I walked into the Kingfisher. It was just after 8pm and it was full with men from the biscuit works and those coming off shift at the Anaglypta Mill. So full, in fact, that I had to be careful opening the door. I pushed through to the bar and ordered a pint of bitter and a whisky chaser which I knocked back in one and asked the barman to refill. He did so without looking at me but with a slight pause that indicated he had noticed the eager way in which I had drunk it. I expect a chap working in a bar gets to see every type of drinker there is and has a pigeonhole for them all. What type was I tonight? I did not know, but I’m sure he did.
I’m not used to getting tight, but tonight I got drunk, and quickly. I had three more whiskies, a gin and orange, another two pints and a bottle of brown ale. I began to feel rather pleased with myself. I began to see things more clearly. I did not believe the Dingleman would harm Jenny straightaway. He would use her as a bargaining chip. He would have to contact me, and when he did, I would rescue her and that would be an end of it. Indeed I began to wonder why I had made such a fuss. I would sort the situation out first thing tomorrow morning. It would probably take most of the day to find her, but I saw no reason why we shouldn’t have tea at Lyons that night, and, who knows, perhaps next day we could go shopping for a Biro.
I began to laugh at myself. What a silly fool I had been! I thought of that first day when we went to the Lyons tea shop; it seemed like it happened a thousand years ago although it was just over three weeks since she had said ‘Abyssinia’ at the tram stop. The remembrance was like a blow to the heart. All we did was take tea and an egg, a slice of bread, but I could not recall ever having had a happier meal. It was . . . it all seemed so . . . golden. This was precisely the Devilishness of which Cheadle had spoken. He said when you look back even the most humdrum moment will appear magical and he was entirely right. And here was I crying for no reason. I had done something that I never in my wildest dreams imagined that I would. I had found a girl. And I found that I liked it. Most remarkable of all, a wonder that I could not believe, she appeared to like me. I should be celebrating, not drowning my sorrows. I ordered two more straight gins.
A young lady to my right caught my eye and smiled. I nodded back and I dare say she mistook my smile for a sign of friendship, for indeed I was smiling broadly now. She moved over and chinked her glass against my pint without asking and said,
‘You seem to be having a merry time.’
‘Yes, yes, I rather suppose I am.’
‘Well, isn’t that nice! You rather suppose that you are.’
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that comment; I didn’t sound all that friendly. She was quite a strange-looking fish. Her face was caked in make-up, not particularly well applied, and her lipstick, which was the colour of a pillar box, extended so far beyond the rim of her mouth that she almost looked like a clown. Her hair was a very bright shade of blonde and worn in what I believe is called a permanent wave, and yet it didn’t seem to fit her face. I believed it might even be a wig. Perhaps she was an actress.
‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘I’m celebrating.’
‘Oh, is it your birthday?’
‘No, it’s better than that, I challenge you to guess.’
‘Guessing special occasions is thirsty work,’ she said, waggling her empty glass. I became aware that her companions standing at the corner of the bar were watching us quite intently and seemingly making comments to each other. They were grinning too, and I have to say there was something not entirely normal about them but I wasn’t sure what it was. I bought her a gin and tonic and laughed when she asked if I was celebrating winning the football pools.
‘No, unfortunately that is not the case.’
‘What do you do for a living then? If you tell me that I will guess what you are celebrating.’
‘Oh, that’s easy, I work for the railway.’
‘You like soldiers, though?’
‘I don’t dislike them, why do you say that?’
‘I just thought you would, being in here and that.’
‘Why, is this pub popular with soldiers?’
She laughed for some reason. ‘You’re a funny one, aren’t you? I don’t believe you work for the railway. I think you work in the music hall.’
‘No, I can reassure you on that point. As a matter of fact, I’m a Railway Gosling.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, I suppose you would say it is a form of detective.’
She didn’t look too pleased at this news, which surprised me. Normally people react very warmly when I tell them I am a Railway Gosling.
‘A bobby?’ she hissed.
‘No, not exactly, as I said, I work for the railways.’
‘You trying to get me into trouble?’
‘No, of course not, why should I?’
‘If I were you I would keep your mouth shut about it in here. Some folk might not take too kindly to finding a . . . whatever it was you said, among them.’
‘My name’s Jack.’ I held out a hand to shake, but she did not take it.
‘And mine’s Arthur,’ she said. ‘Hold on, I need to go to the you-know-what.’
I watched her move and was surprised to see her push other men aside in quite a forceful way and these men retreated from her looking rather fearful. I noted too that her companions were still watching me intently, in fact, quite a lot of people were, and I have to say I found the attention not to my liking. And then I saw among them a man who looked just like Lord Apsley, but he was wearing a wig, too, and theatrical rouge. Behind him I caught a glimpse of a man who looked like Desperate Dan. The thought that it might be that Lithuanian chap, Andruis, whom I had humiliated in the Star and Garter, unnerved me and made me feel suddenly alone, and far from home. I stumbled towards the door and spotted the girl, at the far end of the room now, do the most confounded thing. She walked into the gent’s lavatories. I pushed the swing door and plunged into the cold, refreshing air.
Outside on the pavement a man accosted me. It appeared he had been waiting out in the cold.
‘Mr Wenlock, sir?’
‘Yes . . . do I know you?’
‘We have not been introduced, but you did strike me across the face last week outside the railway station. I have a message for you and would be very grateful if you did not strike me again.’
I stared into his face and remembered how I had rudely cuffed him outside the station after the trip to London. A fortnight ago, but it seemed much longer. ‘I’m sorry I struck you the last time we met. I wasn’t well.’
‘It does not matter. I intended to warn you, sir. And now the event concerning which I meant to warn you has come about. I have a message from Mr Old and Mr Young. They require you to deliver to them by new year’s eve the letter that Magdalena stole.’
‘But I don’t have the letter.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. They said if you didn’t give them the letter they would be forced to hurt Jennifer.’
‘Jenny? Are you saying they have Jenny? I thought the Dingleman—’
‘I have no understanding of the contents of the message, I was just asked to deliver it.’
‘Not the Dingleman?’
‘As I say—’
‘Yes, yes. They said they will hurt her?’ The thought of them hurting Jenny made me lose my balance. I stumbled and the chap supported me. He pressed a scrap of paper into my hand. ‘They said you can telephone them on this number when you are ready to hand over the letter. I must go now, sir. A merry Christmas to you.’ He wandered off into the night.
I walked back across the wasteland. How did this news alter things? Once, in the Sudan, I saw a dog with rabies chase its own tail, with a terrifying fury. Round and round until it eventually collapsed from exhaustion. In the same way did my thoughts race round and round getting nowhere. I clasped the scrap of paper and determined I would telephone the number. I quickened my pace. I could hear the distant pub door swing open and a group of men leave. They took the same
route as me and the sound of their drunken laughter got nearer. I didn’t particularly like it and thought that I should make haste, but unfortunately I was overcome by an urgent desire to relieve myself, which had to be obeyed. The voices stopped and I assumed that they had turned off and were no longer following me, so I returned to the path. There was a clank as something hit me on the back of the head. I think it was a shovel. I fell over and the world started spinning. I found myself flailing, trying to get up, but there was a group of chaps gathered round me punching and kicking me. They were laughing too and jeering at me with words that I did not catch. I tasted blood in my mouth. The beating subsided and I lay on my back looking up at their silhouettes against the night sky. Arthur was one of them and other chaps I did not recognise.
‘I think he needs to go for a swim,’ said Arthur and this resulted in general agreement.
‘Best place for a bobby,’ said one of them and the others agreed. They lifted me up and I fancied I saw the face of Desperate Dan among my attackers. They carried me towards the sewage treatment pool. It was round, with a piece that moved slowly round like the hand of a clock. There was a fence too and it took them a while to manhandle me to the top. Once they did they heaved me over and let me fall, laughing at the splash. More insults were thrown at me and then they left, all breaking into a run. I could hear their voices get fainter, voices of laughter and hatred.
There was no denying I was in a pickle now. I managed to swim to the side. The steel walls were too smooth to get any purchase. There was no rail nor hook protruding. I felt like a spider unable to climb out of a sink. The sewage farm was bounded on the south side by the railway viaduct. The arches rose high above my tank like a cliff face, a cliff so close I could almost touch it. How I longed to be on the viaduct looking down. I pushed myself round the tank with my palms into a section illuminated by the glow from the railway lights high above me. I found a vertical crevice in the wall, where the metal had been joined. It was too narrow for my fingers to enter, but if I could wedge something into it, I would have a makeshift handle. That was when I thought of my Formica. I took it out of my pocket, and inserted it. By raising it slightly like a railway signal and gently applying my weight, I was able to keep my body stable, my head above the water.
Time passed, a distant clock chimed 9.30. It was still early but there was little chance of anyone passing this way tonight. I began to shiver and when the clock chimed the hour I noticed that the water level had risen and was approaching the level of my handhold. I would see the 10.05 Hereford train, but would I see the one an hour later? Should I pray? I seldom did and it occurred to me God would consider it impertinent of me to appeal to him now when I had ignored him in the past. But then I had worked for His wonderful railway, surely that counted for something? I decided it might be worth a try but then I wondered what I should say; it seemed rather silly to ask for a ladder. I contemplated, aware that my shivering was beginning to get more violent. There was no sound apart from the tinkling of the water against the side of the tank and my breathing. Not even a dog disturbed the night. Had the whole world gone to bed? No. There was a sudden wail, and then two more. It was the night train to Hereford. And then I heard a sound that filled my heart with joy – that unmistakable double cough in the chuffs. It was 4070 Godstow Castle. If this should be the last train I saw, I could not imagine a better engine to pull it. As if understanding my need, the train proceeded over the viaduct slowly, so slow I could make out the shadowy shapes of the driver and fireman on the footplate, dark figures against the copper glow from the firebox. Ah! Chaps, if only you would look out now and see!
And then something happened that, had I prayed to God earlier, I should certainly have regarded evidence of His answer. The last carriage before the guard’s van glided past and slid into the penumbra of the lone trackside lamp and the light revealed to me an extraordinary sight. A chap was leaning precariously out of the carriage window, leaning so far that he would have fallen out were it not for the fact that another chap inside the compartment was holding his legs. The compartment from which he emerged was dark, in contrast to the brightly lit one next door, and into which he appeared to be peering. He was playing the peeping Tom! But what on earth could be happening in the adjacent compartment to make him risk his life like this? As he passed, he looked down and saw me, perhaps the last thing on earth he expected to see – a man in the sewage tank. It all took place in a second or two, but in those short seconds, which seemed longer than normal seconds, our eyes met.
I cried out to him. ‘Can you help me, sir? You will be at the station in a minute or so. If you could report my predicament . . . otherwise I think I shall drown.’
The train passed and the astonished man was engulfed by darkness. The thought occurred to me that he had better climb back into the compartment pretty sharpish or he would hit the bridge and so would pass my last prospect of rescue. I began to shiver uncontrollably; perhaps it was the cold water that now the effect of the alcohol subsided I noticed with a sharp and keen pain. The water was like ice and it seemed quite possible that I would freeze before I drowned. I had attended to many incidents over the years in which vagabonds had been found frozen near the tracks in winter. It was a common form of death. I had no way of knowing if the man had heard my plea but even if he had he would no doubt have dismissed it as the raving of a madman or a drunken man. And are they not the same? But my dark presentiments were wrong. Ten minutes later the sound of men could be heard approaching. I cried out and before long they were staring over the parapet surveying the scene below with a policeman’s light. I was saved. And what is more I had solved the mystery of Fireman Stalham and Driver Groates. The driver must have been leaning out in a similar fashion and hit a bridge.
THE BOY’S OWN RAILWAY GOSLING ANNUAL
Vol.VII 1931 Price: 1/-
Replies to our readers’ letters
ABIGAIL, CREWE—You could indeed fashion a tourniquet from such material. However, if your brother really did behave in the manner you describe we suspect you would benefit more from the services of an undertaker.
G. R. ROGERS, CANTERBURY—Absolutely not! For one thing the blowpipe dart you envisage would almost certainly not penetrate the postman’s tunic.
RAJIV, BANGALORE—Good quality chain or a stout rope will do the job. However, you would struggle to convince a jury that you tied the lady to the track in the heat of the moment.
THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF RAILWAY GOSLING CADBURY HOLT – ON THE TRAIL OF THE MISSING NUNS!
The Well-spoken Cannibal
The two warriors threw me on to my knees before the Chief. He grinned.
‘Railway Man, I have decided to beat you no more. Are you pleased?’
The vines wound around my wrist bit deep into my flesh, making me wince. I answered the Chief. ‘Whether you beat me or not, it is all one to me.’
‘Railway Man, you are a spoiler of sports. For three months I thrash you daily. Now I tell you that I intend to beat you no more and you are not even curious. Railway Man, play the game!’
‘Chief Jhorumpha. If it pleases you to beat me, you will. If the sport loses its savour, you will stop.’
‘My medicine doctor will tend to your wounds. You will be given good food and clean water, straw to sleep on. I will make you whole again. Shall I tell you why? Because I propose to remove your skin after your death, and from your hide I will make myself a hat and coat so that I too may pass for a white gentleman and travel in this first class which you have told me about. Do you approve of my plan?’
I was determined to deny the Chief the pleasure of seeing me quail.
‘Your plan to turn me into a hat and coat is not a bad one. However, you seem to underestimate the measures necessary for you to pass yourself off as an Englishman. Moreover, it is my duty to warn you that my person, humble though it is, carries with it the protection of His Majesty the King of England.’
‘Oh yes, King George. I hear he collects postage stamps
and sticks them in a book. What is the purpose of this strange behaviour?’
‘I warn you, Chief Jhorumpha, you dice with death when you impugn the honour of the King of England.’
‘Why don’t you invite him to my country so that we can wrestle?’ The Chief laughed, and all the other warriors laughed along, even though not one of them spoke English. ‘No, Railway Man, your stamp collecting King will not save you. You are not the first to come in search of the holy nuns. The sons of England are cry-babies. I have had many Englishmen in my cooking pot and they all cried.’
‘This behaviour you describe is characteristic of an Italian, not an Englishman.’
The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste Page 21
