I couldn't see why he was telling me this, but tried to keep up an interested face. 'Now, if it ever happened that all the lads came in here at once' said Vincent, 'this is the order in which we would brew up: first billy on would be Clive Castle, who's a passed fireman who sometimes does firing turns on the half, depending on how busy they are with the Brookwood runs. He's sort of half on the half and half not. Next it would be Joe somebody – just can't quite remember his name – who also fires up at odd times. Then it would be the last fireman, the bloke who's just gone.' 'He's full-time on the half though?' I said. Vincent nodded. 'What's that fellow's name?'
Vincent gave me another of those long looks that he went in for. 'Mike,' he said after a while, and it caused him a lot of pain to say that word.
'Next billy on,' he continued, 'is mine because I was passed for firing on the half-link six weeks back, but I've been kept back on cleaning – though really I'm just kicking my heels – until everything's put straight in the office. Now if you should ever come up from cleaning to firing on the half you'd put your billy on the stove next, making you fifth in line and last.'
I told him that if I ever came up from cleaning to firing on the half-link I would probably bring my tea in a bottle, and he didn't like this one bit. Then I said, 'Look, what is this half-link business? Engine men work in links, and a link is a sort of bundle of duties. You can't have a half-link, and no one's told me I'm to be on it in any case.' 'You sure of that?' 'Honour bright.' But I could tell that he still didn't believe me.
'But you are on it,' he said slowly. 'I know that from the special cleaning duties you've been given. And why shouldn't there be a half-link: it just means a little link, that's all, and I'll tell you what: I'd rather be on half-link than bottom-link.' 'Bottom-link?' "The bottom-link's the one above the half-link. Slow-goods: cutting coal waggons in the dark, hour after hour.' 'Why in the dark?'
'You get in amongst moving coal waggons and it's bloody dark, I'll tell you.'
'But what does the half-link do, then?' I asked, for he still hadn't got to that.
"The half-link isn't like any other link. It does a dog's dinner of local turns, but most of its work is on that one particular special sort of run.' He stopped here and gave me a queer look. 'But you don't need telling about that, mate.'
I asked him how he made that out, and he said, 'You're being put to cleaning the engines for that run, and doing nothing else, by the sound of it, except getting more than your fair share of rides on them, which is probably so you can get up to firing before you're properly ready for the job. Where did you say you were from, mate?' 'Baytown.' 'Now I've never heard of that spot.' 'Gentry would call it Robin Hood's Bay.' 'Still never heard of it,' said Vincent. 'Does it have electric light?'
'Whitby has electric light,' I said, but he hadn't heard of Whitby either.
'What brings you down here?' Vincent asked, and I found that I was taking against the fellow in double-quick time. I thought: Rowland Smith brought me down here, with his letters that all of a sudden seemed so mysterious. It would have to come out in time, but I mumbled something about there being more chances for a lad south than north, adding: 'This special run you spoke of – it's all goods, is it?' Vincent thought about this for a while. 'It's mixed.' 'Mixed goods?'
'No, mixed goods and passengers. It's not what you might call.. He seemed to drift away for a minute here, but he came back galvanised: 'Of course, with the sort of running I'll be putting up, I'll be off the half-link and on to suburban runs in under six months, you bloody watch. After that the sky's the limit.' "The Bournemouth Belle!' I said.
'You've got it, brother. Eighty miles to the fucking hour, and the big penny in the pocket. Do you want to see where the half-link drivers have their twenty minutes?' "That would be fine,' I said.
The half-link mess turned out to be hanging in the blackness off the side wall of the engine shed. It had a wooden staircase leading up to it, and a metal pipe connecting the back of the shed with the floor, and I wondered: now, what is holding this thing up, the pipe or the staircase? because neither looked up to the job.
'We can't go in, of course,' said Vincent when we'd got to the top of the stairs, 'but we can look through the window.'
There were proper tables and chairs, though of a rough sort. Two men were sitting in the mess, both smoking pipes and reading newspapers, the nearest one's being all about sport – 'GOLFING NOTES', I read, and 'ROWING FROM THE UNIVERSITIES' – while the chap at the far end was behind a newspaper of a smarter sort: 'EAST LONDON WATER, PRESENCE OF DANGEROUS BICCILLI'.
The sportsman was side-on to me so I could see that he was a wide, pinkish bloke with curly yellow hair, and a face that seemed to have burst a long while ago. All I could see of the other was his paper, with pipe smoke rising above it, and two thin legs shooting out from underneath with shiny boots on the end of them.
'That's Barney Rose,' said Vincent, pointing to the sporting paper, 'and that there's Arthur Hunt,' he added, pointing to the second man, and I could tell from the way he spoke that this fellow Hunt was really the man for him. 'Are they the only two drivers on the link?' "The only two full time on it, yes.' 'And they've only got one fireman between them?' 'Apart from the relief blokes who come and go.'
In all my years of reading The Railway Magazine I had never heard anything to match it.
'And that one fireman is the fellow called Mike that we've just seen in the firemen's mess?'
On the subject of this toothy lad Vincent just nodded, and I could tell that it wasn't a matter of dislike but something more.
'Henry Taylor,' I said, 'the one who went missing… Was he firing on the half-link before he vanished?' Here I came in for another of his stares. Henry Taylor was the great unmentionable, but Vincent did bring himself to a shake of the head eventually. 'Cleaning,' he said. 'So I've been taken on in his place?' Another pause. "That's it,' said Vincent.
'Don't these fellows ever do any work?' I said, turning back to look at the two engine men.
"They're on their twenty minutes,' Vincent whispered. 'I told you that.'
We carried on watching them. They had both turned over pages, 'WRESTLING NOTES', I read on the sporting paper; on the other, 'TODAY'S SPEECHES'. Then TODAY'S SPEECHES collapsed and I saw the thin, wolfish face of the man behind the paper, like a dagger. He didn't glance at me but nodded quickly at Vincent before disappearing again behind the journal.
This nod was electrifying in the effect it had on Vincent, who blushed as if that man had been his best girl. Then the other one, the comfortable one, put down his paper and nodded, but this nod was for the two of us, and quite genial. He stood up and opened the door, while the other just carried on with his paper and his pipe.
'Well, lads,' said Barney Rose, 'Ranjitsinjih has hit thirty-four off one over for the second time in three weeks.' I tried to think of something to say.
1 just had to pass on the news to someone,' said Barney Rose. 'He's new,' said Vincent, pointing at me, and making no attempt to continue with the cricket talk. 'He's cleaning for the link.'
There was a short silence; Rose moved his hand to his face, then away again. 'What's your sport, young man?' he asked, finally looking at me. 'I'm not so hot at any game, sir. I concentrate on my work.' 'But even so,' said Rose, in a dreamy sort of way.
'I have most energetic aspirations,' I said, still hoping to bring the talk back to what it ought to have been, 'and my supreme goal is the footplate.'
'Oh, my eye!' said Rose, before adding more quietly, 'Another Henry Taylor! He was always pretty keen to come up.' He was sweating and smiling in a strained way. 'Taylor was quite an ardent lad like yourself… but that's all right.'
'I believe that any young railman aspires to the footplate,' I suddenly heard myself saying, 'and I see no mystery in that, because I hold the life to be a grand one of freedom, healthy effort, endless variety, and delightful good friendship.'
'Where on earth did you get all that?' asked Rose, and he reall
y did seem astonished at my remarks. But I was watching the hard-looking fellow at the far end of the room who'd put the paper down once again and started staring at me. His shirt had no collar but it was clean and pressed. He looked like a grey wolf, and was obviously the right sort, but I did not like him, whereas I had always assumed that I would like men of the right sort.
Tt has been indicated to me,' I carried on, giving this fellow back as straight a look as I could, 'that I might be climbing onto the footplate of a slow-goods in six months from now, and that I could be wielding the shovel pretty freely from then onwards.'
Hunt took his pipe out of his mouth, and pretty well demanded, 'Who has given you all these promises?' For a working man, he talked like a swell, but with too much of London in his voice. 'Mr Rowland Smith,' I said.
From the look the man gave me – a look of nothingness -1 at first assumed he did not know the name, but that I could hardly credit.
'Mr Rowland Smith,' I said, 'is a director of the company that employs you, sir: the London and South Western Railway.'
'And you', he said, settling back on his bench in a way that made me realise that this wooden room was the kingdom over which he ruled, 'are his little friend?' '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 Necropolis Railway js-1 Page 3