A Summer in the Twenties

by Peter Dickinson

  ‘Woffles, that’s an awfully good idea,’ said Judy, wholly earnest and sympathetic, as though they had been discussing his future strolling on the lawns at Rokesley.

  ‘Mother doesn’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘Tom and I have formed a conspiracy to break the power of parents. Why don’t you join?’

  Woffles grunted and concentrated on his driving. The lane twisted through a series of corners, climbing all the way. They reached a larger road and plunged across, up what seemed to be a cart-track. The big car lurched and slithered. Its engine roared in erratic bursts as Woffles, in low gear and with a lot of clutch slipping, picked his way among the ruts or careered at a freakish tilt with his near wheels up on the bank and his off wheels on the smoother ridge between the ruts. They climbed almost a mile, past woodland and over the brow of a hill where for a moment Tom saw all the uplands lying dark under the stars, with a black cleft almost straight ahead that must be Drewton Cutting. Then steep down and sharp left, steeper still along the edge of rough pasture. Tall hedges made a sudden tunnel. The headlights swept across two cars standing in an open patch. Woffles drew in beside them and switched off lights and engine.

  ‘Noisy kind of secret,’ said a man’s voice out of the dark. ‘Two? Hello! Passengers?’

  ‘Where’s Ber . . . One, I mean?’

  ‘Down the line putting out the lamps. We saw your headlights so we decided to go ahead.’

  Tom opened his door.

  ‘Try and borrow a torch,’ he whispered as Judy eased herself free. ‘I should think Woffles must carry one.’

  He climbed out and stretched, wincing with unsuspected aches; but his head now seemed perfectly clear, indeed full of an almost visionary stillness and certainty, as if he had reached that stage in a logic problem where, though the solution is not yet known, the belief that a solution exists and is ready to be discovered transforms itself into a certainty, a fact along with all the other facts in the problem. Without waiting for permission he picked his way on down the path. It dipped still more steeply to run slantwise down the cutting wall. The moon, westering now with the wear of night, shone almost directly along the cleft, so that the long curve of the rails glimmered into the distance. Far down them red lamps glowed, some still, some moving. Tom adjusted his pace to the distance between the sleepers and broke into a trot. Footsteps crunched on ballast. A dark figure, hooded, emerged from the illusory clarity of moonlight and strode towards him.

  ‘Two?’ it said.

  ‘No. Where’s Bertie?’

  ‘Halt.’

  ‘I’ve got to see Bertie. Something vital to tell him.’

  ‘I said “Halt.”’

  Tom had already done so. He thought he recognised the voice from one of the Rokesley shoots, but couldn’t put a name to it.

  ‘Woffles brought me,’ he said.

  ‘Oh. Oh, well, I suppose in that case . . . Right oh. One’s at the signal-box. But I say, be a good chap and don’t call people by their names. You’re looking for One and Two brought you.’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  ‘Aren’t you Hankey? I thought you were driving this train that’s supposed to be coming. Is that all off? What a bore!’

  ‘No it’s coming. Not long. Don’t do anything till you hear from One.’

  Tom trotted on. He could see almost a dozen lamps now, some arranged in pairs on either track and others still being carried towards him. The shapes of men solidified.

  ‘Heard it coming?’ said a new voice, deliberately languid as if to mask excitement—Dick.

  ‘Few minutes more,’ said Tom. ‘Where’s One?’

  ‘Tom! What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve got to see him.’

  ‘If you must. I say, One!’

  ‘Here. They coming?’

  ‘No. It’s Tom. On foot.’

  ‘Is it, by Jove? All right, you fellows. Carry on. One more set of lamps twenty paces on, Five and Nine hide theirs under their jackets but get ready to wave them. Rest of you well up the banks and lying flat. Don’t move till you hear Three’s whistle. Tom, back here.’

  As Tom passed the others he saw by the glow of the lamps that two of them were wearing cloth caps and collarless shirts and had their faces streaked with grease. He found one more masked figure waiting by the line a few paces further on. So strong was the personality that despite the darkness and the hood Tom found himself almost seeing the carefully amiable smile and saurian gaze.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ said Bertie. ‘Don’t want to alarm the troops. Well?’

  ‘I want you to let this train through.’

  ‘Not on your life.’

  ‘Listen . . .’

  ‘No, hang on a tick. This way.’

  They crunched towards the dark block of the signal-box. Bertie led the way behind it.

  ‘Stand against the wall there,’ he ordered.

  ‘There’s not much time.’

  ‘Enough. Fire away.’

  There was a click and light from a hand-torch glared into Tom’s eyes. Beyond that white centre everything—a moment before dark but distinguishable shapes in the moonlit cleft—was now pure black.

  ‘Great Scott!’ said Bertie. ‘Been in a scrap?’

  ‘Woffles ran us off the road. Listen, do you know who’s driving this train?’

  ‘One of your Bolshie pals?’

  ‘Mr. Tarrant.’

  ‘Bosh.’

  ‘No, it’s true. He’s doing it of his own free will, and what’s more the stuff in the trucks is his to dispose of. Judy’s here. She’ll tell you if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I don’t see it makes any difference. Tarrant’s an ass. The fact he may have the law on his side doesn’t matter a blind bean. If this train goes through it’ll encourage the strikers to carry on, and that’s that. We’ve got to break their will.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Listen, I’ve been living down in the docks. The mood’s awful, and the worse it gets the longer the strike will last and the bitterer it will become. That’s exactly what the men you’re fighting against want.’

  ‘My sources of information are as good as yours. They don’t agree.’

  ‘Hutton?’

  For the first time Bertie hesitated. Footsteps sounded on the track. The beam swung away and illuminated a tall man in a hood with Judy looking tiny beside him.

  ‘Two?’ said Bertie.

  ‘Here,’ said Woffles, as though answering Call-over in School Yard.

  ‘May I have a number?’ said Judy. ‘Something-and-a-half?’

  The beam swung back and seemed to hold Tom against the signal-box by mere pressure of light.

  ‘It won’t wash,’ said Bertie. ‘We’ve got to stick to our plan—break the men’s will. The train will go through all right, but there won’t be anything in it except a message from me.’

  ‘Can’t you see that’s exactly what the Reds want?’ said Tom. ‘Where they’d only got twenty real members in the docks yesterday, they’ll have two hundred tomorrow—and next week there’ll be rioting and looting, and the troops called in, and men dead in their own streets!’

  ‘Do you know,’ said Woffles, with that tone of amazement typical of him when he found himself actually following an argument, ‘I’m not sure Tom isn’t right. I know how I’d feel if l was in those laddies’ shoes.’

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped Bertie. ‘This is my pigeon.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said Woffles. ‘Whose idea was all this in the first place, I’d like to know?’

  ‘Do shut up,’ said Bertie.

  He was answered by a rustling sound, and the flop of an object hitting the ground near his feet. The beam dropped, picked out a loose black cloth and swung to Woffles, now bare-headed and even in anger looking startled by the energy of the emotion.

  ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ said Bertie.

  ‘No,’ said Woffles. ‘Now.’

  Judy, close beside him, squeezed his elbow. Tom heard a faint noise further up the bank,
glanced that way, and saw a hooded man near the top of the line of rough steps that ran up from the signal-box to the woods. If all the gang were to gather now . . . Not much time to debate and vote . . .

  ‘Tom’s right,’ said Woffles.

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Judy.

  ‘If you let the train through I’ll tell you Ricardo‘s real name,’ said Tom.

  ‘Whose name?’ said Bertie, swinging the torch back to him.

  ‘Ricardo. The chap at the centre of all the trouble. He’s a real Communist. You remember you told me to look for the main Communist cell? Well, I’ve found it. The men themselves don’t know how they’re being used. I promise you, if you expose Ricardo, that’ll have more effect than stopping twenty trains.’

  ‘And if I don’t agree?’

  ‘I’ll write to the Home Secretary and put it through the official channels. This is your last chance, Bertie, to bring off something big.’

  Beyond the glare of light Tom could sense Bertie’s will begin to waver. The night was very quiet, its stillness suddenly emphasised by one far sound—the whistle of a locomotive—Mr. Tarrant nearing the other end of the tunnel. Bertie drew a deep breath to speak, and let it go with a snort. Silence closed round again. Up the bank, metal slithered against metal, a faint but familiar sound, the movement of a safety-catch. Bertie’s torchbeam swung.

  The man had come down the steps and was only ten feet away. The hooded head was cuddled to the stock of the shot-gun, which wavered as the blaze of the torch caught the night-blinded eyes.

  ‘Down!’ yelled Tom, flinging himself sideways. The gun roared in the same instant. Glass tinkled round him, and seemed still to be falling as footsteps hurtled past and up the bank. Hugging the ground Tom twisted his head to see.

  The beam of Bertie’s torch held the man, now scrambling up the steps. His gun caught between his legs, half-tripping him. He slithered, scrabbled, dropped the gun, started to climb again. Woffles rushed into the circle of light taking the steps two at a time, flung himself upwards, caught an ankle. The man fell, slithered back, tumbled into Woffles, who fell too, loosing his hold. The man started to scrabble up the bank again. There was something almost clownish about his silent, desperate, hopeless flight.

  ‘That’s your man,’ said Tom as he rose. ‘You’d better help collar him. You’re in for a shock. Come on, Judy. Got the torch?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Got to get well beyond the lamps. Quick as you can.’

  He started to run down the track, two sleepers at a time, a stretching ungainly lope which almost spilt him headlong as he missed his footing. He shortened his pace to a rapid trot. Two men were coming up in his direction.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he called. ‘Go and give them a hand.’

  ‘What’s up? Who fired?’

  ‘Tried to shoot me. Woffles has got him.’

  He was past them, past the first lamps. More voices called from up the banks,

  ‘Hold on,’ he shouted. ‘Stay here. Bertie’s got the chap he was after. I’ll deal with the train.’

  He snatched up one of the second row of lamps and ran on. Now he could hear the breath of the coming locomotive. He slowed, swinging the torch from side to side as he ran. Ahead, a black slab of shadow, loomed the tunnel face. A faint light gleamed at its centre, becoming a bronze-gold glow. Above the shadow silver smoke streamed up into the moonlight. He stood to the side of the track, holding the red lamp behind his back and waving the hand-torch to either side. Judy came panting up behind him,

  ‘I think the others are coming,’ she gasped.

  The train was in the open now. The gold glow vanished as the fire-door closed. He brought the red light into view and shone the torch on himself. The pulse of the cylinders eased as the regulator closed, He put the lamp down and ran forward, waving his arm in the torch-beam. Mr. Tarrant’s silver hair craned from the cab.

  ‘Keep her moving!’ Tom yelled. ‘Judy!’

  ‘Here.’

  She seemed to weigh nothing as he heaved her bodily into the cab. He grabbed at the moving handrail, hopped, scrabbled for the step, hauled himself up.

  ‘There appear to be warning lamps,’ hooted Mr. Tarrant.

  ‘Nothing there. Full power, sir.’

  He heard the renewed effort of steam, but still they seemed to be trundling desperately slowly up the gradient. The comparative lightness of the old engine meant that any sudden increase of power would merely spin the wheels. Mr. Tarrant, shadowed orange and black, stood by the regulator rapt in communion with his machine, feeding fresh steam with gradual touches. Yes, perceptibly they were moving faster.

  Tom leaned from the cab and peered forward along the side of the tender. Dark figures emerged from the moonlight, running.

  ‘Kate,’ he called. ‘Get down out of sight. Give Judy the shovel. Judy. Other side. Anyone who tries to board, hit him. With the flat, not the edge.’

  He picked a lump of coal from the tender and crouched at the cab entrance. They must have been doing about ten miles an hour when the first man appeared, yelling ‘Stop! Danger! Stop.’ He was one of the cloth-cap johnnies, but had forgotten to make his voice match.

  ‘Carry on, sir,’ yelled Tom.

  The man was running alongside now, reaching for the rail, and the step. He made a valiant try and for a moment his face appeared level with Tom’s. With open palm Tom stiff-armed him away, thrusting him out clear of the following wheels. He heard a shout of ‘No you don’t’ from Judy, the slap of metal and a yell. A hooded man was running beside the tender, another was tumbling down the bank. Metal and glass rattled as the lamps went over beneath the wheels. The man was beside the step now, eyeing the distance perhaps but also seeing the impossibility of grabbing a moving handhold in the dark with all those wheels behind to fall into. Everybody was shouting. Now there was the signal-box, and beyond it a sudden patch of clarity and stillness among the rushing, clamouring shadows. Bertie’s torch shone down on a patch of ground. Mr. Hutton lay flat on his back, with Woffles kneeling on his chest. Mr. Hutton’s hood was gone and he was looking not at Woffles, not at Bertie’s black shape beyond the torch-beam, but straight up into the sky, his face pale and completely calm, a martyr blessed with ecstatic vision in the mid-agony of the flame. Tom leaned from the cab to watch. Some of the pursuers stopped running and went over, obscuring his view. Back down the line small flames glimmered where the spilt oil from some of the lamps had caught, and outlined against that erratic light one of Bertie’s army continued to run, a mad and shambling figure behind the last truck, a hooded absurdity, waving his arms in hopeless gestures, the last wisp of a nightmare.

  The whistle blew, deafeningly close. Tom withdrew into the cab, took the shovel from Judy and gestured to her to tuck herself into the corner, out of the way. He flicked the fire-door open with the tip of the shovel and bent to inspect the coals. The tunnel closed round them, but they were doing some twenty miles an hour now, moving fast enough to clear their own smoke. When he turned to shovel coal from the tender he saw the two girls sitting in the opposite corners of the floor. Judy might have been on her own hearthrug, gazing dreamily into the embers after a long day, then lifting her eyes to smile at Tom; but Kate sat motionless, eyes closed, the muscles of her face taut, like an initiate undergoing her trial before some ferocious altar.

  For more than a mile they thumped up through the close-echoing dark, bathed in the gold warmth from the fire. Then with the usual shocking suddenness they were out into another moonlit cutting, this time at the top of the Wolds. At the same moment, between one stroke of the cylinders and the next, the pulse of the engine changed. The beat of the wheels against the rail-ends took up a sharper rhythm on the level, and sharper still as the gradient tilted in their favour and they began to rattle through a series of long curves, steep down all the way to Hull.

  After the dash and striving, the almost trance-like impetus of action, ordinariness closed round. There was cheering as the train steamed into the
darkened wasteland behind Belmont Street, changing to cries of amazement and distrust at the sight of Mr. Tarrant. Fierce disputes broke out among the men. Kate roused herself and spoke to them from the step of the locomotive, but in a strained and hesitant manner, lacking any of her usual fire. Only her talismanic presence was enough to tip the balance and persuade most of the men to start work. Then that took far longer than Tom had allowed for, and was barely begun when a night-patrolling policeman turned up. There were more arguments, until Mr. Tarrant left with the man to thrash the matter out with his superiors at the police station. Soon it became apparent that there was no prospect of returning the locomotive to Brantingham before the main lines were busy again. The first glimmerings of dawn lightened the sky. Tom felt quite unable to force his tired brain to calculate further consequences. It was as though the intricate network of tensions had for a few hours spun itself into a single strand so that he could draw it through the one possible opening—in a dream-like way he found himself thinking of this as the actual cuttings and tunnels of the Wold Line—and now beyond those narrows it was spreading out again into its normal unknowable intricacies. He longed to sense the mood of the men. Their early hostility had been a shock, but as they stacked the crates and cartons onto barrows and wheeled them away he began to persuade himself that there was an alteration in their stances, in the tone of their voices, an element of interest and even amusement, very different from anything he had heard or felt in dockland for many weeks.