by Ian Sansom
‘For the stop bath,’ I said.
‘Anyway.’ Miriam pulled a bottle containing rubbing alcohol from a shelf. ‘There you are.’
‘Good. Sodium sulphite. Potassium carbonate.’
‘Are they all going to be here?’ she asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Sodium sulphite!’ Miriam pulled down another big brown bottle.
‘I’ll also need some lithium hydroxide.’
‘Slow down!’ said Miriam. ‘What was the one before that?’
‘Potassium carbonate.’
‘And then?’
‘Lithium hydroxide.’
Within minutes we had found everything we needed – and not a moment too soon.
I thought I heard a door creak open upstairs.
‘Did you hear something?’ I whispered.
‘I don’t think so.’
We paused in silence. Nothing.
‘It’s your imagination,’ said Miriam. ‘Now, is that it? Is that everything?’
‘Well, if we’re going to print we need some photographic paper, I suppose. I hadn’t really thought about that.’
‘You hadn’t really thought about it?’
‘No.’
‘For goodness sake, Sefton!’
‘I’m just making it up as I go along,’ I protested. ‘I didn’t have it all planned out in advance!’
‘Why not? You know what Father says. Perfect preparation prevents poor performance.’
‘Well, I hadn’t planned on developing and printing film in the middle of the night in a chemist’s shop in the middle of nowhere, had I?’
‘Clearly not. Can’t we just use ordinary paper?’
‘No, no. It’s special paper that’s light sensitive. We could probably make some if we could find—’
Miriam opened a cupboard that stood by the door into the front of the shop.
‘Would Kodak photographic paper do the job?’
‘Perfect!’ I said.
‘Is that it now?’ said Miriam.
‘Almost. I just need something we could use as an enlarger.’
‘Again, no idea what you’re talking about. In plain English – we need?’
‘A lamp maybe? With a lens. Or in fact we could do without the lens. Just a light source that we can …’
Miriam opened the back door, went outside and reappeared moments later with an old carbide bicycle lamp.
‘Will this do?’ asked Miriam.
It would, and it did; and so I can safely say that my first ever attempt at developing and printing photographs was in Taylor’s Pharmacy in Kirkby Stephen, some time late at night in September 1937, using a bicycle lamp, rubbing alcohol, lemon juice and whatever other chemicals were to hand.
I have to admit that it was not an entirely successful experiment. Trying to remember the process, I sometimes became confused, though somehow – more by luck than judgement – I managed to mix and warm the chemicals to make a serviceable developer. (The ideal warmth for the developing solution is about 68 degrees – Fahrenheit, obviously – and the proportions of activating agent to restraining agent and preservative should always be carefully calculated, though what temperature we achieved that night warming the enamel tray over the gas ring by the sink I have no idea, and as for our proportions – they were entirely hit and miss. For an easy-to-follow step-by-step guide to developing and printing photographs, see Morley’s Big Book of Photographic Techniques (1939). This book earned me my one and only co-writing credit: ‘By Swanton Morley. Technical Adviser: Stephen Sefton’. My technical advice, for what it’s worth, is this: if at all possible use a professional photographic laboratory.) I managed to get the film from the camera without exposing it and into the developer, and then it was just a matter of time before placing it in the fixer that I had mixed in the bucket and the stop bath in the sink.
‘So, what do we do now?’ asked Miriam.
‘We have to get the timing right,’ I said. ‘It can’t be for too long, or too short.’
‘Well, how do you know how long is long enough?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We’ll try about five or six or … ten minutes. Fifteen? Twenty?’
‘Accurate, huh?’ said Miriam. ‘So what do we do for five or six or ten minutes? Or twenty?’ She leaned in closely towards me.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Nothing?’
‘We just wait,’ I said, moving away and leaning up against the far end of the table.
‘I don’t like to just wait, Sefton,’ said Miriam, moving round towards me.
I edged slightly away – and she edged closer.
‘I told you earlier not to play with me, Miriam.’
‘I’m not playing with you, Sefton.’ She was playing with me. ‘Do you not believe in making the most of every opportunity?’
‘I …’
‘Do you really not like me, Sefton?’
‘I don’t not like you, Miriam, no.’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘It’s not a question I can answer here and now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
She was up against me now, nestling against me, whispering in my ear. I found myself turning involuntarily towards her.
‘Tell me honestly,’ she said, ‘did you enjoy it when I kissed you earlier? Were you very excited? I know you were excited, Sefton.’
Not as excited as I was at that moment – when the door from the pharmacy was flung open and there was Gerald’s sister, her hair in curlers, wrapped in a thick black overcoat and with an umbrella in hand. She screamed with all the force and fury of a woman being attacked by a mob, bellowing like some workhouse mistress who had discovered her unruly orphans stealing food. Goodness only knows what the scene appeared to be to her: the shaded light; the stench of the chemicals. Miriam screamed back, I yelled, ‘Get out!’ And Gerald’s sister, having taken a breath, screamed again. Miriam bolted for the back door. I grabbed the chemical tray and brandished it as Gerald’s sister came lunging towards me with her umbrella.
‘Don’t come any closer!’ I said.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ she yelled. ‘You … ungodly fornicators!’
‘Don’t come any closer!’ I threatened again.
But she did, and so I had no choice. I flung the chemical tray at her – and in the moment before doing so, as the tray and the chemicals and the film left my hands, I caught sight of the photographs that were developing. What I saw were not clear images, and they were tiny images. But in that instant, as the tiny photographs unspooled in the orange light, I saw the end of my journey with Lucy on the train, reversed, and in black and white: the dark outline of the signal box and at the bottom of the steps a bright white bicycle with a large wicker basket.
By the time I made it outside, the police had arrived. Miriam, thank God, had made it away in the Lagonda, and I surrendered without a fuss. There was no point in arguing. As I was led away I noticed a group of onlookers who had come out of their houses to see what was happening. Among them – though it was difficult to see in the darkness, and I had to look hard two or three times in order to be sure – I saw Nancy. There was a look of pure animal delight on her face: she might almost have been a cat who’d caught a mouse.
CHAPTER 19
A TOTALLY DIFFERENT COMPLEXION
I WAS RELEASED AROUND DAWN. I do not know and cannot confirm if – as Morley suggests in The County Guides – the cells at Appleby police station are haunted by the ghosts of those long ago held and tried and executed at the county gaol and assizes. (Morley claimed he was not a supernaturalist but I can confirm absolutely that he did believe in ghosts. The contradictions in his thinking covered quite a range: naturalist/supernaturalist, sceptic/believer, socialist/conservative, lowbrow/highbrow, man of the people and lord of his own manor.) I saw nothing in the cell – no floating apparition, no chain-rattling phantom. But I was awake all night listening to the sounds: footsteps, dr
agging noises, crunches, knocking, the nearby rustle of clothes. Strange smells came and went: something was burning, something was wet, the smell of rope and metal. At one point I thought I heard the voice of a child calling my name and the hair on my head stood on end and my skin went icy cold; it was as if someone held me in a vicelike grip. But then I woke. It was a dream. I know nothing about psychic phenomena but I know that a man might drive himself mad from memory and imagination alone.
Morley was standing outside. Miriam was parked in the Lagonda.
‘Get in,’ said Morley.
I climbed in. Everything was packed. It looked like we were ready to leave.
‘Midnight flit?’ I said.
No one said anything. The atmosphere, frankly, was cell-like. Miriam reached over and handed me a cigarette. I was about to light it.
‘Must you?’ said Morley.
I didn’t light it.
‘Well?’ he continued. ‘What have the pair of you got to say for yourselves?’
‘I explained; we were just trying to help, Father!’ said Miriam.
‘Help? Help!?’
‘Sefton found his camera and we thought—’
‘I know what you thought, Miriam! But a thought’s no good without a second thought and an afterthought, and everything that makes thought thoughtful! How many times have I explained? What you did was totally unacceptable. Breaking into the pharmacy!’
‘But you’d tried breaking in the other day,’ said Miriam, ‘when—’
‘In the dead of night? With a poor defenceless woman there? The distress you’ve caused poor Miss Taylor at this difficult time! You should be totally ashamed of yourselves. You’re just lucky she’s decided not to press charges.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘She’s Gerald to look after.’
‘He’s been released,’ explained Miriam. ‘There’s no evidence to link him to the murder of his wife.’
‘And Noname’s out, thank goodness,’ said Morley.
‘They’re charging him with the possession of stolen goods,’ said Miriam.
‘The bicycle?’ I asked.
‘Precisely,’ said Morley. ‘And Jenkins is already back on his dig. So they’ve exhausted all their current lines of enquiry and unfortunately the chief inspector’s not interested in my theories connecting the dirt from Shap with the dirt at the station. He wants us out of the county. He says we’re wasting police time – and frankly I agree.’
‘But Mr Morley—’ I said.
‘I gave them my word we’d be back on the Great North Road and heading south by breakfast.’
‘What?’
‘We have to check in at various police stations along our route.’ He looked at one of his watches. ‘Which means time is no longer our own, I’m afraid. You two have cheated us of time.’
‘But—’
‘And if we don’t check in at the agreed hours then I’m afraid the pair of you will be brought in again for questioning.’
‘But that’s—’
‘Which means we have to leave …’ He checked another watch. ‘Precisely … now. Miriam?’
‘But what about Maisie Taylor?’ I said. ‘And the investigation into the crash. Lucy?’
‘It’s none of our business, Sefton,’ said Morley. ‘We came here to write a book, plain and simple. We should never have got involved.’
‘But we are involved!’ I said. ‘And it is our business: it’s my business. I was there when Lucy … And we discovered Maisie’s body. It’s you who insisted that we stay and become involved! I was ready to leave! I put myself in danger so we could stay and work on the book!’
‘You put yourself in danger?’ said Miriam.
‘I mean … We can’t just drive away now as if nothing’s happened, just because some policeman tells us to!’
‘First, Sefton,’ said Morley, ‘the law of the land is the law of the land. And if a policeman instructs us to leave, we leave.’
‘You don’t believe that!’
‘Second, we drive away when I say we drive away. And third – and perhaps most importantly – as long as you’re in my employ, sir, your business is my decision. While you were languishing in your cell, I might point out, I spent the night talking to the police and to Gerald’s sister, doing my level best to prevent charges being brought against both of you in relation to your idiotic escapade! How do you think your latest fiancé’s going to react when you find yourself in court, Miriam? Your reputation!’
Miriam made no answer.
‘And as for you, Sefton, the police already have you marked down as a troublemaker and so you would be well advised to start behaving like an exemplary citizen – immediately! I have made a decision on all our behalf that we should leave, and we are leaving! Do I make myself entirely clear?’
Silence descended. It was rare for Morley to lose his temper but when he did his face became flushed and his fists clenched, his voice raised in pitch. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Entirely,’ I said.
‘Miriam?’
‘Entirely,’ she agreed.
A thin mist was rising from the ground as the sun began to break through overhead and we began our journey out of Appleby. I was exhausted – but I had absolutely no intention of leaving. There was one sure way to keep Morley on the case.
‘I saw some photographs,’ I said.
Morley said nothing.
‘In the pharmacy. Before Gerald’s sister arrived, we were developing the photographs. I saw them.’
‘Well, that’s marvellous!’ said Miriam. ‘Isn’t it, Father?’
‘I think one of them may have shown where Maisie was shortly before she died,’ I said.
‘Where?’ asked Miriam.
‘At the signal box,’ I said.
‘The signal box?’ said Miriam. ‘Really? Well, wouldn’t that mean—’
‘Stop the car!’ said Morley. ‘Miriam! Stop the car! Now!’
Miriam pulled over and stopped the car.
‘Say that again,’ he said.
‘Say what again?’ I asked.
‘Where do you think Maisie was shortly before she died?’
‘At the signal box,’ I said.
‘At the signal box?’
‘Yes, I saw a photograph. Lucy must have taken it moments before the crash.’
‘And the photograph shows?’
‘It shows Maisie Taylor’s bicycle parked by the rails near the signal box.’
‘And how can you be sure it was Maisie’s bicycle?’
‘It was the Taylor’s Pharmacy bicycle with—’
‘The wicker basket?’
‘Yes.’
‘You couldn’t have made a mistake?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘You’re absolutely sure?’
‘I’m certain.’
There was silence again in the car, and then Morley exploded with rage. (He did not of course approve of the phrase ‘exploded with rage’. ‘Bombs explode,’ he writes in Morley’s Handbook for Editors and Journalists (1921). ‘Men are not explosive devices and should not be compared to such. The predominance of the machine should be resisted in our speech, as in our thinking. A man may become enraged or impassioned; he cannot and will not explode, unless, alas, exposed to battle.’) He became enraged.
‘Well, why the hell didn’t you say so before, man?’
‘Because you were insisting that we had to leave and—’
‘This puts a totally different complexion on matters, though, does it not?’
‘It does?’ said Miriam.
‘A totally different complexion.’ Morley consulted all his watches. ‘Good Gordon Highlanders, Sefton! Did you tell the police?’
‘I wanted to tell you first.’
‘Hmm … Well. In fairness, good thinking, Sefton.’ He looked at his watches again. ‘OK. I think perhaps we have a few minutes to spare before we hotfoot it out of here. It does however put us rather at risk of missing our appointments with
His Majesty’s constabulary along the way. Is that a risk you’re willing to take, Miriam?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And you, Sefton?’
I didn’t even have time to reply before Morley had instructed Miriam to swing the car around and we had turned left and then right and had parked along a terrace of railway workers’ cottages only a few minutes’ walk from Appleby Station.
‘Come on,’ said Morley. ‘No time to lose.’ He jumped out and was banging on the door of a mid-terrace house by the time I joined him.
George Wilson the signalman opened the door. He was wearing shirtsleeves and a waistcoat: it was the first time I’d ever seen him without his uniform.
‘Good morning,’ said Morley.
George was taken aback. ‘It’s seven o’clock in the morning,’ he said.
‘Yes, I’m sorry it’s so early. Is Dora not here?’
‘She’s up at the station, sir. They’ve cleared the line. The first trains’ll be running again shortly. It’s an early start, at the café.’
‘Of course. I wonder, would you mind if we had a quick word?’
‘I’ve the boys to get away to school here.’
‘It won’t take a minute. We’re just on our way, you see, and there were some things I forgot to ask you about the railway.’
I could see – and hear – three boisterous young boys playing in the room behind him.
‘I don’t know. Could you come back later?’
‘As I say, unfortunately we are on our way – and not really able to alter our arrangements.’ Morley squeezed his way past George into the room, calling out to Miriam over his shoulder.
‘Miriam, perhaps you’d like to help the boys get ready for school, while Sefton and I have a little chat with Mr Wilson here?’
Miriam glanced at me. She looked appalled.
‘Of course!’ she said, smiling. ‘Absolutely! It would be a pleasure. Come along, boys! Shall we play?’
George had no choice but to allow Morley to make himself at home. It was a sad, sulky, sparsely furnished place. We sat by the window at a square table set with an oilcloth, spread out with some meagre breakfast things: a pint of milk, a teapot in an old brown knitted tea cosy, four enamel mugs half full and the remains of a loaf of bread and a butter dish scraped clean. By the table were three pairs of shoes, lined up ready to be polished. The room looked out over a small grey sorry-looking yard.
