‘A man can love a woman as much as a train, Jack, he can! He can. More!’
‘More?’
‘Oh, don’t you see? More, so so much more. There is something, something so much more.’
The whistle wailed and I sensed the train beginning to slow down. Blotches of wetness appeared on the window as snowflakes fell and melted on the warm glass. Jenny continued to stare intently at the grey nothingness. We remained in silence as the train proceeded at dead slow. Eventually I spoke.
‘What was his name?’
‘Cooper.’ Jenny’s eyes glistened.
‘You know, when you said that, your voice changed slightly.’
She nodded, almost pressing her face into the glass. ‘Yes, I know. But not as much as when I say yours.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, you don’t need to worry. He bought the farm on Omaha.’
‘In Omaha.’
‘On Omaha. It’s a beach. You should go there some time. You could build a sandcastle with a little tunnel for your trains.’
Chapter 13
The train we caught home was the 6.10 from platform 2, the one that travels via Bicester. It arrived in Weeping Cross quite late, about twenty past ten. There was a restaurant carriage as far as Wolverhampton but Jenny wasn’t hungry. By the time we reached Weeping Cross the snow had begun to stick. Jenny did not want me to see her to her bus. I walked towards the town centre; my heart was in turmoil but I only dimly understood why. This day that had started so marvellously had ended . . . I could not recall ever feeling such overwhelming consternation in my heart. What had I done to make Jenny go like that? I had to see Cheadle, he would know. Perhaps of all the Goslings only he could tell me this. It was late, getting on for eleven, but I could not sleep until I had seen him. Outside the Astoria a man sidled up from the shadows and I could see without needing to turn and look that he meant to ask me for money or a cigarette or something. Whatever today’s hard-luck story was. Well, he could go and sing for his supper. He touched my arm softly, and said, ‘Sir.’ I jerked my arm away.
‘Sir.’
‘Go away, man, you’ll get nothing from me.’
‘Please, sir.’
‘Go away, I tell you!’
He gripped my arm and I flung my arm up and outward, almost striking him across the face. He fell back and stumbled. I stood rooted to the spot, watching him slope away. What had become of me?
As I entered the Shambles, a car slid past. It was a Rover sports saloon with a silver Viking’s head on the bonnet and black paintwork with a thin red pinstripe down the coachwork. It pulled up and parked across the road from the Chinese laundry. I sensed that the occupants were watching me. I walked up to the front door of the laundry and knocked. The lights were off and I had to knock for quite some time before someone answered. It was a small Chinese boy, about ten or eleven, who opened the door. A week ago I would never have dreamed of such impertinence. To bang on the door of a strange house and rouse a sleeping family like this. The boy was holding an oil lamp and seemed not greatly surprised to see me. He turned and walked down the passage as if it were understood that I would follow and that it was equally clear who I had come to see. There were stairs at the end of the passage and he began to climb. I followed. On the first landing a Chinese man stood in a doorway watching. He looked at me and said, ‘You not Lord Apsley.’
We climbed five storeys to the roof. Cheadle was in the garret, lying in a bed so high off the floor that he had a soap box to act as a step. His bed was, in fact, a mattress on crates containing soap powder and ammonia. He was staring at the ceiling, and spoke without turning to look at me.
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As firebox cleaners, come to dust.
I smiled patiently.
He turned his head to see me. ‘Hello, Jack.’
‘Are you well, Cheadle?’
‘Just a bit tired.’ He coughed. Doors banged downstairs. ‘This house is Tudor, did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I expect, over the years, a lot of people have died in this room, staring up at the sky through this window. We come and we go, it all seems so . . . important, so urgent, our little lives filled with little cares and pains. Lots of those. But when you look back, it’s quite affecting to see how small and without meaning those cares were. If only I had known it sooner, I might not have taken things to heart so. Is it snowing?’
‘A few flurries, not sure if it’s going to stick. It’s chilly though, the wind is from the north-east.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea? I can send the boy. It’s Chinese tea, tastes like water you boil peas in, but it’s pleasant enough.’ He turned to look at me properly. There was a candle on the bedside table. He picked it up and held it closer to my face. Then he gasped. ‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Oh, you poor man. There was me waffling, oh, you poor man.’
‘Cheadle, I—’
‘It’s come, hasn’t it? I see it in your face. A terrible darkness where before there was such gaiety. Those cruel fiends.’
‘Cheadle, I—’
‘To throw you out just before Christmas.’
‘No, you misunderstand.’
‘You’ve received the letter ending your employment?’
‘No, I haven’t. Not yet.’
‘But then what on earth has happened to make you look like this?’
‘I’ve met a girl.’
His face, which had been grey and taut with suffering, became transformed. It was as if his face had been a Halloween turnip and someone had lit the candle inside. He turned quickly to me.
‘Oh, Jack, that is good news!’
‘I never expected to.’
‘You never do, that’s the glory of it. Oh, Jack, you cannot know how much joy this news brings me.’ He drew himself up in bed on his pillows, as if finally this were news worth living for. ‘You must grab! Grab it! Seize your happiness as it passes you in the street, and not let go. You will spend the rest of your days in regret if you do not. Quick! On the mantelpiece, glasses. Fetch them!’
I duly did as I was told.
‘Your Gosling’s brandy, you have it?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘No buts!’
‘It’s for medicinal purposes.’
‘Physician, heal thyself!’
I took out the flask and filled the glasses. We wished each other good health and drank.
‘Seize your happiness, seize it, I say.’
‘I think it may be too late for that.’
‘No! Tell me her name.’
‘Jenny.’
He closed his eyes and nodded happily as if the name could not have been more perfect. ‘Jenny,’ he repeated. ‘Do you love her?’
‘It’s a bit soon for that, Cheadle, I hardly know her.’
‘It’s never too soon, that’s not how it works. You come here late at night wearing a face like Lord Byron and tell me you are not in love? Pish!’
‘But—’
‘If you heard her cry from the street now and you rushed out to find some ruffian trying to steal her handbag, what would you do?’
‘I would smash his teeth in, Cheadle.’
‘Good! What else? What if he hit her?’
‘Oh, Cheadle, I don’t dare think what I should do, I think I should grab the fiend round the throat and throttle the life out of him.’
‘Good! You see? I knew it! I could tell.’
‘Knew what?’
‘You are in love.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Oh, I can tell.’
‘Then I am doomed. I thought she liked me but now I think she hates me.’
‘Good!’
‘Good?’
‘Oh yes, that’s a very good sign.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
‘O
f course you don’t, that’s another good sign. This all fills me with the most wonderful felicity.’
‘We had a picnic, it was all going so well. Then I did something wrong and I can’t for the life of me think . . . I don’t know what I did wrong.’
‘Oh no, you never do!’
‘Never?’
‘At first everything you do is right, but then that all changes and everything you do is wrong. Everything! Even when you are trying your hardest, it’s not good enough. That’s when you know her heart is yours.’
‘This all sounds topsy-turvy to me.’
‘Of course, did you think being in love was the same as firing a train?’ His eyes glittered with mirth.
‘Well, I’m glad to see my troubles supply you with entertainment. That’s very good, that is. Chap finds himself in a fix and . . . I felt a bit giddy coming here this evening, and . . . and I struck a man in anger for no reason. I’m not myself.’
‘Oh, Jack, do not mind my enjoying your fix, as you call it. If only you . . . if only you knew how lucky you are and how keenly I envy you.’
‘I can’t believe you are telling me this, not long ago you said—’
‘Does it matter what I said?’
‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Oh that’s easy. Apologise. You must apologise.’
‘What for?’
‘Anything you like! It’s not important. Do it now, do it tonight!’
‘Surely I have to know what I am apologising for?’
‘What on earth for? That’s not necessary at all. Say for being a horrible beast. She’s hardly going to contradict you.’
‘And if I do that, will she forgive me?’
‘Of course not!’
‘But that is intolerable.’
Cheadle paused to catch his breath. When he spoke again it was in a lower, quieter register. ‘I’ve seen more of this world than you, Jack, and I have to say I don’t care greatly for much of it. It’s a pretty poor sort of place for the common folk, and as far as I have been able to make out, it always has been.’
‘Is it really so awful?’
‘I rather think that it is. There is so much pain and most folk sort of laugh it off and say mustn’t grumble, but really they have every right to grumble. But the reason they put up with it are those rare times when things are special. At those times you forget, you see. You forget the dreary days of toil and grim determination. It all goes out of the window. You must forget about your worries and fears, you must take your sweetheart somewhere, somewhere nice, the seaside perhaps. Has she been to the seaside? Or Ireland? I’ll warrant she hasn’t been there. Take her, you can go from Fishguard to Rosslare. It’s a new vessel, too, the SS St Patrick, built by Alexander Stephen & Sons, Glasgow, and divided into thirteen watertight compartments. All sorts of modern features – lifeboats fitted under davits, buoyant seats distributed throughout and a wireless installation equipped with direction-finding apparatus. She’ll be tickled pink.’ He grabbed my arm and squeezed. ‘Jack! When you came to see me, I said you must think I am a pretty poor sort of chap. I who blotted our copybooks and paid the price. I was penitent, but I didn’t mean it. I was just pretending, it was a lie. I said it so as not to hurt you. I don’t regret a bit of what I did. You find yourself at a crossroads. You have to make a choice. I won’t tell you what the choice is, you must work it out for yourself. You are lucky in a way that they are nationalising the railways because it makes it easier.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Really, they won’t want you in their new railway.’
‘That’s not certain. People will still be wicked on the trains. They may still need me.’
Cheadle’s face was hidden in the dancing shadows of the candle, but I could sense the intensity of his gaze. And though I contested his words, they made me feel like a fool or one who walks his whole life in blindness. I asked, ‘Why did that Chinaman downstairs mention Lord Apsley?’
‘He was here earlier.’
‘Lord Apsley? What on earth for?’
‘He comes to see me from time to time.’ He let go of my arm and sank back into the pillows. ‘Go now, and find your girl. As for the other thing, I will send the boy round tomorrow with the book.’
‘What book?’
Cheadle looked slightly surprised. ‘Oh, Jack, the book, for your trip to Ireland. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?’ He pulled me closer and whispered, ‘It will tell you what to do . . . about the Devilishness.’
I looked at Cheadle in astonishment. He returned my stare and hissed, ‘It’s got pictures you can follow – racy ones!’ He winked and said, ‘You lucky perisher!’
Out in the street, the frost had deepened and made my cheeks smart. The crunch of my footsteps in the fresh snow was the only sound in the world, apart from the engine of a car starting up. The Rover parked opposite was still there. It pulled out and did a U-turn, pulling up alongside me. The rear window wound slowly down. Lord Apsley sat in the rear, and invited me in. I walked into the street to enter by the door on the driver’s side. The interior smelled of old leather and barley sugar sweets. The red leather seat had an armrest down the middle and the carpet was thickly piled scarlet. After I got in, the car moved off, driven by a chauffeur in a dove grey suit and peaked hat who observed me through the rear-view mirror.
‘Bit late to be visiting the laundry, isn’t it?’
‘I dropped some collars off. I’d been walking, you see. Didn’t realise it had got so late.’
‘Something on your mind, Jack? A man who takes a walk late at night has generally got a bee in his bonnet, in my experience.’
The car pulled out of the Shambles and crossed the square. The engine purred and made hardly a sound. The world outside seemed almost as bright as day because of the snow but devoid of all sound, the silence accentuated by the flakes of snow that danced before us as we drove. In the darkness I could not see Lord Apsley but felt his presence. His cologne was dark and sickly, containing the scent of roses left too long in a vase. I remembered the words of Cheadle and found myself uttering sentiments the like of which had never crossed my tongue before.
‘Lord Apsley, I have always . . . I have always regarded you as a good egg. Moreover, I have always regarded the Great Western Railway as the finest organisation of men to be found anywhere in the world, perhaps with the exception of the British Army. And I have never doubted for one second of my life that my country is the best in the world and that the people are the best chaps in the world.’
‘Hear, hear! I hope nothing has happened to make you reconsider those thoughts.’
‘You read a letter to me the other day that you said was from my mother.’
‘Jack, I shouldn’t have done that. It was thoughtless.’
‘All the same, it came as a great surprise to me to discover that you had such a letter.’
‘Yes, it would. I can see that.’
‘You should give it to me, shouldn’t you?’
‘And what good would it do you?’
‘She was my mother.’
‘You already have a mother. The Great Western Railway. Has she not been good to you?’
I drew myself up and said, ‘I must tell you frankly, Lord Apsley, that I regard it as . . . as a pretty poor show that you have held on all these years to a letter addressed to me from my mother.’
His tone became sharp. ‘Don’t get uppity, Jack, remember your place. You are bright but you are still only a boy from the orphanage. You shouldn’t concern yourself with matters of state; they are above and beyond your grasp.’
‘I agree that there are many things I don’t understand but a mother . . . every man can grasp that.’
‘Can they indeed? How would you know? Let me tell you about mothers. People talk a load of ballyhoo about mothers. Unlike you, I had one, but I can’t say it ever did me a lot of good. You shouldn’t listen to other chaps. Some of them even cry for their mother on the battlefield when dying, did you
know that?’
‘No, I had no idea.’
‘Rotten cowards they are, bringing dishonour on their regiment in their finest hour. I once had a man shot for mewling under fire. Believe me, mothers are no good. You know what I wanted to be when I was a boy? An actor. Can you believe that? Vaudeville. A painted man in tights. I cringe to think of it now. But I had a loving father who mercifully beat that dream out of me. It took a long time to completely extinguish it. Many thrashings. At first, I blubbed. But I learned to bear my correction with fortitude. My softhearted mother tried to intervene, to prevent the beatings that were making me whole. I shudder to think what may have become of me if she had had her way. It’s a good chance I would have turned into one of those . . . those . . . sodomitical dandies rouged up and powdered, who meet at night over in Wildernesse. It could so easily have happened, and if it had been left to my mother it probably would have. Do you think she did me any favours with her cowardly pleading? No, Jack, take my word for it, you are better off without a mother. You don’t realise how lucky you are.’ He broke off as the chauffeur pulled up outside the gentleman’s club, Marmaduke’s. ‘Sturridge, take Mr Wenlock home.’ The chauffeur gave a tiny nod of acknowledgement.
‘Sturridge will take you home,’ he said, returning his gaze to me.
‘There’s really no need, I’m just as happy to walk.’
‘In this weather? Out of the question.’
Sturridge opened the rear door and held out an arm to help Lord Apsley. Before climbing out he put his hand on my forearm and drew me towards him. ‘That filly who came to see you. Have you seen her again?’
‘No, Lord Apsley. After you told me she does not love England, I broke off all communication with her.’
‘Good man! And Magdalena, have you seen her?’
‘No, Lord Apsley.’
He peered into my eyes as if wishing to gauge the truthfulness of what I had said. ‘You said you loved England. If you do, if you truly love her, you must have faith in what I say.’
‘I’ll try.’
He tightened his grip on my forearm and leaned across as if what he needed to say could not be overheard by the chauffeur. ‘We have great plans, great plans for you, Jack.’
The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste Page 17
