'It is not -'
'What wage has he started you at?' the wolf cut in.
'Fifteen shillings,' I said, at which he caught up his paper sharply, spitting at the same time, then muttering something I could not catch, save for a single word which I could not help but think was 'devil', however much I wanted it to be something else. The man was at his paper for only a second, then he was moving fast towards me, saying, 'There need be no further -'
There was more, but again I couldn't catch it for he had booted the door shut in my face.
Chapter Five
Grosmont
Rowland Smith came to Grosmont on 30 August 1903. Even after all these years, and all that went on at Nine Elms and the Necropolis, it's the day I remember, and it runs through my mind like one of the old bioscopes - going too fast, I mean, which is how it was at the time.
Thirtieth of August was a Sunday, and I had been in the ladies' lavatories at Grosmont, as usual on the quiet days, getting the sand out of the sinks, trickling the Jeyes into the khazis, shuffling about with my bucket and dreaming of the main line. I had to give most of my attention to the ladies' conveniences because the Board would from time to time send out a Mr Curtis to inspect them. As far as I could tell this fellow did nothing all day but pounce on North Eastern stationmasters and peer into their ladies' conveniences - a very out-of-the-way line for any respectable gentleman to be in.
I was thinking what a rotten sort of day it had been. The bike ride in had been worse than usual because it had been so hot. The sign in Baytown pointing to Grosmont said seven miles but when you got to Grosmont the sign pointing back the other way said nine miles, and I reckoned that was the one telling the truth.
So I'd been moping about all morning with a bad head from the heat, being vexed by the booming rams on the hills and the chiming of the station clock on the 'down'. At 2 p.m., I came out of the ladies', and old Eddie Murgatroyd from Beck Hole Farm came up to look at the time, which it seemed he wasted a lot of time by finding out. Later, a limestone train came through, leaving behind it even more silence than there'd been before. At two-thirty I was sitting on the bench on the 'up' making a show of cleaning some lamps with a linseed rag, when the stationmaster, Mr T. T. Crystal, turned up and placed himself in front of me. Because my heart was not really in my work I'd been getting endless scoldings from Crystal over the past few weeks, and I could tell I was in for another.
'I want them all filled and the wicks trimmed,' he said, pointing to the lamps.
‘I know, Mr Crystal,' I said, looking down at his boots.
'Well, you didn't bloody know yesterday. I had to do the furring job myself.' Mr Crystal was chapel; he never gave a proper curse.
Behind his boots, a cornfield moved in the wind, like a bright yellow sea, restless and dazzling, and I knew this meant danger. I turned my head slightly to the right and counted all the buildings in Grosmont, which I had done many times. There were fourteen in all: eight houses, two shops, two churches, one public house and a tunnel.
'Where's your knife for trimming the wicks?' said Crystal.
I took the penknife out of the pocket of my waistcoat, and that checked him, but not for too long.
'Are you liking it here?' he said.
‘I am, Mr Crystal,' I said to the boots. I am very much.' ‘I hear you're interested in speed records.' 'Very much, Mr Crystal.'
1 have to say, that is not evident from your work on these lamps. What's your plan?'
'What do you mean, Mr Crystal?' ‘I mean in life.'
I wanted to get on to the traffic side, as I have already said, but there was no point mentioning that to Crystal, because as far as he was concerned I was dreaming of a life in the ink-spilling line.
‘I wouldn't mind being SM at Newcastle Central, Mr Crystal.' I'd sort of gone dead as I came out with this, because I instantly knew it was the wrong thing to say, that position being a long way beyond the expectations of even Crystal himself, but even though I am the type that usually buttons up during a scolding, I carried on in the same flat voice, really as though I was trying to bring about the explosion I knew to be close at hand. 'It is one of the most notable stations in the country. I think I have it in me to reach that position in twenty years' time or so, with application and a following wind.'
'A following wind?' shouted Crystal. 'You'd need a bloody hurricane!' Then he pointed to his blooms. 'When you've done with the lamps, water those pansies in front of the bike store because I'm futting telling you this: I'm not dropping the certificate for the first time in ten years on account of you.'
He walked off to the ticket office, and, as I filled the watering can from the stand pipe on the 'up', I heard him muttering to somebody in there about something, which was queer because there was no ticket clerk on a Sunday - Crystal did the job himself. I started watering, thinking: there are no flipping flowers at Newcastle, the atmosphere does not permit it, not with above 1,000 trains a day being worked through there, Newcastle Central being one of the foremost stations on NER metals instead of some half-forgotten halt with not above a dozen trains through each day. I stood up, and replaced some of the lamps that had been on the platform, and as I did so I could hear hooves and wheels going away from the cab yard. Ten minutes later, a johnny in a grey suit emerged from the ticket office and came drifting along the platform. Watching him walk was like listening to funny music playing. He went straightaway into the gentlemen's and something made me put down the lamp I was supposed to be cleaning, pick up my bucket and walk in after him. Somehow I knew that my moment had come - but also that it only was a moment.
The smell of the Jeyes and the darkness after the dazzle of the platform had me in a daze, and I could see him in the corner, making water as if he was performing a circus trick, with his fine grey coat all ruffled up behind him like a bustle, hands on his hips. I was watching the back of him but then he turned around, allowing me my first view of his face. It was smooth, and nearly too handsome to be real. His suit was fancy and expensive, but in a quiet way. I couldn't put my finger on the matter, but I believed there was something magnified about his jacket. His necker was large and yellow and worn loose, and I thought: he will not be a pipe or cigar man but will smoke cigarettes. Here was £500 per annum, in any event. 'You're for York, sir?' I said.
He smiled at me and lowered his head; he seemed impressed that I had worked this out, but then we were on the 'up'. 'I'm waiting for the two forty-eight,' he said. 'Is it on time?'
'Yes, sir,' I said, although only Mr Plumber in the signal box, who would have had the bell when the train left Whitby, could have said that for certain.
There was a long pause, and I could hear the clattering of the Esk, almost like a machine.
'You were up here on some matter of business, sir?' I said.
‘I came here to bury my mother,' he said, and, seeing the confusion this shocking revelation had thrown me into, half smiled and more or less bowed.
'Connecting at York for London, are you, sir?' I asked hastily.
He bowed again, as if I was quite marvellous to have worked this out, but it was no great feat: only London would have been grand enough for him.
'You'll have a good journey,' I said, putting down my bucket, 'although the four-coupled engines of the Great Northern are not at present matching the speed of our own.'
'The North Eastern's?' he said.
'Our four-two-twos have been achieving seventy miles an hour with regularity.'
'It's admirable to have such a knowledge of one's own company.'
'I got that from The Railway Magazine. I have it on a monthly subscription.'
'Very creditable in a young man.'
'It is sixpence a month,' I told him, and then wondered whether I ought to tell him this came out of my dad's pocket. 1 have them in the regulation bindings,' I added. .
I then asked whether I might show him to the waiting room, because I did not cut the right sort of figure standing next to that bucket.
'What a glorious sight,' he said, looking at the flowers as we stepped back onto the platform.
'For the past ten years,' I said, 'Mr Crystal, the stationmaster here, has had a certificate from the Board for them. Last year he was commended in three categories.'
'Mr Crystal sounds like an excellent fellow,' he said.
'Yes,' I said, because he probably did sound like one.
As I spoke I was thinking very clearly: Crystal has his knife into me and I shall not progress under him. There will be a new lad by the end of the year, and I will be stood down and lose my railway chance for ever unless I do something.
My boots rattled on the wood, but those of the toff, which were buttoned at the side, made no noise as we entered the waiting room. All the windows were open, but the fire was orange and seething, and the coal and paraffin smell made the place so stifling that we would have been much better off outside. But it was too late for that.
'Do you want some more coals on the fire?' I said - a strange remark, all things considered, but anxiety had brought on a brainstorm.
The man wiped his brow with a blue handkerchief. 'Why not?' he said, and I thought: now, that is gentlemanliness for you. He removed his hat, causing his hair to spring up, and that is how I remember Rowland Smith. You took one look at his surprising curls, and you thought: Brilliantine - he needs Brilliantine on his hair.
I picked up the poker and prodded some coals.
'I could see you on a footplate,' he said.
'Oh, I feel I could put up some wonderful running, sir,' I said, 'giving a thin, even fire at all times, with the coal put exactly on the spot where it is needed.' Fancying myself quite a bit, I picked up the tongs and moved one lump from the back of the grate to the front, as if that really meant something.
'My name is Rowland Smith,' he said, and at the same moment, almost laughing, took two steps forward and shook my hand.
I was so startled by this that at first I forgot to give my own name in return.
'If you like high speed,' said Smith, unbuttoning his coat, 'then why are you portering?'
Now this, I thought, is the very question.
Smith took out a silver cigarette case -1 had been right over this - and began to hit one of the cigarettes on the back of it; it was engraved on the front. The black floorboards were going one way, the sunbeams another. He struck a match.
‘I know it will be a difficult transition to make, sir,' and I carried on without a particle of fear, but I am committed to a life on the footplate.'
It was the most important remark I had ever made, and the following words, mixed with smoke, came out of Smith's mouth: "The path that leads to success must be pursued through all its asperities and obliquities.'
'I shall remember that, sir,' I said.
A silence fell between us and I perceived that the time had come to make one further leap. 'Do you have any involvement with the London networks, sir?'
He gave me a half nod, and said, 'Have you heard of the South Western Railway?'
'The London and South Western? Only this week I was reading of the excellent timings for ocean passengers between Plymouth and London.'
'Indeed. Have you ever been over South Western metals?'
'No, but I've read so much concerning that excellent company that I do feel acquainted with its territories.'
'In The Railway Magazine?'
I nodded.
‘I thought so,' he said. "They're always looking out for engine cleaners to come on, you know, and these fellows are on the footplate as passed firemen, working, for example, slow-goods in not above six months.'
'You have a very close acquaintance with the network?' I said.
'I am a railway man through and through,' said Smith.
Well, you do not look it, I thought, and I looked this thought of mine straight at him, and he could see it for what it was: a sporting challenge.
'I'm getting on pretty well here,' I said. 'Of course, footplate work would be much more like it, but my father was anxious...'
At this I faltered, but Rowland Smith nodded and said: 'Go on.'
'He wanted me at a desk, sir.'
'He is no doubt a respectable gentleman.'
'He is a butcher.'
Smith made a face that I fancied meant: well, it's better than nothing.
'The South Western needs firemen,' he said, 'which is to say that it needs drivers.'
'But I am here,' I said in desperation. And at that moment the rooks circling over the trees, half a mile above the signal box, started making their lonely noise, and the whole place seemed like a graveyard that I had to get out of.
‘I will have a letter sent up to you care of this station from the headquarters of the South Western,' said Smith. 'What is your name?'
I gave him my name along with many assurances that, if given a chance, I would not be found wanting; then his train came. In a flurry I helped him up into a first-class compartment, passed his box to him, and he gave me no money, as befitting a platform hand who was really an engine man in disguise. When the train left, I returned to the empty waiting room and sat there alone until the heat from the fire and the heat from the sun had faded away, at which moment, try as hard as I might, I could not remember what either one had felt like.
Chapter Six
Tuesday 17 November - Friday 20 November
On my second morning as a Nine Elms man, I woke to find that the pool on the floor of my lodge and the black mark on the ceiling had been added to considerably. I looked out of the window: it was raining hard, and London in the rain, with all the colour and light gone, frightened me. So too, and for the first time, did thoughts of a life on the railways.
It was as though I had brought down a curse on myself for coming out with the name of Rowland Smith, I decided as I pulled on my boots. Arthur Hunt, who may have looked like a wolf but was the only man I had so far met who was the right sort, had dismissed me from the rough steps of the half-link drivers' mess and gone back to his paper. Vincent had stared after me, while the somewhat friendlier fellow, Barney Rose, had given a half smile through the window as if to say, 'I'm sorry for you, mate, but what can I do?' I had spent the rest of the day wandering around Nine Elms in a daze, with only the token in my pocket to say I had a job at all.
I went out into the dark street. The saturated man was there, banging his stick, and the queer thing was that from the look of his face you could tell he was aiming at solemnity. There was a great roaring coming from within the station. It was somewhere between the wind trapped in a chimney and the elephant house at a zoo. I bought a cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich from the barrow under the railway viaduct in Westminster Bridge Road, from which a whole gang of people seemed to get their living. On the other side of the street were three women, not going anywhere. They were next to a brazier with half the cinders tipped out of it. They were all beautiful, but too thin and too dirty, part of the very street.
As I looked, one of them said something to another, and this second one turned and gave me a look I could not understand. Later, I thought there might have been a question in it - a notion that set my head spinning.
I drained my cup and set off on my new route from the lodge to Nine Elms: into Westminster Bridge Road with the trams already racing in the rain, then down the steps to the Embankment, with the black river to my right, and the wet, dark gardens to my left. Continuing west, I struck a district of factories: a distillery with high windows that made yellow patterns on the dark water, two gasworks and a brewery. I felt very compressed as I walked along that narrow path between the silent factories and the river, but it did save ten minutes on my journey.
In the gatehouse I tried to give a cheery 'Hello' to Mr Crook. I had decided to put from my mind the first day; I would start all over again in the hopes of this time seeking out some men a bit more like driver Hughes in The Railway Magazine, as well as getting a leg in with the ones of a more ordinary sort. But Crook just kept his head bent over his metal che
querboard. He had pinned up over the fireplace a new article concerning the weather: 'MORE FOG', it said, but I hadn't noticed any so far, only rain. When he gave me the token, it was with no friendly word, or any word at all.
Things got worse too, for I was stopped on the ash patch before the sheds by a red-headed fellow who said he was Flannagan, the charge cleaner. He was at an angle because he had one leg longer than the other; he also should have been Irish with a name like that but he was not. None of these things was his fault but they made me take against him, and he had certainly taken against me.
I said I was on my way to see the Governor, having been instructed to report to him each day, and Flannagan staggered for a second in front of me before saying, 'He's not in, he's taken sick. I'm putting you to tidying up coal.'
'But am I not to clean the Bampton tanks Twenty-Nine and Thirty-One?' I said.
"They're perfectly clean as it is’ replied Flannagan, and there was no answer to that. 'Get yourself a shovel from stores.'
The stores were in a long building slotted in the gap between the two middle roads in the shed, which were slightly further apart than all the others. There was a desk with a sort of black brick tunnel behind it that was full of everything that could be carried and had a fire going at the back of it. There was a man in there asking for a set of fire irons: dart, pricker and paddle. The dart was the subject of a jolly chat between him and the storekeeper, and the pricker and paddle caused a near riot of laughter when the storekeeper finally turned them up. But when this fellow had gone the storekeeper stood before me like a pillar of stone.
'I'd like a shovel, please’ I said, and he gave me the evil eye for a while. Then he moved off to get it and when he returned, I said: 'Don't you want my number?'
‘I know your fucking number,' he said.
I couldn't ask him why he spoke in that way, for I didn't trust my voice not to shake.
The Necropolis Railway Page 4
