Evil Machines

by Terry Jones

  The Houses of Parliament were reassembled back in their proper place and Big Ben was rehung in its tower.

  Then some technical tools were called for, and the Powerful Vacuum Cleaner was dismantled into its component pieces, which were all labelled and carefully stored away in boxes.

  But I’m afraid the vacuum cleaners who thought they were going on holiday to the United States of America were not in luck. They had to work from dawn to dusk every day, and not one of them was powerful enough to do anything about it.

  The Train to Anywhere

  When Mr Orville Barton got on the train the first thing he noticed was that he was the only passenger. This was particularly odd since this was the 8.30 London to Manchester Express and it was normally packed.

  Not only were there no other passengers on the train, there was no ticket inspector, no guard and no steward in the buffet.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Mr Orville Barton to himself, as he settled back in his First Class seat, facing the engine. ‘I could help myself to a packet of biscuits without having to pay a penny! I could even help myself to a can of beer – or (my goodness!) a bottle of wine – for free!’ But, of course, he would never have dreamt of doing such a thing at that hour of the morning, when he needed all his faculties for the business meeting ahead.

  He opened up his copy of The Times and started to read the financial reports. It was his habit to start at the bottom right- hand corner and read the reports working out leftwards and

  upwards in strict order. He never skipped a single story no matter how irrelevant it might seem.

  ‘Always start with the least significant and work your way up to the most important,’ he would tell his assistant, whose name was Percy Baker. ‘That way you won’t miss anything.’

  ‘Right!’ Percy Baker would say, as he arranged Mr Orville Barton’s pens in descending order of size, the way he liked to have them on his desk. ‘By the way,’ Percy Baker would often add, ‘your son phoned.’

  ‘Tell him I can’t talk now. I’ll call him when I have time,’ Mr Orville Barton would reply, as he continued to read the most uninteresting items in the Business Section.

  Today, however, as the 8.30 London to Manchester Express started to pull out of Euston station, Mr Orville Barton found his eye straying to the top left-hand corner, where the main headline of the day was located. It ran:

  RAIL STRIKE PARALYSES BRITAIN

  ALL TRAINS CANCELLED

  Mr Orville Barton frowned, as he looked round the empty train. It was picking up speed. Then he stood up, folded his newspaper and placed it on his First Class seat. He then walked down the empty carriage, through the deserted buffet, through two more empty carriages, until he came to the door that led to the driver’s cabin.

  Mr Orville Barton looked around again to make sure there was indeed nobody else around, and then rattled the handle a couple of times. It was locked, and he was about to return to his seat when he heard a soft click behind him, and the door swung open.

  Mr Orville Barton hesitated. For many years, his world had been made easy by a team of secretaries and assistants who were dedicated to satisfying his every whim. Even when he had problems of a personal nature, such as dealing with his ex-wife or responding to his children’s requests for help, he could detail one of his assistants to sort them out, without losing valuable time at his desk, where, he calculated, every hour was worth a thousand pounds.

  Mr Orville Barton made such vast amounts of money that he no longer even bothered to count the change when he bought his morning newspaper – although he reproached himself for that little indulgence every time he did it. In fact, he made so much money that he could actually keep at bay unpleasant sensations such as anxiety, apprehension and remorse. It was certainly a long, long time since he had experienced any truly uncomfortable feelings and certainly nothing approaching the feeling he was experiencing at this very moment. The feeling was so unfamiliar that Mr Orville Barton could not at first work out what it was. How did it feel? It was as if the bottom of his stomach had fallen out . . . Yes . . . There it was again! . . . a great chasm had just opened up inside him . . . as if he were about to take an exam . . . ah! Now he remembered! Yes! Of course, he knew that feeling from long ago . . . it was the feeling of dread!

  There was also something else unfamiliar and peculiar about the way he felt this morning. Mr Orville Barton had, for many years, been entirely in charge of everything that went on in his world. He was in control of his own life, as well as the lives of all those around him. And yet today . . . from the moment he had boarded the 8.30 London to Manchester

  Express, he had felt anything but in charge. Even his body seemed to have developed a will of its own. It was scarcely credible.

  ‘If you can’t control yourself,’ he used to say to Percy Baker, ‘how can you hope to control anyone else?’ But the fact of the matter was that Mr Orville Barton now found his feet propelling him willy-nilly through the open door at the end of the carriage and into the driver’s cabin.

  Through the driver’s window he could see the railway track racing up to the train and under it, as the mighty engine thundered past signals and stationary rolling stock and through a station the name of which there was no time to take in. The train was going so fast that everything outside was becoming a blur.

  Mr Orville Barton stood there mesmerized for a few moments, and then looked around the driver’s cabin. It was, of course, and as he knew it would be, empty. He felt the pit in his stomach open up again. Dread froze his nerve-endings, and he felt the muscles in the back of his neck and shoulders tighten.

  So this is what it was like to be no longer in control! He dimly remembered the feeling from his early days as a junior clerk – those terrible days when he would feel pain and anxiety and pity and even . . . what was that other thing? Mr Orville Barton racked his brains . . . there was another feeling that he couldn’t remember . . . a feeling he wanted to remember, but he couldn’t even think of its name.

  ‘Enjoying the ride?’ said a voice in his ear.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Mr Orville Barton spinning round.

  ‘You know who,’ said the voice.

  ‘No, I don’t!’ exclaimed Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘I’m the train,’ said the train.

  ‘Let me off!’ said Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘No! No! No! No! No! No! And no!’ said the train. ‘We’re going to have some fun! Now where shall we go?’

  ‘I want to go to Manchester!’ said Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘Oh! Manchester’s no fun!’ exclaimed the train.

  ‘I have an important meeting there!’ said Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘Pooh!’ said the train. ‘I can think of much more exciting places than Manchester . . . China, for example!’

  And Mr Orville Barton looked through the driver’s window and saw that there was a fork in the track ahead, and the points were changing to swing the engine onto the right-hand track. The next minute they were careering through a deep gorge that rose up on both sides of the train blotting out the sun.

  ‘Wheeeeee!’ screamed the train, blowing its whistle. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! yYes! Yes! Yes! And yes!’ and the sounded reverberated from one side of the gorge to the other. ‘Wheeeeee!’

  Before the first echo of the train’s whistle had died, Mr Orville Barton found the train had burst out of the gorge and into broad sunlight. They were speeding along the side of a lake, where men were standing on boats and throwing huge nets into the water. Running along the side of the lake there was a road full of people on bicycles. Some of them were carrying huge piles of sticks and sheaves of grass . . .

  ‘This isn’t Manchester!’ exclaimed Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘No! No! No! No! No! No! And no! It isn’t!’ hooted the train. ‘Whooo! Whooo!’

  ‘I demand that you take me to Manchester – like you’re supposed to – at once!’ said Mr Orville Barton in his most authoritative voice.

  But the train just hooted (
rather rudely), and then stopped at a station.

  Mr Orville Barton was unable to make out the name of the station, but he was pretty certain it was not Manchester Piccadilly or even Wilmslow, because the sign was written in Chinese characters. The platform, however, was jammed with people who all seemed to know exactly where they were, and (wherever it was) they appeared anxious to leave, for they all surged onto the train.

  Suddenly Mr Orville Barton remembered his newspaper that he’d left on his First Class seat. He fought his way through the mêlée of people – some of whom were carrying chickens while others were leading sheep or other forms of livestock.

  ‘Hey!’ exclaimed Mr Orville Barton, when he found his carriage jammed with Chinese ladies and gentlemen and animals. ‘This is a First Class carriage! I bet that goat doesn’t have a First Class ticket! And anyway what’s it eating?’

  But it was too late. ‘That was my newspaper!’ exclaimed Mr Orville Barton, who had gone pink with indignation. But it was no use; the new passengers couldn’t understand anything Mr Orville Barton tried to say to them, and, besides, the goat had now started to nibble Mr Orville Barton’s jacket.

  ‘Stop that!’ exclaimed Mr Orville Barton, hitting the goat on the nose. ‘This is an expensive jacket!’

  But the goat just tossed its head and tore off one of his

  pockets, which it then proceeded to swallow.

  ‘Hey!’ exclaimed Mr Orville Barton, but at that point a chicken flew across the carriage and landed on Mr Orville Barton’s shoulder.

  ‘Yeurrk!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hate hens!’ and he shoved it off, and retreated back into the driver’s cabin.

  ‘I am holding you responsible for my jacket!’ he shouted at the train. ‘And if you don’t get me to Manchester in time for my meeting I will sue you!’

  ‘Whooo! Whooo! Sue! Sue! Sue! Sue! Sue! Sue! And sue!’ whistled the train, as it started off out of the station. ‘See if I care!’

  Moments later they reached another town with a name that Mr Orville Barton couldn’t read, where all the passengers got off, taking their goats and chickens and dogs and sheep with them. By the time the train set off again, the First Class carriage looked as if it had been turned into a farmyard. It was not the way Mr Orville Barton was used to travelling.

  ‘It’s disgusting!’ he yelled at the train. ‘Get me out of here!’

  ‘Hold on to your tonsils!’ shouted the train, and it plunged into a tunnel. ‘Whooo! Whooo!’ shouted the train.

  They came out of the tunnel into a dreadful storm. The rain lashed the sides of the carriage and Mr Orville Barton could hardly see out of the windows.

  ‘Ah! This looks more like Manchester!’ he said, with some relief. ‘As soon as I get off I’m going to report you to the station master!’

  ‘Whooo! Whooo!’ said the train. ‘Manchester! Banchester!’

  Mr Orville Barton peered through the rain-streaked window and saw the train was racing along a cliff-top beside the sea. Ahead of them, perched on the edge of the cliff, stood a solitary house that he felt he recognized though he didn’t quite know why.

  The train came to a halt outside the house.

  ‘Why are you stopping here?’ asked Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘So you can get out,’ said the train.

  ‘I don’t want to get out!’ snapped Mr Orville Barton. ‘I want to get out at Manchester!’

  ‘I think you ought to get out here,’ said the train.

  ‘There’s no station!’ said Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘Listen!’ said the train. Someone was singing inside the house – a beautiful, soaring song that made the heart easy as you listened.

  ‘I recognize that voice!’ said Mr Orville Barton. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Perhaps you should find out,’ said the train and it opened its door. Mr Orville Barton peered cautiously out of the train, and the wind blew the rain right into his face so he almost choked.

  ‘I can’t go out in that!’ he was about to exclaim, but he didn’t. Somehow the voice and the song told him that he had to go. So he hunched up his shoulders and ran out into the driving rain and right up to the front door of the house.

  Fortunately there was a porch, so he was able to hide himself from the elements as he hammered on the door. At the sound of his knocking, the singing stopped. There was a short pause and then a young woman, carrying a small child, opened it. Her face looked worn and tired, but it lit up when

  she saw who was standing on her doorstep.

  ‘Dad!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why haven’t you been before? Didn’t you get my letters?’

  ‘Letters?’ said Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘You’re soaked and your jacket’s torn!’ said Mr Orville Barton’s daughter, and she pulled him in from the storm.

  ‘What was that song you were singing, Annie?’ asked Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘Oh that? It’s a new one,’ said his daughter. ‘I’ve started writing again.’

  ‘You write songs?’ asked Mr Orville Barton.

  Annie looked at him quizzically, as she put the kettle on. ‘Don’t you remember the musical I wrote at school? You actually came to it!’

  Something in the way that his daughter said this made Mr Orville Barton feel foolish.

  ‘I’m so forgetful, my dear,’ he said. ‘Do forgive me.’

  ‘And I became a singer with a band and wrote songs . . .’

  ‘Oh yes! Of course!’ he said, and to cover his embarrassment, he picked up the little child and sat it on his knee. ‘And what’s your name?’ he asked.

  Mr Orville Barton’s daughter looked up sharply.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad. What did you say?’

  Mr Orville Barton suddenly experienced yet another wave of embarrassment . . . but it was more powerful than that. What was the feeling? Ah yes! It was the feeling of having done or said something terribly wrong.

  ‘I asked what his name is,’ said Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘Shame on you, Dad! You don’t know your own grandson’s name!’

  ‘I’ve so much on my mind . . .’ pleaded Mr Orville Barton.

  ‘It’s Orville. He’s named after you,’ said his daughter.

  ‘Oh, of course! How could I forget?!’ said Orville Barton, and he bounced his grandson on his knee.

  ‘You never replied to my letters,’ said Annie.

  ‘I’ve been so busy,’ replied Orville Barton.

  ‘I know,’ said Annie. ‘That’s why I don’t telephone you any more.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ mumbled Mr Orville Barton. He glanced across at his daughter. She was frowning.

  Mr Orville Barton looked away and pretended to be suddenly interested in the kitchen arrangements; he noticed there were dirty plates and bowls in the sink.

  ‘Don’t you have anyone to help you clean up?’ he asked.

  ‘We can’t afford it, Dad,’ said his daughter. ‘Not since the engineering company that Tom worked for went bust.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘My husband!’

  Orville Barton felt most uncomfortable. In the office nobody would ever dream of speaking to him in the tone of voice that his daughter was now using.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Annie! You just have no idea how much work I have to get through in a day! If I relax my guard for a moment I can lose thousands . . . hundreds of thousands . . . It’s not my fault! In any case your mother always used to handle all that sort of thing.’

  ‘ “All that sort of thing”, Dad?’

  ‘You know – family stuff,’ replied her father.

  Annie stood up, and looked down on her father.

  ‘Why did you come here, Dad?’ she said.

  ‘Er . . .’ Orville Barton paused. He didn’t like to say he hadn’t meant to come at all; that he really wanted to go to Manchester where he had some important business to transact, and that it was the train that had insisted on bringing him here. So he said, ‘I came to see how you and Little Orville were doing, of course.’

&nbs
p; ‘Why the sudden interest, Dad?’

  ‘Well . . . I’m always interested . . .’

  ‘Not enough to take my phone calls or answer my letters or even remember your grandson’s name.’

  ‘My dear Annie, if I’ve got the Allied Bank of Brunei or someone, on the phone, talking about millions of pounds worth of crude oil, I can hardly put them on hold to speak to my daughter! Can I?’

  ‘I would,’ said Annie. ‘If I had a daughter.’ And she took Little Orville out of her father’s hands.

  ‘You don’t understand about business,’ mumbled Orville Barton. ‘Just like your mother.’

  Annie was now standing in front of the fireplace with her back to her father. Orville Barton realized she was trembling.

  ‘I think you’d better go, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘You’re too busy. You’ve always been too busy. I’m sorry I’ve taken up your valuable time.’

  ‘Now don’t be like that, Annie . . .’ said Orville Barton.

  ‘I don’t know why you came here, but it certainly wasn’t to see me or your grandson! You couldn’t care less about us!’ she said. ‘You didn’t even remember that I’m a songwriter; and that a few years ago I even wrote quite a successful song

  which was the only way Tom and I were able to buy this place . . .’

  ‘I could have bought it for you!’ exclaimed Mr Orville Barton, looking round.

  ‘We didn’t want your charity, Dad,’ said his daughter. ‘We don’t mean anything to you!’

  ‘Of course you do!’ said Orville Barton, and as he looked across at his daughter, he realized she was in tears. Normally, if he had someone in tears in front of him, he could just say, ‘You’re fired!’ And they’d go away and leave him in peace. But he couldn’t say that to his daughter.

  ‘Look!’ he said, and he sat down at the table, and – then and there – he wrote out a cheque for a lot of money. ‘There!’ he said holding it out to her. ‘That should pay for a few cleaners!’

  ‘I don’t want your money, Dad!’ cried Annie. ‘I want you to read my letters!’ and she turned away from him.