The brandy had numbed him at first, blurred his thoughts, but soon it seemed to help crystallize them instead. Inhale. Exhale. Left hand, right foot, left foot, right hand, both feet, twist of the neck, inhale, exhale, inhale-exhale, as though playing a tune, a one-man orchestra, his body, the mechanism, a symphony.
Hours passed. His body did not require rest, did not crave food or even water. The machine was enough, feeding him, breathing through him. His limbs began to move of their own accord, instructed not by his own conscious thoughts but by the necessity of the machine.
“Deirdre,” a voice whispered, so close it might have been breathing in his ear.
The rhythm, perfectly matched.
Elated, he opened his eyes, unaware that he had ever closed them, and saw that the curtain had at last been drawn aside. There were no walls any longer, only the machine, only mechanisms as far as his eyes could see in every direction.
Close by, perhaps twenty feet away, Sir Edgar Radford moved in unison with the machine, in perpetual motion. Arms and legs, inhale exhale. Pulling his mouth away to whisper and then darting forward again to place his lips on the valve. Pipes passed into his flesh and out the other side. Some seemed made of bone. Cables of sinew ran around pulleys, moving his limbs like the strings of a marionette.
The man’s eyes gazed into the awful distance where cogs turned and pulleys rattled and levers rose and fell, and he never blinked.
“Father?” Colin said, his voice a new part of the rhythm between inhale and exhale.
His father did not seem to hear. He only stared deeper into the machine, far off across the joined mechanisms of this place behind the curtain.
“Deirdre?” Sir Edgar whispered.
Then Colin heard it, from far off. A reply. “Edgar?”
He watched as his father bent to his labours, working the mechanism feverishly, that one whisper of his name enough to drive him on with the promise that he had almost succeeded in his goal, that if he could draw back one more curtain, he might be with her at last.
“Deirdre?” Sir Edgar said again.
But this time, the voice that replied did not speak his father’s name.
“Colin?” it said, so close he could feel her there, just out of reach.
He tried to scream but the valve stole his breath, requiring it to maintain the rhythm of the machine.
Inhale.
Exhale.
THE SECRET BACKS OF THINGS
In winter, the Pickthall estate was deathly silent save for the occasional comings and goings of the staff and the cry of birds foolish enough not to have sought warmer climes. Mrs. Pickthall—Helen—never made that mistake. As soon as December came round it was off to Ibiza on the coast of Spain. The children were grown but often visited her there with their own urchins, and she had acquired friends as she did antiques, populating the winter residence with both. James Pickthall joined his wife in Ibiza for at least two weeks of every winter month; as little as he could manage without her pique evolving into fury.
Despite the desolation of his ancestral home during the coldest months, Mr. Pickthall relished the days and weeks he spent there, alone save for the staff, who knew by intuition that he preferred them to be as ghosts when the Missus was away. They flitted like shades from room to room, laying a fire, setting out his meals, turning down the bed, but tried to keep clear of him at all other times.
They haunted the estate, but only as the most helpful of spirits.
Mr. Pickthall knew that he could have retired by now, passed control of the Norwich Rail Company to his son, Martin. The boy already took care of much of the day to day business. But if Mr. Pickthall did that, he would have no excuse to allow him to avoid spending four months a year in Ibiza, listening to his wife chatter and enduring all of her friends and their constant stream of social events. That would simply kill him.
The silence was blissful.
He was the man in charge and he liked it that way, was used to being catered and deferred to. Mrs. Pickthall was too busy dragging him about to have noticed or cared. He was no ordinary man, James Pickthall, yet his wife always made him feel ordinary, or even less than.
The winter was his respite. His own time. He was a man who valued his routine and scorned spontaneity. Thus, on that particular Sunday, Mr. Pickthall was most put out that his routine was interrupted. He had attended church as always and had Clarence, his driver, stop at the bakery on the way back to the estate. Mr. Pickthall shopped at the bakery himself rather than ask Clarence to go in for him. There had been those, including Mrs. Pickthall, who had suggested he did this in an effort to connect with the common folk. Mr. Pickthall allowed, even perpetuated, this misconception, though the truth was simply that he trusted no one else to choose the bread.
Upon returning home from church services with his fresh bread—a loaf of rye and a bag of pumpernickel rolls—he retired to his study where a fire had been stoked. It blazed and crackled in anticipation of his arrival. He packed himself a pipe and then sat, ruminating, staring into the flames.
That was his disposition come Sunday noon, when the front bell rang, its chimes breaking the silence, a shrill call and answer that seemed a conversation in and of itself, dull-voiced bells dinging at one another in a ripple of echoes through the house.
Mr. Pickthall was not a curious man. He didn’t care who was at the door, only that the arrival had disrupted his meditations. So it was with no small amount of aggravation that he awaited word of his visitor, tapping his pipe upon the arm of his chair. A full minute passed by with no further interruption and he had begun to think that perhaps his man Lowestoft had succeeded in sending away whomever had intruded upon the peace of the house.
Then there came a hesitant rap upon the door.
“Come!” he called.
Lowestoft poked his head in, silver hair cut short but elegantly coiffed, clothing immaculate. His expression revealed his regret at the intrusion.
“Mr. Pickthall, so sorry to trouble you, sir, but there’s a gentleman here from the railroad. A Mr. Whipple, sir. Says he needs to speak to you on urgent business. I tried to persuade him to leave a message with me, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
With a sigh, Mr. Pickthall waved a hand. “All right, Lowestoft. If it’s that urgent, we shouldn’t keep the man waiting. Whatever’s so bloody important, you’d think they’d ring me rather than send a messenger.”
But the old man wasn’t a fool. He had an idea his visitor might have something else in mind. Perhaps a process server or some other legal minion, delivering a summons of some kind. Such were the travails of a man of wealth and power that the proceedings of the law often produced entanglements that were unavoidable.
“Yes, sir,” Lowestoft said with a nod.
He withdrew, and after a count of perhaps ten seconds there came another soft rap and then the door was drawn open. Mr. Pickthall was in the process of relighting his pipe and he took a long tug on it, relishing the flavour and the heat in his chest, even as Lowestoft introduced the visitor.
“Mr. Graham Whipple, sir.”
Mr. Pickthall did not stand to greet his guest. Instead he raised an eyebrow to regard the new arrival. He was an exceedingly average man. Average height, average face, average build. Mr. Whipple wore eyeglasses and a grey suit with a blue tie, clothes he might as well be buried in. He certainly looked the part of a clerk or some other unremarkable employee. His hair was snow white, as white as December, and he wore a bushy moustache that was, without doubt, the only facet of his appearance with any character.
“Well, Whipple. Your visit is urgent. Have at it, then.”
The man wrung his hands a moment like a worried grandmother. Regret gave him pause, that much was clear in his face. But there was something else there as well. Something Mr. Pickthall wished he had noticed right off. Mr. Graham Whipple was angry. The man reached up and smoothed his moustache and there was the a
ir about him of a man in dire need of a drink.
Just as Mr. Pickthall was about to prod him again, Mr. Whipple knitted his brow and spoke.
“Have you ever ridden on a train, sir?”
Mr. Pickthall was drawing another inhalation of pungent heat from his pipe and now he let it stream in coils of smoke from his nostrils. One corner of his mouth turned upward in what he hoped was a sardonic smirk.
“I own the lion’s share of a railway company, Mr. Whipple. I should hope I’d ridden on a train.”
But Mr. Whipple was not discouraged. No, now that he’d mustered the courage to speak at all there was more than a glint of defiance in his eyes. “Not often, though, I’d wager.”
Mr. Pickthall found the man tiresome. “If you’ve got a message for me, Whipple, I suggest you find your way to delivering it by a less circuitous route.”
“Where the rails pass through the countryside, there’s beauty beyond the glass, isn’t there, sir? All the beauty of God’s earth. Sunrise and sunset, flowers and streams. Little villages that look as though they’ve not changed since George was King.”
With a low grunt of annoyance, Mr. Pickthall set his pipe in its stand on the small table beside his chair. The crackle of the blaze in the fireplace had pleased him before, but now he felt flush with unwelcome heat and the air seemed too close. Winter or no, he wanted to open a window. But he had an unwelcome visitor to tend to first.
“See here, sir. If you’ve something to say, get on with it. Otherwise, you will simply give me the name of your supervisor and then leave the premises, and I’ll see to it that your impertinence is dealt with the moment you arrive at the office tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Whipple’s eyes seemed moist and red, stung by the heat and smoke of the fire, but now they grew distant a moment. “Never worked in an office. Not a day.”
A shiver went through Mr. Pickthall. There was something not quite right about this man. The wealthy gentleman was about to rise and call to Lowestoft when Mr. Whipple smiled and his eyes focused once more on his unwilling host.
“I’m a trainman, sir. Have been all my life. Forty-four years on the rails, and I’ve worn the uniform of Norwich Rail from the day it was born.”
Mr. Pickthall felt his grip tighten on the arms of his chair. This was not right. The man was not here to serve a summons and he most certainly had not brought a message from the office.
“You’re a conductor? What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Whipple, coming into my home like this?” he demanded, and at last he pushed himself to his feet.
Mr. Pickthall gave his visitor a wide berth but he started for the study door, a sneer curling his lip. Mr. Whipple made no move to stop him. It was only as Mr. Pickthall reached for the knob that the other man spoke again.
“I know about your whores.”
A tiny gasp escaped Mr. Pickthall’s lips as he froze by the door to the study. His fingers were inches from the knob. A chill unlike anything he had ever felt swept over him, a deeper cold that spider-walked up his spine with an icy prickle. The wave of menace that emanated from Mr. Whipple in that moment was as real and as unseen as the stink of raw sewage. He felt it touch him and knew he was its object.
For the first time in his adult life, James Pickthall was afraid.
When he turned to face Graham Whipple again he was rigid with dread. He half expected to see the devil in the man’s eyes, but instead Mr. Whipple seemed oddly regretful, unable to meet his gaze.
“What did you say?” Mr. Pickthall asked. A foolish question. He had heard quite clearly, but he wanted elaboration.
Mr. Whipple nodded slowly, then once more looked into Mr. Pickthall’s eyes. He seemed to be searching for something there and it unnerved Mr. Pickthall, felt to him as though he were being undressed, as though the image he had worked all of his life to build was a pitiful mask that fooled his visitor not at all.
How could he not have felt exposed, given the man’s declaration?
With a shudder, Mr. Whipple waved his hand in the air as though he wished to erase something from the world. “I’m . . . I’m truly sorry, sir.” He winced with pain from some spiritual wound. “This is quite unlike me. Never been one to talk such filth. But I’ve no other way to make my point, have I?”
What the bloody hell is your point? Mr. Pickthall wanted to shout. But he didn’t dare. Not until he discovered what his visitor truly knew, and what he planned to do with such knowledge.
“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mr. Pickthall offered, a weak gambit.
Mr. Whipple seemed almost disappointed. “Please, sir. Must I go on? It really is unpleasant for me.”
But when Mr. Pickthall replied only with a stony glare, Mr. Whipple sighed.
“All right,” the trainman said, nodding slowly. “As I said, I know about them. Could tell you some of their names, though I suspect most of them don’t use their real names.”
His gaze darkened.
“Kit used her real name, though, didn’t she? When you whispered that you loved her and made her with child. When you paid her to have the child in her belly destroyed? And why not? It was a bastard child, wasn’t it? Son of a whore. Leastways that’s what you thought at the time.
“But it haunts you now, Mr. Pickthall, sir. It’s a spectre that’s there every time you look over your shoulder.”
As the man spoke, that fear had crept over Mr. Pickthall’s flesh and made him shiver. But as the man fell silent, he forced himself to be calm. There was a bit of business to be conducted here, that was all. And Mr. Pickthall was nothing if not a businessman.
Mr. Whipple’s small, damp eyes followed him as he returned to his chair by the fire. He tugged up on the knees of his trousers and sat, then rubbed thoughtfully at the back of his neck. At last he drew a deep, ragged breath.
“You her father, then? Kit’s? That what this is about?”
The trainman blinked in confusion. “Sorry? No. No, why would you . . .” Understanding dawned, but he shook his head. “You’ve misunderstood. I’m no relation to the girl.”
Mr. Pickthall gritted his teeth. He pushed up his sleeve and looked at his watch. By now his staff would be waiting for his visitor to leave, or else any moment there would come a rap and someone would enquire if Whipple was to stay for lunch. The idea brought a chuckle up in the back of Mr. Pickthall’s throat, followed by a stream of bitter bile he had to choke back down.
“All right, then,” he said through his teeth. “Enough of this. Speak plainly.”
As though the question baffled him, Mr. Whipple gave a tiny shrug and then reached up to position his spectacles more firmly on the bridge of his nose. “Well, as I said, sir, I’ve spent my whole life as a trainman. There isn’t anything else I know how to do. Only I’ve been sacked, haven’t I? Oh, they find a dozen ways to say it. Early retirement is my favourite. Retire to what?”
His laugh was bitter, and it gnawed at what confidence Mr. Pickthall had been able to muster. The devilish chill he’d felt moments before had passed quickly. Yet now his recollection of it was refreshed. There was a hint of madness in that laugh, and in the trainman’s eyes.
“I only want my job, is all, sir. Just want to be back on the trains.”
Mr. Pickthall sniffed. “That really isn’t my area, I’m afraid. I’ve no idea what you think you know about me, but it will hardly do you any good. I haven’t anything to do with staffing.”
It was as though all of the muscles in Mr. Whipple’s face simply died.
Mr. Pickthall shivered beneath his gaze. “I mean to say, I could put in a word for you,” he added tentatively.
Whipple shook his head. His eyes grew moist with tears and he reached up to smooth his thick moustache again. There was an almost childlike petulance in him now, but the rage that fuelled it was poorly disguised beneath.
“You don’t understand,” he insisted. His
nose crinkled and he began to pace, reaching up to lace his hands behind his head, muttering to himself. It lasted only a moment before he took a long breath and paused before an antique French corner chair. His expression was meek again, and strangely hopeful.
“Perhaps what you should ask, sir . . . yes, I should think so. Perhaps what you should ask is how I’ve come to know such a thing.”
Mr. Pickthall’s throat was dry. He wetted his lips with his tongue and remembered the tortured sobs of the girl, Kit, on the day they rid her of the child she carried. The memory had no room for a man like Whipple. How had he come into possession of such knowledge?
“Go on,” Mr. Pickthall said.
Mr. Whipple sat on the chair. His gaze drifted once more, as though his eyes saw into some other place in time, and what he saw there filled him with strange contentment.
“I’m quite certain it didn’t happen all at once. Only sensible to think something like this comes over time. Passengers, especially those in first class, as you might imagine, don’t look out the window much unless there’s something pretty to see. But there isn’t always, is there? Most of the time the view is rubbish.”
He laughed softly, a private joke.
“But a trainman sees something else. Oh, I performed my duties, sir. Never shirked. I punched tickets and greeted passengers with a pleasant word. Helped the ladies and the older gents with their bags. Knew every inch of track from London to Norwich, the way the cars would jerk a bit going round that last curve before the run into Colchester.
“There was time, though, a few minutes when all the tickets had been punched and the next stop was still a ways off, and I’d steal those minutes on the platform between cars and look out the glass set into the doors, watch the land as we passed by. It’s mostly ugly, sir. Passengers only notice the lovely views, but trainmen notice it all. Running east out of London and through Ipswich and so many other cities, it’s nothing but brick walls scrawled with filthy graffiti, metal fencing, drab bunkers, the rear of some warehouse or another. It’s the homes that are the most interesting, though. Villages and neighbourhoods. The train runs through their yards, and through the windows you peer into their lives, see? Laundry out on the line, children’s playthings scattered about, old tires, cars on blocks, bicycles rusted and abandoned. It’s all back there. Gardens left untended and swings left behind and forgotten by children grown up and departed. All of the things people hide away from their neighbours and themselves.”
Tell My Sorrows to the Stones Page 18
