive for me when I first read her story more than fifty years ago, and I promise you she’ll make the story work for you too. Hang on to your special Puffin copy. I’m pretty sure your children – even your grandchildren – will want to read it too.
Contents
1 The Beginning of Things
2 Peter’s Coal-Mine
3 The Old Gentleman
4 The Engine-Burglar
5 Prisoners and Captives
6 Saviours of the Train
7 For Valour
8 The Amateur Fireman
9 The Pride of Perks
10 The Terrible Secret
11 The Hound in the Red Jersey
12 What Bobbie Brought Home
13 The Hound’s Grandfather
14 The End
1
The Beginning of Things
They were not railway children to begin with. I don’t suppose they had ever thought about railways except as a means of getting to Maskelyne and Cook’s, the Pantomime, Zoological Gardens, and Madame Tussaud’s. They were just ordinary suburban children, and they lived with their Father and Mother in an ordinary red-brick-fronted villa, with coloured glass in the front door, a tiled passage that was called a hall, a bathroom with hot and cold water, electric bells, french windows, and a good deal of white paint, and ‘every modern convenience’, as the house-agents say.
There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, Mothers never have favourites, but if their Mother had had a favourite, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished to be an Engineer when he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well.
Mother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull ladies, and sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to her. She was almost always there, ready to play with the children, and read to them, and help them to do their home-lessons. Besides this she used to write stories for them while they were at school, and read them aloud after tea, and she always made up funny pieces of poetry for their birthdays and for other
great occasions, such as the christening of the new kittens, or the refurnishing of the doll’s house, or the time when they were getting over the mumps.
These three lucky children always had everything they needed: pretty clothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys, and a Mother Goose wallpaper. They had a kind and merry nursemaid, and a dog who was called James, and who was their very own. They also had a Father who was just perfect – never cross, never unjust, and always ready for a game – at least, if at any time he was not ready, he always had an excellent reason for it, and explained the reason to the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt sure he couldn’t help himself.
You will think that they ought to have been very happy. And so they were, but they did not know how happy till the pretty life in Edgecombe Villa was over and done with, and they had to live a very different life indeed.
The dreadful change came quite suddenly.
Peter had a birthday – his tenth. Among his other presents was a model engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The other presents were full of charm, but the Engine was fuller of charm than any of the others were.
Its charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days. Then, owing either to Peter’s inexperience or Phyllis’s good intentions, which had been rather pressing, or to some other cause, the Engine suddenly went off with a bang. James was so frightened that he went out and did not come back all day. All the Noah’s Ark people who were in the tender were broken to bits, but nothing else was hurt except the poor little engine and the feelings of Peter. The others said he cried over it – but of course boys of ten do not cry, however terrible the tragedies may be which darken their lot. He said that his eyes were red because he had a cold. This turned out to be true, though Peter did not know it was when he said it, the next day he had to go to bed and stay there. Mother began to be afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when suddenly he sat up in bed and said:
‘I hate gruel – I hate barley water – I hate bread and milk. I want to get up and have something real to eat.’
‘What would you like?’ Mother asked.
‘A pigeon-pie,’ said Peter, eagerly, ‘a large pigeon-pie. A very large one.’
So Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was made. And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was cooked, Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better. Mother made a piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being made. It began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter was, then it went on:
He had an engine that he loved
With all his heart and soul,
And if he had a wish on earth
It was to keep it whole.
One day – my friends, prepare your minds;
I’m coming to the worst –
Quite suddenly a screw went mad,
And then the boiler burst!
With gloomy face he picked it up
And took it to his Mother,
Though even he could not suppose
That she could make another;
For those who perished on the line
He did not seem to care,
His engine being more to him
Than all the people there.
And now you see the reason why
Our Peter has been ill:
He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie
His gnawing grief to kill.
He wraps himself in blankets warm
And sleeps in bed till late,
Determined thus to overcome
His miserable fate.
And if his eyes are rather red,
His cold must just excuse it:
Offer him pie; you may be sure
He never will refuse it.
Father had been away in the country for three or four days. All Peter’s hopes for the curing of his afflicted Engine were now fixed on his Father, for Father was most wonderfully clever with his fingers. He could mend all sorts of things. He had often acted as veterinary surgeon to the wooden rocking-horse; once he had saved its life when all human aid was despaired of, and the poor creature was given up for lost, and even the carpenter said he didn’t see his way to do anything. And it was Father who mended the doll’s cradle when no one else could; and with a little glue and some bits of wood and a pen-knife made all the Noah’s Ark beasts as strong on their pins as ever they were, if not stronger.
Peter, with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about his Engine till after Father had had his dinner and his after-dinner cigar. The unselfishness was Mother’s idea – but it was Peter who carried it out. And needed a good deal of patience, too.
At last Mother said to Father, ‘Now, dear, if you’re quite rested, and quite comfy, we want to tell you about the great railway accident, and ask your advice.’
‘All right,’ said Father, ‘fire away!’
So then Peter told the sad tale, and fetched what was left of the Engine.
‘Hum,’ said Father, when he had looked the Engine over very carefully.
The children held their breaths.
‘Is there no hope?’ said Peter, in a low, unsteady voice.
‘Hope? Rather! Tons of it,’ said Father, cheerfully; ‘but it’ll want something besides hope – a bit of brazing, say, or some solder, and a new valve. I think we’d better keep it for a rainy day. In other words, I’ll give up Saturday afternoon to it, and you shall all help me.’
‘Can girls help to mend engines?’ Peter asked doubtfully.
‘Of course they can. Girls are just as clever as boys, and don’t you forget it! How would you like to be an engine-driver, Phil?’
‘My face would be always dirty, wouldn’t it?’ said Phyllis, in unemotional tones, ‘and I expect I should break something.’
‘I should just love it,’ said Roberta – ‘do you think I could when I’m grown up, Daddy? Or even a stoker?’
‘You mean a fireman,’ said Daddy, pulling and twisting at the engine. ‘Well, if you still wish it, when you’re grown up, we’ll see about making you a fire-woman. I remember when I was a boy –’
Just then there was a knock at the front door.
‘Who on earth!’ said Father. ‘An Englishman’s house is his castle, of course, but I do wish they built semi-detached villas with moats and drawbridges.’
Ruth – she was the parlour-maid and had red hair – came in and said that two gentlemen wanted to see the master.
‘I’ve shown them into the Library, Sir,’ said she.
‘I expect it’s the subscription to the Vicar’s testimonial,’ said Mother, ‘or else it’s the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them quickly, dear. It does break up an evening so, and it’s nearly the children’s bed-time.’
But Father did not seem to be able to get rid of the gentlemen at all quickly.
‘I wish we had got a moat and drawbridge,’ said Roberta; ‘then, when we didn’t want people, we could just pull up the drawbridge and no one else could get in. I expect Father will have forgotten about when he was a boy if they stay much longer.’
Mother tried to make the time pass by telling them a new fairy story about a Princess with green eyes, but it was difficult because they could hear the voices of Father and the gentlemen in the Library, and Father’s voice sounded louder and different from the voice he generally used to people who came about testimonials and holiday funds.
Then the Library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of relief.
‘They’re going now,’ said Phyllis; ‘he’s rung to have them shown out.’
But instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and she looked queer, the children thought.
‘Please’m,’ she said, ‘the Master wants you to just step into the study. He looks like the dead, mum; I think he’s had bad news. You’d best prepare yourself for the worst, ’m – p’raps it’s a death in the family or a bank busted or –’
‘That’ll do, Ruth,’ said Mother gently; ‘you can go.’<
br />
Then Mother went into the Library. There was more talking. Then the bell rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children heard boots go out and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the front door shut. Then Mother came in. Her dear face was as white as her lace collar, and her eyes looked very big and shining. Her mouth looked like just a line of pale red – her lips were thin and not their proper shape at all.
‘It’s bed-time,’ she said. ‘Ruth will put you to bed.’
‘But you promised we should sit up late tonight because Father’s come home,’ said Phyllis.
‘Father’s been called away – on business,’ said Mother. ‘Come, darlings, go at once.’
They kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give Mother an extra hug and to whisper:
‘It wasn’t bad news, Mammy, was it? Is anyone dead – or –’
‘Nobody’s dead – no,’ said Mother, and she almost seemed to push Roberta away. ‘I can’t tell you anything tonight, my pet. Go, dear, go now.’
So Roberta went.
Ruth brushed the girls’ hair and helped them to undress. (Mother almost always did this herself.) When she had turned down the gas and left them she found Peter, still dressed, waiting on the stairs.
‘I say, Ruth, what’s up?’ he asked.
‘Don’t ask me no questions and I won’t tell you no lies,’ the red-headed Ruth replied. ‘You’ll know soon enough.’
Late that night Mother came up and kissed all three children as they lay asleep. But Roberta was the only one whom the kiss woke, and she lay mousey-still, and said nothing.
‘If Mother doesn’t want us to know she’s been crying,’ she said to herself as she heard through the dark the catching of her Mother’s breath, ‘we won’t know it. That’s all.’
When they came down to breakfast the next morning, Mother had already gone out.
‘To London,’ Ruth said, and left them to their breakfast.
‘There’s something awful the matter,’ said Peter, breaking his egg. ‘Ruth told me last night we should know soon enough.’
