A Book of Railway Journeys

by Ludovic Kennedy

“Because the pigs had eaten them all,” said the bachelor promptly. “The gardeners had told the Prince that you couldn’t have pigs and flowers, so he decided to have pigs and no flowers.”

  There was a murmur of approval at the excellence of the Prince’s decision; so many people would have decided the other way.

  “There were lots of other delightful things in the park. There were ponds with gold and blue and green fish in them, and trees with beautiful parrots that said clever things at a moment’s notice, and humming birds that hummed all the popular tunes of the day. Bertha walked up and down and enjoyed herself immensely, and thought to herself: ‘If I were not so extraordinarily good I should not have been allowed to come into this beautiful park and enjoy all that there is to be seen in it,’ and her three medals clinked against one another as she walked and helped to remind her how very good she really was. Just then an enormous wolf came prowling into the park to see if it could catch a fat little pig for its supper.”

  “What colour was it?” asked the children, amid an immediate quickening of interest.

  “Mud-colour all over, with a black tongue and pale grey eyes that gleamed with unspeakable ferocity. The first thing that it saw in the park was Bertha; her pinafore was so spotlessly white and clean that it could be seen from a great distance. Bertha saw the wolf and saw that it was stealing towards her, and she began to wish that she had never been allowed to come into the park. She ran as hard as she could, and the wolf came after her with huge leaps and bounds. She managed to reach a shrubbery of myrtle bushes and she hid herself in one of the thickest of the bushes. The wolf came sniffing among the branches, its black tongue lolling out of its mouth and its pale grey eyes glaring with rage. Bertha was terribly frightened, and thought to herself: ‘If I had not been so extraordinarily good I should have been safe in the town at this moment.’ However, the scent of the myrtle was so strong that the wolf could not sniff out where Bertha was hiding, and the bushes were so thick that he might have hunted about in them for a long time without catching sight of her, so he thought he might as well go off and catch a little pig instead. Bertha was trembling very much at having the wolf prowling and sniffing so near her, and as she trembled the medal for obedience clinked against the medals for good conduct and punctuality. The wolf was just moving away when he heard the sound of the medals clinking and stopped to listen; they clinked again in a bush quite near him. He dashed into the bush, his pale grey eyes gleaming with ferocity and triumph, and dragged Bertha out and devoured her to the last morsel. All that was left of her were her shoes, bits of clothing, and the three medals for goodness.”

  “Were any of the little pigs killed?”

  “No, they all escaped.”

  “The story began badly,” said the smaller of the small girls, “but it had a beautiful ending.”

  “It is the most beautiful story that I ever heard,” said the bigger of the small girls, with immense decision.

  “It is the only beautiful story I have ever heard,” said Cyril.

  A dissentient opinion came from the aunt.

  “A most improper story to tell to young children! You have undermined the effect of years of careful teaching.”

  “At any rate,” said the bachelor, collecting his belongings preparatory to leaving the carriage, “I kept them quiet for ten minutes, which was more than you were able to do.”

  “Unhappy woman!” he observed to himself as he walked down the platform of Templecombe station; “for the next six months or so those children will assail her in public with demands for an improper story!”

  SAKI,

  The Story-Teller

  INCIDENT IN AUGUST

  When the Circle train was held up by a signal

  Between Gloucester Road and High Street (Ken)

  In the battering dog-day heat of August

  We sweated and mopped our brows. And then

  We saw in the cutting, amid the loosestrife

  And butterflies looping through bindweed trails,

  A boy who lay drinking, straight from the bottle,

  When, of course, he was paid to look after the rails.

  High stood the sun and the heat-haze shimmered,

  The crickets shrilled to the burnished tracks;

  But our minds and the motors throbbed together,

  Insisting “You’re late. You mustn’t relax,

  You mustn’t look backward, you mustn’t look... Southward?”

  (Oh, the linemen stood by in the hills of Var

  And leaned on their spades as the trains went past them

  And swigged red wine from a great stone jar.)

  Now, the boy in the sunlight was drinking water—

  Or beer at the best. It might have been Beaune

  Or Chateauneuf, but a London embankment

  Was not the slopes of the Côtes-du-Rhône.

  Still, a Mistral blew out of dry Vaucluse,

  A Mistral blew over South-West Ten...

  Till the train pulled out from Mondragon-sur-Lez

  As the points changed back towards High Street (Ken).

  BRYAN MORGAN

  Ethel and Mr Salteena go to Rickamere Hall

  When the great morning came Mr Salteena did not have an egg for his breakfast in case he should be sick on the jorney.

  What top hat will you wear asked Ethel.

  I shall wear my best black and my white alpacka coat to keep off the dust and flies replied Mr Salteena.

  I shall put some red ruge on my face said Ethel because I am very pale owing to the drains in this house.

  You will look very silly said Mr Salteena with a dry laugh.

  Well so will you said Ethel in a snappy tone and she ran out of the room with a very superier run throwing out her legs behind and her arms swinging in rithum.

  Well said the owner of the house she has a most idiotick run.

  Presently Ethel came back in her best hat and a lovly velvit coat of royal blue. Do I look nice in my get up she asked.

  Mr Salteena survayed her. You look rather rash my dear your colors dont quite match your face but never mind I am just going up to say goodbye to Rosalind the housemaid.

  Well dont be long said Ethel. Mr S. skipped upstairs to Rosalinds room. Goodbye Rosalind he said I shall be back soon and I hope I shall enjoy myself.

  I make no doubt of that sir said Rosalind with a blush as Mr Salteena silently put 2/6 on the dirty toilet cover.

  Take care of your bronkitis said Mr S. rarther bashfully and he hastilly left the room waving his hand carelessly to the housemaid.

  Come along cried Ethel powdering her nose in the hall let us get into the cab. Mr Salteena did not care for powder but he was an unselfish man so he dashed into the cab. Sit down said Ethel as the cabman waved his whip you are standing on my luggage. Well I am paying for the cab said Mr S. so I might be allowed to put my feet were I like.

  They traveled 2nd class in the train and Ethel was longing to go first but thought perhaps least said soonest mended. Mr Salteena got very excited in the train about his visit. Ethel was calm but she felt excited inside. Bernard has a big house said Mr S. gazing at Ethel he is inclined to be rich.

  Oh indeed said Ethel looking at some cows flashing past the window. Mr S. felt rarther disheartened so he read the paper till the train stopped and the porters shouted Rickamere station. We had better collect our traps said Mr Salteena and just then a very exalted footman in a cocked hat and olive green uniform put his head in at the window. Are you for Rickamere Hall he said in impressive tones.

  Well yes I am said Mr Salteena and so is this lady.

  Very good sir said the noble footman if you will alight I will see to your luggage there is a convayance awaiting you.

  Oh thankyou thankyou said Mr S. and he and Ethel stepped along the platform. Outside they found a lovely cariage lined with olive green cushons to match the footman and the horses had green bridles and bows on their manes and tails. They got gingerly in. Will he bring our luggage asked Eth
el nervously.

  I expect so said Mr Salteena lighting a very long cigar.

  Do we tip him asked Ethel quietly.

  Well no I don’t think so not yet we had better just thank him perlitely.

  Just then the footman staggered out with the bagage. Ethel bowed gracefully over the door of the cariage and Mr S. waved his hand as each bit of luggage was hoisted up to make sure it was all there. Then he said thankyou my good fellow very politely. Not at all sir said the footman and touching his cocked hat he jumped actively to the box.

  I was right not to tip him whispered Mr Salteena the thing to do is to leave 2/6 on your dressing table when your stay is over.

  Does he find it asked Ethel who did not really know at all how to go on at a visit. I beleeve so replied Mr Salteena anyhow it is quite the custom and we cant help it if he does not. Now my dear what do you think of the scenery.

  DAISY ASHFORD (aged 9),

  The Young Visitors

  Love on the Orient Express

  When Coral left the doctor she began to run, as fast as was possible with a suitcase in a lurching train, so that she was out of breath and almost pretty when Myatt saw her pulling at the handle of his door. He had put away the correspondence from Mr. Eckman and the list of market prices ten minutes ago, because he found that always, before the phrases or the figures could convey anything to his mind, he heard the girl’s voice: “I love you.”

  What a joke, he thought, what a joke.

  Interior of the Orient Express. The gentleman on the right looks hopeful of his chances. With a five-day journey ahead he has every reason to be.

  He looked at his watch. No stop now for seven hours and he had tipped the guard. He wondered whether they got used to this kind of affair on long-distance trains. When he was younger he used to read stories of kings’ messengers seduced by beautiful countesses travelling alone and wonder whether such good fortune would ever happen to him. He looked at himself in the glass and pressed back his oiled black hair. I am not bad-looking, if my skin were not so sallow; but when he took off his fur coat, he could not help remembering that he was growing fat and that he was travelling in currants and not with a portfolio of sealed papers. Nor is she a beautiful Russian countess, but she likes me and she has a pretty figure.

  He sat down, and then looked at his watch, and got up again. He was excited. You fool, he thought, she’s nothing new; pretty and kind and common, you can find her any night on the Spaniards road, and yet in spite of these persuasions he could not but feel that the adventure had in it a touch of freshness, of unfamiliarity. Perhaps it was only the situation: travelling at forty miles an hour in a berth little more than two feet across. Perhaps it was her exclamation at dinner; the girls he had known were shy of using that phrase; they would say “I love you” if they were asked, but their spontaneous tribute was more likely to be “You’re a nice boy.” He began to think of her as he had never thought before of any woman who was attainable: she is dear and sweet, I should like to do things for her. It did not occur to him for several moments that she had already reason for gratitude.

  “Come in,” he said, “come in.” He took the suitcase from her and pushed it under the seat and then took her hands.

  “Well,” she said with a smile. “I’m here, aren’t I?” In spite of her smile he thought her frightened and wondered why. He loosed her hands in order to pull down the blinds of the corridor windows, so that they seemed suddenly to become alone in a small trembling box. He kissed her and found her mouth cool, soft, uncertainly responsive. She sat down on the seat which had become converted into a berth and asked him, “Did you wonder whether I’d come?”

  “You promised,” he reminded her.

  “I might have changed my mind.”

  “But why?” Myatt was becoming impatient. He did not want to sit about and talk; her legs, swinging freely without touching the floor, excited him. “We’ll have a nice time.” He took off her shoes and ran his hands up her stockings. “You know a lot, don’t you?” she said. He flushed. “Do you mind that?”

  “Oh, I’m glad,” she said, “so glad. I couldn’t bear it if you hadn’t known a lot.” Her eyes large and scared, her face pale under the dim blue globe, first amused him, then attracted him. He wanted to shake her out of aloofness into passion. He kissed her again and tried to slip her frock over her shoulder. Her body trembled and moved under her dress like a cat tied in a bag; suddenly she put her lips up to him and kissed his chin. “I do love you,” she said, “I do.”

  ■«5fc

  COMPAGNIE INTERNATI0NALE DES WAGON

  VOYAGE EN 2 TABLEAUX de Ml Oscar SACHS Musque de Mc Henri NEUZlLLET

  DEPART tous les soirs à 10 houres 1/2

  The Orient Express quickly acquired a risqué reputation; hence this poster advertising a bawdy Parisian musical.

  The sense of unfamiliarity deepened round him. It was as if he had started out from home on a familiar walk, past the gas works, across the brick bridge over the Wimble, across two fields, and found himself not in the lane which ran uphill to the new road and the bungalows, but on the threshold of a strange wood, faced by a shaded path he had never taken, running God knew where. He took his hands from her shoulders and said without touching her, “How sweet you are,” and then with astonishment, “How dear.” He had never felt lust rising in him and yet checked and increasing because of the check; he had always spilt himself into new adventures with an easy excitement.

  “What shall I do? Shall I take off my clothes?” He nodded, finding it hard to speak, and saw her rise from the berth and go into a corner and begin to undress slowly and very methodically, folding each garment in turn, the blouse, the skirt, the bodice, the vest, and laying it in a neat pile on the opposite seat. He was conscious as he watched her calm absorbed movements of the inadequacy of his body. He said: “You are very lovely,” and his words stumbled a little with an unfamiliar excitement. When she came across the carriage to him he saw that he had been deceived; her calm was like a thin skin tightly drawn; her face was flushed with excitement and her eyes were scared; she looked uncertain whether to laugh or cry. But they came together simply in the narrow space between the seats. “I wish the light would go right out,” she said. She stood close against him while he touched her with his hands, both swaying easily to the motion of the train. “No,” he said, “I’d like to turn it full on.”

  “It would be more becoming,” she said and began to laugh quietly to herself. Her laughter lay, an almost imperceptible pool of sound, beneath the pounding and the clatter of the express, but when they spoke, instead of whispering, they had to utter the intimate words loudly and clearly.

  The sense of strangeness survived even the customary gestures; lying in the berth she proved awkward in a mysterious innocent fashion which astonished him. Her laughter stopped, not coming gradually to an end, but vanishing so that he wondered whether he had imagined the sound or whether it had been a trick of the glancing wheels. She said suddenly and urgently: “Be patient. I don’t know much,” and then she cried out with pain. He could not have been more startled if a ghost had passed through the compartment dressed in an antique wear which antedated steam. He would have left her if she had not held him to her with her hands, while she said in a voice of which snatches only escaped the sound of the engine: “Don’t go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” Then the sudden stopping of the train lurched them apart. “What is it?” she said. “A station.” She protested with pain, “Why must it now?”

  Myatt opened the window a little way and leant out. The dim chain of lights lit the ground for only a few feet beside the line. Snow already lay inches thick; somewhere in the distance a red spark shone intermittently, like a revolving light between the white gusts. “It isn’t a station,” he said. “Only a signal against us.” The stilling of the wheels made the night very quiet with one whistle of steam to break it; here and there men woke and put their heads out of windows and spoke to each other. From the third-class carriages
at the rear of the train came the sound of a fiddle. The tune was bare, witty, mathematical, but in its passage through the dark and over the snow it became less determinate, until it picked from Myatt’s mind a trace of perplexity and regret: “I never knew. I never guessed.” There was such warmth in the carriage now between them that, without closing the window, he knelt beside the berth and put his hand to her face, touching her features with curious fingers. Again he was overwhelmed with the novel thought, “How sweet, how dear.” She lay quiet, shaken a little by quick breaths of pain or excitement.

  Somebody in the third-class carriages began to curse the fiddler in German, saying that he could not sleep for the noise. It seemed not to occur to him that he had slept through the racket of the train, and that it was the silence surrounding the precise slow notes which woke him. The fiddler swore back and went on fiddling, and a number of people began to talk at once, and someone laughed.

  “Were you disappointed?” she said. “Was I awfully bad at it?”

  “You were lovely,” he said. “But I never knew. Why did you come?”

  She said in a tone as light as the fiddle’s, but equally able to absorb another’s sense of bewilderment: “A girl’s got to learn some time.” He touched her face again. “I hurt you.”

  “It wasn’t a picnic,” she said.

  “Next time,” he began to promise, but she interrupted with a question which made him laugh by its gravity: “There’ll be another time? Did I pass all right?”

  “You want another time?”

  “Yes,” she said, but she was thinking not of his embrace, but of the flat in Constantinople and her own bedroom and going to bed at ten.

  GRAHAM GREENE,

  Stamboul Train

  *1 Man of the church (Zulu).

  ~

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