A Long Walk to Wimbledon

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘Abandoned, my dear sir. Two days ago. I am making my way to Balham, if you will believe me. To a relative.’

  The words had begun to flow more easily, rising over the occasional half-suppressed sob.

  ‘Yes, a fellow in a comparatively humble occupation. Or so he was in the old days. A cook in a restaurant. But I have failed to introduce myself. Remiss. Most. I am Dr V. K. Satpathi. Doctor of Literature, let me hasten to add. Useless occupation nowadays. But one has to avoid being mistaken for a medical man.’

  The crumpled brown face quivered in a prolonged sniff.

  ‘You see, there is quite an Indian colony gathered in Balham now, and I had managed to contact my cousin’s restaurant there by telephone. A question of dispensing a considerable sum in gold to the Armed Police. I was on my way across there. Safety lies in numbers, you know, for tropicals as they call us.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  And after a pause he added: ‘Do you think you could stand now?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I must try. I must set forth again, though I fear it will be nearly dark now.’

  It was certainly no longer possible for them to see much of each other.

  ‘Let me help you up.’

  He slid his hands over the little Indian’s back till he found his armpits and then heaved. Dr Satpathi shrieked. But he ended at least up on his feet.

  ‘I am afraid,’ he murmured apologetically, ‘that I am more than somewhat of a coward when it comes to physical pain.’

  ‘Many of us have found that in the past few years. I had an abscess under a tooth last winter, and I hope I never have to go through that again.’

  ‘My dear sir, I know what you mean.’

  Peering down at the floor, he succeeded in locating Dr Satpathi’s ripped trousers.

  ‘I think they’ll be worth putting on,’ he said. ‘Can you manage?’

  ‘I must.’

  It was a lengthy and awkward process, punctuated by frequent gasps and hisses of pain. He stood waiting, patiently as he could.

  ‘Look,’ he said at last. ‘As it so happens I’m on my way to Wimbledon, and if I manage to cross the Thames, say, over Chelsea Bridge I would go through Balham. So would you like us to go together?’

  He had made the offer reluctantly. If Dr Satpathi was as badly hurt as his gasps and groans indicated he would hardly be a quick walker.

  ‘My dear friend, I will do my utmost. Fate could not have been more kind.’

  He felt a pang of shame.

  ‘Your suitcase,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we can string it together somehow.’

  ‘No, no. It contained little but my papers. A book I once contemplated, a comparative study of Indian and European folk literature. But it was vanity to have brought it with me, sheer vanity. No, no. Let us set off straight away. Er – unimpeded.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  They found, when they had made their slow way to the top of the sloping tunnel, that it was almost completely dark. The moon he remembered – he had long ago developed the habit of knowing the lunar phases and hours – was not due to rise till some time between midnight and dawn, say at 3 a.m. by old clock-time.

  The clouded sky was only a shade lighter than the masses of the tall buildings on either side of them. The wind seemed to have dropped but the air felt if anything colder. A settled chill.

  However, it did not take them long to locate Junction Road, leading away from the big intersection, and they set off together along it, Dr Satpathi at once steering them out into the middle of the roadway.

  ‘I have come to the conclusion,’ he explained, ‘that this is the safest way to walk. Fellows may well be lurking in any building.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right.’

  Why hadn’t he hit on this before? How ridiculous to have clung to the pavements as if it was the old days. Perhaps there would after all be benefits in walking with the little Indian. Certainly being grabbed at from some dark doorway would not improve his rate of travel.

  They shuffled along down the slope of Junction Road, Dr Satpathi clearly incapable of going at more than a limping pace.

  It was progress of a sort, and now that it was dark – once a main road like this would have been bright as day: all that light and heat that London had pulsed into the sky every night of the year – it would not have been possible to go all that much faster. But clearly the walk was going to take a good deal longer than he had at first counted on.

  How many hours had gone already of the forty-eight that the odious Tommy had guaranteed to provide? Two or more at home making his preparations – shouldn’t he have cut that down? – and since he had set out a good hour’s walking time, allowing for that senseless expedition up on to the Archway, and probably another hour with Dr Satpathi in the tunnel. The best part of five hours gone. Forty-three still left. It ought to be plenty. But how many other encounters with people like the mad window-cleaner might delay him?

  Suddenly his companion stopped short.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘I – I don’t know, my dear fellow. I thought I heard a sound.’

  Standing statue still, he strained all he could to hear. Now that the wind had dropped it seemed almost absolutely silent. Cruelly silent.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said at last. ‘Nothing, I’m sure.’

  ‘Then let us proceed.’

  They proceeded. As if, he thought, they were penitents of old shuffling their way round some enforced pilgrims’ track.

  Were they doing even two miles an hour? And how many miles was it to Wimbledon, or at least to Balham? He had never really known. In the days when he had made the journey before distances had been measured in times, Tube and bus times occasionally, traffic time more often. So many traffic-minutes in such-and-such conditions.

  It was by no means easy to assess at all what progress they were making. The buildings on either side of the wide road were almost invisible, vague looming shapes at most, giving him nothing to check by. What had they been, those buildings, in the old days? Hard to recall. He had a vague memory of small undistinguished shops, stragglers in the great commercial race.

  ‘Sssh.’

  Dr Satpathi had come to an abrupt halt again. And once more he strained to hear some significant sound in the cold silence.

  But there was not the least thing.

  ‘I think it’s all right. Shall we go on?’

  ‘Yes, yes, my dear fellow, if you think so.’

  Damn it, the man was so scared. It was ridiculous. If they stopped every hundred yards or so like this they would still be going down the hill towards the centre of the city when dawn broke.

  ‘I am afraid, my dear chap, you must be finding me excessively timorous.’

  ‘No, no. It’s very natural, I suppose.’

  ‘No, I think not. But the fact is that that wretched business back there upset me more than I can tell.’

  ‘No, it was awful for you. Appalling.’

  Dr Satpathi made no reply. But suddenly, after half a dozen more cautious paces, he gave a little chuckle. It almost caused him to stop dead in his turn. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It just struck me, my dear fellow, to ask whether I might not in the end prove like the hare in one of our Indian fables who coming to drink at a jungle pool unfortunately encountered a tiger.’

  ‘Yes?’

  What was all this? But at least talking was keeping the fellow moving.

  ‘Well, you see, the hare by taking immediate and precipitate flight drew the tiger’s full attention to his person, and, though he ran his hardest, he soon found himself in danger of imminent death. But luckily he chanced upon a convenient hole in the ground, what I believe is called an earth, and into this he plunged. Only to find that it was the home of a jackal.’

  Dr Satpathi chuckled again. He sounded in the darkness absurdly merry.

  ‘Well, but do you know what the hare did then? Intense fright had evidently stimulated his brain, like the man to be hanged in a
fortnight of whom the great Dr Johnson spoke.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Our friend brought himself to go up to the jackal and address him thus: “Maharaj, all the animals of the jungle have deputed me to beg you to be their king.” “But,” replied the suspicious jackal, “why did you not elect the elephant?” “Because he is altogether too lacking in brain power.” “Why not the tiger then?” “Because he is not of a very dependable disposition.” “Then why not the lion?” “He is so liable to fits of uncontrolled anger.” “Then the bear?” “No, no he is not only extremely hairy but he is also a persistent victim of fever.” So the jackal at last agreed to accept the gaddi, the throne. “Lead the way,” he said, “and I will come to my people.” But “Oh,” replied the hare with fear-bought cunning, “it would not be fitting that I should go in front of a maharajah.” So out went the jackal, only at once to be carried off by the waiting tiger.’

  ‘Yes. A good story.’

  But would the little nerve-shredded man at his side find in himself a similar resourcefulness in a crisis, he wondered. Certainly he had not done at all well in his encounter with the window-cleaner. And he himself? Heaven knows, he had felt scared enough almost all the time since he had set out, and worse than scared after the Happies had sailed so nonchalantly by. If he got into some tight spot, would he be able to bluff the jackal?

  Perhaps just possibly he might. Perhaps there was a residue of human wiliness within him.

  And at least Dr Satpathi’s story seemed to have improved his own morale. He had not shown a sign of coming to a sudden nervous halt since he had told it.

  They must be getting towards the end of Junction Road surely now. After all, it was not so lengthy. In the car or on a bus no more than a couple of minutes jockeying through the traffic. Ludicrous that it should be such a painfully long march now.

  Then in the cold stillness he did hear a sound. He tried hard to isolate it above the soft shuffling of their own feet, and as it grew slowly a little louder he at last made it out.

  ‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘Something coming. A car of some sort.’

  Dr Satpathi stopped dead at once. Then, swift as a rat, he darted towards the slightly nearer pavement and its dark buildings.

  He hurried across and joined him. They found a doorway, a fairly deep one, and retreated into it. The sound of the approaching vehicle – it seemed to his ears a good deal more grinding and purposeful than the Happies’ dilapidated truck – grew steadily in the darkness.

  Then, from round the corner at the crossroads ahead, a beam of light began to show itself. A twin-beam, it soon became apparent. He heard Dr Satpathi flatten himself yet more against the door behind them. Abruptly as the vehicle, whatever it was, swung round the corner, the light brightened. Just beside his head he read nervously the words that had become visible on an ancient cracked painted board. ‘Cats Protection League’.

  Cats Protection League, would it protect himself and Dr Satpathi, he asked with fear-provoked humour.

  The sound of the oncoming vehicle grew to a grinding roar, and he guessed it must be tracked rather than wheeled. A moment later his deduction was confirmed

  An armoured troop-carrier ground obliteratingly past in the centre of the roadway. From its rear flew a little pennant, but it was not possible to make out its colours.

  But almost certainly an Armed Police vehicle, he thought. Out on patrol.

  They waited in the Cats Protection League doorway, Dr Satpathi struggling to check a new outbreak of sobbing, until the sound of the grinding tracks had died totally away. Then, a good deal less confidently than before, they set out once more.

  But at least, he found, their enforced halt seemed to have rested Dr Satpathi. His pace was surely faster than before, not much, but almost as fast as it was safe to go in the darkness.

  Before very long he realised that at last they had reached the end of Junction Road. On his left, faintly visible, was the outline of the old Tufnell Park Underground station. Getting into Fortress Road presented no difficulty, and soon they were shuffling down its more steeply sloping length.

  Time seemed to pass terribly slowly. Nothing marked it but the steady shuffle-shuffle of their steps, except once when Dr Satpathi stumbled on the edge of a pothole. How many minutes had passed? How many hours even?

  Then at last they reached the next stage where Fortress Road joined Kentish Town Road – it had all looked so easy on the simplified map before he had set out – and almost at once away over to their right, probably in what used to be the big railway marshalling yards, they saw the glow of a fire, a faint reddish reflection against the dark sky.

  It seemed to be no more than a small bonfire, perhaps lit by some wanderer to keep off the night cold, but as they slowly progressed its light began to show up the faces of the buildings on their left.

  They managed to increase their pace a little.

  One of the buildings, he made out, had been gutted almost completely at some time in the past. Only part of its front wall remained, with of all things a large sculptured coat-of-arms on it. What could the place have been? At once he remembered. A library. There had been a small public library just here with a big crest. Why should anyone have wanted to sack a library? Incomprehensible. Incalculable.

  He shivered.

  As they made their way onwards, the glow of the bonfire gradually faded behind them until at last it disappeared altogether making the darkness seem yet thicker. A few paces later Dr Satpathi came to a stop once more.

  ‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I fear I can no longer cope with this infernal opacity.’

  He could not raise the ghost of a smile at the elaborate phrase. The declaration was not in any way something to be amused at.

  Should he just go on alone? Leave the fellow to rest where he could?

  ‘Let’s try to push on a little further,’ he said. An idea came to him. ‘Perhaps you could tell another of your tales.’

  ‘From my store,’ Dr Satpathi said.

  But he did not immediately either speak or move on. Then quite abruptly he began in the soft insinuating voice in which he had recounted the adventure of the timorous hare. And at the same time he started to shuffle forwards again.

  ‘There was once a cat who hoped to profit by his relationship to the lion, King of the Jungle. So he went to visit him and addressed him. “Sir, I am after all your cousin. Kindly find some position for me.” The lion considered. “What is it that you are able to do?” The cat did not find it easy to answer. “Well, sir,” he said at last, “I am able to miaow and also to purr and I can furthermore catch rats.” The lion needed neither the sound of any miaowing nor the soft susurration of a purr. But, rather than hurt his lowly relation, he suggested that the cat should catch him a rat. The cat fulfilled the task forthwith and brought the dead rodent to the King of the Jungle. The lion took the body and handed it back to the cat. “For the work you have done for me,” he said, “let this rat be your reward.” “But,” said the cat, “in this way I am feeding myself only.” “Yes,” the King of the Jungle said, “that is the greatest service you can do for me.” ’

  Dr Satpathi’s voice ceased in the chill darkness.

  How deliberately apposite had the story been, he wondered. Was it a quiet rebuke from the weak to the stronger? Or no more than a delicate way of conveying thanks to him for what he had done? Or was it, in a yet more delicate way, a means of pointing out to him that he had taken on a continuing duty?

  He had not made up his mind when in the distance ahead he spotted what must be another light.

  After a moment’s consideration he pointed it out – a tiny white line – to his fearful companion.

  ‘Well,’ Dr Satpathi said, ‘it does not look like a vehicle this time, and there is no noise.’

  ‘Yes, stationary, I think. Shall we go on for a bit? We’d get lost completely if we tried to get round it.’

  ‘Yes, my friend. I think a discreet approach.’

  It took them per
haps five minutes to get near enough to be able to make out something of the source of the light, even though it grew brighter with every yard they got nearer and they were able to make better and better speed. But at last they saw that whatever it was came not from anywhere in the main road but from a turning off to the right.

  And there was never any accompanying sound. Just a white light shining out into the night.

  Or, he thought, into the evening that in this world was as dark as night.

  They went cautiously on, and eventually got right up to the turning from which a strong diffused beam was emerging. But there was still no indication of its source.

  He turned to Dr Satpathi.

  ‘I think I had better creep up and look,’ he said a little apologetically.

  For the second time he got down on to his belly and squirmed forward. At length he got his head round the corner.

  A sight he could not possibly have expected met his eyes. About a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards along the side road, outside a tall building, a small searchlight had been rigged up so that its beam shone full on to a large white noticeboard. On the board in lettering of a deep pink colour were the words:

  ‘We Need Praying Knees’

  ‘Welcome’

  ‘Peace is Here’

  Part Three

  Mark scrabbled to his feet and beckoned to Dr Satpathi. Plainly they had chanced upon somewhere it might be possible for them both to rest for the remainder of the night, and with the way the little Indian had been only creeping forward after he had finished the story of the cat and the lion, finding somewhere to rest seemed by far their best course. If they were to start out again first thing tomorrow there would still be some thirty hours of Tommy’s dreadful allowance left. And that should be time enough and to spare.

  But what was this place? And would it be safe?

  He watched Dr Satpathi read the blazing white noticeboard. ‘We Need Praying Knees. Welcome. Peace is Here.’

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  Dr Satpathi did not answer. Peering at him in the light, he saw that he was shivering hard from cold.