I tried to give him a tanner but he wasn't having it.
After a bit more shouting and prancing about he came back to us, dragging half his crowd with him, who carried on drinking in the crowd around our table.
'Idiots,' he said, pointing to the crowd. 'Sensible fellows,' he said, pointing to us. The idiots seemed to be more fun, though, so I thought it good of him to stick with us.
'You've got a pretty big set up down at Brookwood,' I said.
'Pretty big,' he said.
'What's the cemetery like?'
'I'll tell you what: steer clear if you believe in spirits.' He took a big belt of his beer, and I could see that he was saturated but it suited him to be like that.
'Mack believes in ghosts,' said Vincent. 'He has these table-top, spirit-talking goes.'
'What happens at these things?' I asked Mack.
"The veil is lifted and I see through to the other side.'
'What's it like?'
'What's it like?' he said, and he puffed out his cheeks and made his eyes go big. 'Going back to Brookwood,' he went on, 'you've got four thousand acres, best part of fifty thousand trees. It's the biggest cemetery going, nothing to touch it in the whole Empire, but I'll tell you what,' and here he just grinned.
'What?' I said.
'Business ain't so good at present.'
I liked Mack; despite being a semi-drunk and maybe a rogue, he was a pleasant fellow to chat with. 'Why is business bad?' I asked him.
'When they set it all up, all the graveyards in London were full to bursting, and nobody was allowed to start any new ones. But that was all changed just before our show was started.'
'How did that come about?'
'Act of Parliament.'
'What act?'
'Bloody hell, leave off,' said Vincent. 'Mack's brain is working under two hundred and twenty pounds of pressure as it is.'
'Date of the Act...' said Mack, 'can't remember. Name of it ... that's gone too. Ask me when I'm not DRUNK.'
He said that last word very loud.
'So the Necropolis is in a bad state?' I said.
'Well, now,' said Saturday Night Mack, sitting back, picking up his glass and seeing it was empty, 'there's a fellow does talks on it, a fellow called Stanley, and you can tell what's what in our line by his audiences.' 'I looked in on one of those,' I said. 'Crowded, was it?' said Mack.
'Hardly ... Listen,' I said - and the questions were coming like winking, thanks to the Red Lion - 'do you know a johnny called Rowland Smith?'
This one had Vincent all ablaze, though saying nothing.
Mack nodded, and it was a job for me to tell whether that meant he knew of my connection with Smith or not. I couldn't believe Vincent wouldn't have told him if they were any sorts of mates at all.
'Really, he's the true Governor,' said Mack. 'He's come over from the South Western to sort us out. Erskine Long's the chairman, and he don't seem to like it, but there it is.'
'So Rowland Smith's all right, is he?'
Mack shrugged. 'His notion is to sell off the land,' he said.
Somebody darted over to Mack and gave him a beer.
'Tell you what,' he said. 'We used to have a Sunday run, and you could pick up the big penny working that turn. Smith's put a stop to it. Nowadays the trip only happens three or four times a week, and that's his decree as well.'
'What's happened to wages?'
'I'm a fifteen-bob-a-week bloke now; it's barely enough to cover my slate in this place.'
I could see very well that it wouldn't be. Saturday Night Mack was a drinking machine, always with a glass in his hand, and he seemed to know everybody in the Citadel. For the next half hour he kept coming and going, whereas I seemed to be trapped at our table with Vincent, hemmed in by the crowd. Some of them were joxies, and they kept lolling right across our table.
'Nice fresh greens,' said Vincent, as one of them rolled against me.
'Want a lady?' she said.
I couldn't believe the softness of her, but I was scared of saying yes, for I had never gone down the road with any girl before, let alone this sort, and I didn't know where she would take me. I thought she might be backed up by an army of blackguards.
'Want a lady?' she said again.
'What for?' I said.
'What for!' said Vincent, and he gave out a sound that was the next best thing to laughing.
'For ... a while,' said the joxie, who then went off, saying something not very friendly.
'Man,' said Vincent, 'we're down in Waterloo,' and he started shaking his head. I had heard of these girls, who sold what you could not believe would ever be for sale; there were commonly supposed to be some in Scarborough, but I never thought I would see one, leave alone actually be kissed by one.
Vincent lifted his pewter and drank. "They'll fuck you for a consideration, sir!' he said in a funny voice.
For some reason, thoughts of my landlady were in my head, and I did not like the complication of them. 'Why do you call me sir when you're drunk?' I said to Vincent.
'I have a lot more respect for people when I'm sloshed,' said Vincent, 'and you can make of that what you like.'
I tried to look him straight in the eye but the Citadel had now started to move; it was increasing in speed by the second, until the velocity was something remarkable, but, unlike the Atlantics of Mr Ivatt, it did not go in a straight line.
Chapter Fifteen
Tuesday 8 December
Three days later I was in the shed early, stabbing with the handle of a brush at a mass of ash and mud on the brake block of Thirty-One, when the Governor walked up. He was smiling as usual - well, it was usual when he talked to me.
'Fancy a trip to Brookwood?' he said, and he almost bowed, like a magician about to demonstrate some marvellous phenomenon.
'I'll bloody say,' I said, and I chucked down the brush and rubbed my hands on my trousers, because you're supposed to be clean at all times on the footplate. I then realised I'd made a bloomer with that 'bloody', but the Governor didn't take exception. He was walking down the shed between two lines of Atlantics, galvanising the whole place as he went, sending blokes off wheeling barrows, or scrambling into the pits or doing whatever they should have been doing in the first place. He led me to Twenty-Nine, which was just off-shed, standing in a light rain.
'Hop up,' said the Governor.
I climbed onto the cab, and there was the man with the black beard who fired for the half when he was on spare, and who I now knew to be Clive Castle. There was a good fire in the hole, steam pressure was climbing nicely and the cab was pretty clean, but really only half done, so I decided to finish the job. I reached into the locker for the wire brush, then glanced across at Castle. He looked at me, but gave no friendly nod, of course. But I was becoming bolder with the Nine Elms fellows; I would not eat dog. So I said, very business-like: 'I'm coming out with you on the run.'
No answer. His face was very white, or maybe it was just the blackness of his hair and beard that made me think so. He had something on his mind, all right, something bad, but then they all did all the time. It would have been funny - if I didn't believe that evil was at the back of it.
'Where's Rose?' I said, because I had the idea that only he would let me on for a ride.
'Barney Rose?' said Castle. 'Search me.'
I heard a clatter, and an oil can was placed on the footplate behind me. I could tell by the sound that it was empty. Turning about, I saw Arthur Hunt flashing past on his way to going under the engine with a new oil can. The trip was to be with the big man.
Well, I resolved immediately that he would have no reason to find fault. I climbed down from the cab and scurried off to stores, where I meant to pick up a tin of Brasso, although in fact I came upon one on a workbench halfway there, together with a good clean rag which I also caught up. Returning to the footplate of Twenty-Nine, I began hastily polishing the injector wheels, engine brake, regulator. This was laying on luxury as far as cleaning duties went,
but I was determined that Arthur Hunt would think me up to the mark.
Of course, it would happen that I was taking a bit of a breather when Hunt flew up onto the footplate with the new oil can in his hand. He'd been filling the pots underneath, but there wasn't a mark on him - which was the mark of a true engine man. Whether this man was a killer, or a friend of killers, he was always perfect about his business, so that I couldn't help but be keen to show him my paces. He wore his usual suit and a tie, and there was a rag folded as neatly as any silk handkerchief in his enormous hands.
I screwed up my courage to a 'Good morning, Mr Hunt’ but of course I needn't have bothered.
The first thing he did was take my Brasso and stow it in the locker, cursing in an under-breath. Then without a word he flung my rag onto the fire, which ate it with a great whump. As he did this I noticed - and I saw to my horror that he had noticed too - that the firehole door ground against coal dust a little as it slid along its runners. Seeing that, while I'd got the handbrake looking like the crown jewels, I'd neglected one of the first footplate tasks, I tried to make amends by reaching once again into the locker for the wire brush, but in doing so I clashed arms with Hunt. I was trying to help, but it looked as though I was attempting to come to blows. He turned and gave me such a look that I shrank down onto the sandbox, where Clive Castle immediately told me I could not sit.
Hunt called over my head to Castle, 'We're ready for off, Clive.' He yanked the whistle, and as he did so a terrified blackbird crouched down in a black puddle next to one of the rails alongside us. Birds, as I supposed, could go anywhere they wanted, so why would they come to this hellish spot?
We pulled away from the shed into a black, wet world. We picked up the funeral set, which looked more than ever like cripples from a bygone age, yet Hunt gave them the kid-glove treatment, buffering up with the lightest kiss of metal on metal. Without a word, Castle climbed down to couple on, and I was alone on the footplate with Hunt. I wondered what secrets those two shared besides the arts of running an engine, and in doing so I glanced across at him. He was staring at his hands, pressing them over and over into his folded cloth as if he was trying to get himself the hands of a pen pusher or a parson. I would not suffer in silence, though. I would uncover all, but by degrees.
'You don't want me on this trip,' I said. 'I've been sent up by the Governor against your wishes.'
No answer to that.
Clive Castle came back up. I asked if there was anything I could do, and he said, 'Keep out of the fucking way.' We crossed out of the yard and started rolling across the viaducts up to Waterloo. The rows of houses were at right angles to the line, with leaning walls of smoke rising above them.
Suddenly there was a great eruption at the fire door, and
I spun about in terror, thinking a gauge glass had exploded in Clive Castle's face, but all that had happened was that he had vomited. No wonder he'd been so white. The stuff was swirling all over the cab floor, and Castle was sitting on the sandbox watching it as we backed into the Necropolis station with a funeral party waiting. Hunt didn't say anything until he'd done Castle's job of putting on the handbrake, then he handed Castle a billy. As Castle wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve and took a drink, Hunt picked up the cab hose that used the water pipes of the injector and sprayed the stuff off the cab, looking like the most enormous skivvy I'd ever seen.
Behind us, the funeral parties - three of them - were waiting to get into the carriages, all solemn and silent but with no tears anywhere. As to their clothes, there was not so much blackness as I expected, and most of the men had made do with black armbands and their ordinary suits. The caskets must have been loaded in double-quick time - they seemed pretty light. A woman -1 could not see which one - cried out, 'Oh, I can't believe we shall never see her again!'
Hunt and Castle jumped down from the cab. I leant out and watched them walk along the platform towards the funeral lot, but before they got there they went through one of the doors on the platform, and that was the last I was to see of fireman Castle that day.
Hunt came back a few minutes later alone, with hat off and head bowed as he walked past the mourners. It did not suit him to bow his head, and the effort of doing it helped put him in an even fouler mood than before when he came back to me.
'Get back up there,' he said, for I had climbed down so as to get a better view along the platform.
I went back into the cab as the doors slammed shut along the line of carriages, and Hunt leapt up after me with his coat flying out behind, making him look like a great bat.
'What's up?' I asked.
He didn't answer, but threw open the firehole doors. 'It needs three more on the right side and six at the front’ he said, 'and a dozen in each back corner.'
'Mr Castle's not been taken too badly, I hope?' I said.
'Never you mind’ said Hunt, and he picked the shovel out of the coal bunker and threw it at me.
I started shovelling. 'If I'm needed to take over from Mr Castle, you might give me a bit of advice. I'm not passed, you know.'
'I'll give you advice,' said Hunt. 'Don't bugger up that fire, or I'll bloody crown you.'
Well, anything was preferable to the treatment I'd been getting on the trip up. Hunt might have telephoned up to Nine Elms and asked for a relief, but if so the Governor would have turned him down. You can't very well relieve a relief, after all; you've got to go down to the next level, which was me.
I wanted the firehole door a bit wider open, but the lever was stiff, and scalding too. I did get it open after a while and then I stood and watched, hypnotised, as all the hairs disappeared off the back of my hand. That fire was white and evil, and it struck me for the first time that any engine, however small, travelled around with hell in its belly. I started shovelling, but the fire wanted the shovel out of my hands, and it wanted me in through those fire doors too. I took a step back and started again.
Getting the coal around the edges of the firehole door was easy enough, but when I started trying to chuck it six foot to the front of the firebox, I couldn't get the right sort of swing with the shovel and the coal, and it just plopped into the box halfway along. The harder I tried, the less far it went, and the blade of my shovel clanged on the top of the firehole at the end of every swing. I thought of my long days at the coal pens, and how I could have used my time there to practise shying, but I hadn't thought there'd be anything to it. Hunt wasn't looking on, or seemed not to be, but was watching the road from his side. I looked ahead from my side, and saw a signal I'd never noticed before. As I looked, it dropped.
'We've got the road’1 said, to let Hunt know that I'd spotted this.
'For Christ's sake’ he said, so I'd probably made another bloomer. 'What's the guard doing?'
I turned and looked the other way, back into the station. 'He's not doing anything,' I said.
I certainly wished he would do something. All the doors were shut, the mourners were on board; I saw no reason for delay.
'Is he going to blow his whistle?' I said.
This was too much for Hunt. He leapt across the cab to my side, shoved me out of the way, and looked at the guard. They shouted something to each other, then Hunt moved back across to his side, tugged the regulator and we were off, beating back along the Necropolis branchline and up towards the thirty-odd roads coming out of the great mouth of Waterloo.
Before long we were clattering across the roads, but eventually we settled onto one of them -1 could not have said which one, exactly, having no idea of the route between Waterloo and Brookwood Cemetery - and began approaching a signal gantry that stretched across about twenty roads. On top of the gantry was another jumble of signals and I realised that all my years of reading articles in The Railway Magazine counted for naught. There were some big signals, some little signals; some signals had other, smaller, signals underneath them, sometimes doing something different from the one above, sometimes doing the same. Half a dozen lamps were strung up there too: red ones, whi
te ones, fighting the greyness of the wet morning. Of course, I had learnt something of signalling during my time at Grosmont, but up there signals came one at a time and with a good deal of warning.
'Have we got the road?' yelled Hunt over the rattle of Thirty-One.
Now he could see for himself, because our signal -whichever one might happen to be ours - would not be the kind that could only be seen from the fireman's side of the cab.
I said, have we got the fucking road?' Hunt shrieked again.
'How do I know whether we've got it?' I replied.
Hunt rose threw open the fire doors. He lowered his long body and stared straight into the fire, challenging it to hurt him, like a man mastering a vicious dog. He tipped his face up towards the steam gauge. 'We're losing pressure,' he said. 'Fire's caking up. Give it a stir - and double-quick.'
That meant going at it with a fire iron. But which was the one for the job - dart, pricker or paddle? 'I want the dart, don't I?' I said, turning towards the hole in the bunker, from which the crooks of the three long irons jutted.
'You'll have it about your head if you don't look sharp.'
But which was the dart? I couldn't tell from the handles. My head was fairly buzzing as I looked from Hunt to the three handles and back at Hunt, who was just a pair of little eyes now, watching me raise my hands towards the irons. He could have told me which was which but he was making me eat dog. There was nothing for it but to pull hard on one of the three irons, which I did, stumbling immediately backwards in the process, for my tug had caused the whole boiling lot to come clattering out of the hole. I remained on the floor of the cab and shut my eyes, ready for Hunt to do his worst, but when I opened them he was at the fire, stirring the coal with mysterious motions. As he did so he looked across at me, seeming to shudder with hatred at the sight of me. He took the iron from the fire and put it and the other two back in their right place.
The Necropolis Railway Page 10
