The Somme Stations

by Andrew Martin

  ‘Centimes,’ I said.

  ‘… And you get goodness knows how many glasses in a bottle, whereas one glass of beer is a franc – and there’s a lot more wallop in a glass of wine than there is in a glass of beer.’

  ‘Spoken like a connoisseur,’ said Dawson, who was mooching along behind, hands in pockets. In the washroom, directly after the bath, he’d covered his face in a lather and set about it with a razor. It seemed he’d finally had enough of his not-quite moustache, but when he’d wiped away the soap, it was just as before.

  Dawson seemed to be looking for something, and I wondered whether it was the same thing I believed Tinsley to be looking for, namely a place signified by a red light burning low. On the train coming in from Burton Dump, I’d decided – on looking at all the brilliantined hair, the shaving nicks on the chins, and the soap suds hardened into white crusts about the backs of the necks – that such a place was the true goal of every man in the carriage, even the twins.

  Of course, most of the blokes in the carriage were not married. I was, and so the question of my own intentions came with complications. Whenever I thought of the red light, and how it might look, and where it might be, I thought of the wife. Best thing would be to have a drink, and see what happened. That’s what I intended to do, anyhow, but we couldn’t seem to find the right spot.

  We came out into the main square, where the half-wrecked cathedral stood. On the top of the spire, the Virgin Mary, tilted a few degrees below the horizontal, held the baby Jesus.

  ‘Famous is that,’ said Tinsley. ‘They have postcards with it on.’

  ‘Having a lovely time on the Western Front,’ I said.

  ‘It’s known as the Albert Memorial,’ said Dawson, and when he saw Tinsley’s expression – half believing it and half not – he had to laugh.

  We found a basement estaminet just off the Square that looked all right – not red lamps but green ones, which, together with dark blue, none-too-clean tablecloths, gave an underwater look to the place. It seemed to draw quiet types. A couple of privates talked in low voices in one corner; a couple of officers did likewise in another. As we descended the stone steps, a tired-looking woman said, ‘English menu’ in a strong French accent and held up a little blackboard. She looked at us, waiting. The odd thing was that it was all written in French, except for the odd word that stood out in capitals like ‘ENGLISH SHIPS’ which, odds on, was ‘English Chips’, since it went next to ‘Oeufs au plat’.

  ‘Bonsoir, madame,’ I said, and the woman nodded back. She wanted us to get on with the ordering.

  ‘What is oeufs au plat?’ asked Alfred Tinsley.

  ‘Eggs on a plate,’ I said.

  ‘Where else would they be?’

  ‘Fried eggs. So in English it’s egg and chips.’

  ‘I’ll have that,’ he said, and we all asked for it.

  The woman made no move, but nodded. She was still holding up the little blackboard, still looking worn out.

  ‘For dreenk,’ she said.

  The menu said ‘Notre Vins’, then came ‘Vin Blanc 1ff’. Below that was written ‘Cidre’, and no price.

  Tinsley said to me, ‘Ask her if she has Vin Supérieur.’

  He’d set his heart on this, having seen signs about the town announcing that it was only ten or maybe twenty centimes dearer than the ordinary stuff. I asked the question as best I could, and I could not make out the answer.

  We sat down at the table next to the officers. They were only junior officers – one pip and two pips. Two pips was out of the Quinn mould. He was saying, ‘That’s final to my mind … But then again …’

  We started in on the wine, which came in a bottle without a label, and without a cork – a dodge that most French barkeepers seemed to think they could get away with. I took a sip, while Alfred Tinsley drank off his glass in one go. He sat back, and said, ‘My eye! Is that what wine’s meant to taste like?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Dawson passed me a Woodbine, before offering one to Tinsley.

  ‘Go on then,’ said the lad, and he set about trying to enjoy a cigarette for the second time in his life.

  Dawson re-filled Tinsley’s glass, and the kid knocked half of that back straightaway as well. After taking a draw on the fag, he eyed it as though there was something wrong with it. But it was just the same as all other Woodbines.

  ‘I think a cigar might be more my style,’ he said.

  He seemed determined to go all-out this evening – and in all directions. Then he said, ‘Why does Oliver Butler say all that stuff about Oamer? Making out that he’s, you know, funny? A sort of nancy, I suppose is what he’s saying. He’s so keen to throw blame for what happened that I’m beginning to think he might have done for Harvey himself – him or his loony brothers.’

  Watching Tinsley, I was wondering again about the torn number of the Railway Magazine. It was the only thing about him that I couldn’t explain. Tinsley drained his glass, and this time took the liberty of re-filling it himself. ‘Oamer’s brainy,’ he ran on, ‘that’s the only thing different about him. Did you see him coming up on the train? He was reading the fattest book I’ve ever clapped eyes on.’

  ‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ I said.

  Taking another belt of wine, Dawson said, ‘I’ve got a book called The World’s Best Books. It’s awfully good. I’d read about half of it but then the war started.’

  Dawson looked up and said, ‘It’s not the same as reading half of the world’s best books, you know.’

  Re-filling my own glass – Dawson, who’d seemed miles away, had barely touched his – I said, ‘I’d stick to the Railway Magazine if I were you. But Alfred … How did one of yours end up getting burnt in the stove at Spurn?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Tinsley, setting down his glass, ‘How do you mean?’

  I thought: If he’s lying, he’s doing it pretty well.

  The English Ships came, and Tinsley got stuck in, but Dawson was still in his daze.

  ‘Look alive,’ Tinsley said, and Dawson started eating.

  The grub seemed to revive him, and when we’d finished eating, Dawson was all for quitting that particular basement, and finding another with a bit more life to it. So we paid the bill, and walked up into the dark street.

  This one offered no other estaminet, I was sure – just the tall houses, looking tense, waiting for another shell to come flying in. But there was no indication of the battle going in the east, save the occasional rumble of what sounded like thunder, and a faint discoloration on the sky. I looked along the road, and a little old man had appeared there. The males of Albert generally were little old men, or blokes otherwise crocked – they’d have been in the French army otherwise. But this bloke was in uniform, even though he carried a very un-military carpet bag.

  We stood near the street corner, and Dawson and Tinsley were after drifting around that corner. Tinsley was prattling about cigars: ‘The time for a cigar is after dinner,’ he said, ‘and we’ve had dinner so it’s time for a cigar.’

  Well, he was already canned. Dawson was jingling the change in his pockets while puffing on a fag. His cap was tipped right back, and a line of insect powder showed luminous in the crease of his tunic.

  ‘Just want to take a peek around the corner, Jim,’ he said.

  He sloped off, and the little old man was coming up fast. He wore a uniform at least a size too big for him, and of a washed-out, greyish colour. It featured a black brassard with lettering on it, but he wasn’t a military policeman. As he approached the white light of the lamp, he spoke, and it was a hard Yorkshire voice.

  ‘Who’s that man, bringing the King’s uniform into contempt?’

  It was the bloody Chief.

  ‘It’s Dawson,’ I replied, being in a state of shock, ‘the bloke you had a run-in with …’

  ‘Might have bloody known.’

  ‘Chief,’ I fairly gasped, ‘what …?’

  I meant ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Where’ve you just
come from?’ ‘What’s this queer sort of uniform you’re wearing?’ and ‘Why have you bloody shrunk?’ Shaking his hand, I read the lettering on the brassard – read it out loud in my amazement: ‘VTC’. Was it some part of the army? But the Chief was sixty-five. He couldn’t be with the colours. He couldn’t be at the front either, but he damn near was.

  ‘Volunteer Training Corps,’ said the Chief, and he looked sidelong, embarrassed. As he moved his small, scarred, gingery head, his cap seemed to stay still, being too big for him.

  ‘But … what’s in the bag, sir?’

  ‘Don’t “sir” me. I’m not an officer, am I?’

  He indicated the three stripes on his arm. I smiled at him, and it was the first time ever that I’d been amused by the Chief without also being nervous.

  ‘You’ve just the two,’ he said, indicating my own stripes. ‘Your missus’ll be up in arms about that, I suppose. She’ll be storming the bloody War Office.’

  The Chief was trying to address me after his old fashion, but he wasn’t quite up to it. Then I recalled that he ought to have known that the business on Spurn had held back my promotion.

  ‘Didn’t you get my letter, Chief?’

  ‘What bloody letter?’

  Behind me, Alfred Tinsley was returning from around the corner.

  ‘Just had the nod from Dawson, Jim,’ he said. ‘He’s found a likely place down there. Will you come along now or shall we see you later?’

  This was a pretty half-hearted sort of invitation. Were the pair of them fleeing the Chief? Then again, it would be obvious to anyone that the Chief and I had a lot to talk about and so might be better left to ourselves.

  I said to Tinsley, ‘Right-o, we’ll see you shortly.’

  The Chief was eyeing me. ‘The army’s given you a pair of shoulders at last.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I know how to stand now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, lad,’ said the Chief. ‘Look, for Christ’s sake, let’s get a belt of booze.’

  So I indicated the estaminet I’d just come out of.

  When we came to the bottom of the stairs, the woman didn’t hold up the little blackboard for the benefit of the Chief. She could immediately see that here was a man who didn’t really eat, but lived on smoke and alcohol. I asked her for a bottle of white wine, and took the Chief over to the table I’d quit ten minutes before. The bar was a brighter, bluer place now, with a few more Tommies in, and a stream of chatter and clinking glass.

  ‘How long have you been out here?’ I asked the Chief, pouring wine.

  ‘Getting on for a fortnight,’ he said, taking a box of cigars from his tunic pocket.

  ‘And before that you were in York?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘worse luck.’

  Again this sounded a wrong note. The old Chief didn’t go in for that self-pitying tone. I thought again of the letter I’d written him – the one I’d given to Oamer for posting at Romescamps. Had Oamer deliberately kept it back? He certainly wouldn’t have forgotten to deliver it. Then again letters from the front very often went astray, as did letters sent to the Chief. Any communication without the immediacy of a bullet could take its chances as far as he was concerned. I’d seen him start the fire in the police office with unopened correspondence.

  ‘The Volunteer Training Corps,’ I said, taking a pull on the wine (which showed no advance on the earlier bottle). ‘I think I’ve vaguely heard of it.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the Chief, lighting his cigar, and pushing the box over to me. ‘Well don’t strain yourself trying to remember. We’re a sort of home defence militia,’ he continued, blowing smoke. ‘We stand about in the middle of York looking out for Zeppelins … Investigate reports of German spies.’

  ‘Why aren’t you an officer?’ I said.

  ‘Officer,’ he said, with contempt.

  The Chief was working class by birth. That’s why he’d lit his own cigar before passing the box over to me. He was a fist fighter of old (hence the state of his nose), but not by Queens-berry Rules. He’d risen within the police but that didn’t signify socially. He could be a chief inspector whilst remaining true to himself, whereas he would have to have become a different man altogether if he’d been a commissioned army officer. Consequently, he’d stopped at sergeant major in the York and Lancaster regiment – out in the boiling desert with General Gordon and all those other red-coated lunatics. After his thirty years with the colours, he’d been in the Reserves for as long as possible, but now he was reduced to balloon-spotting in this funny rig-out.

  At least he was still on the big cigars, though. Lighting up my own Marcella, I asked again, ‘What’s in the bag, Chief?’

  ‘Cigarettes,’ he growled, and I knew the explanation for this, and the whole question of what he was doing in Albert, would have to wait.

  ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘The Somme battle – your lot were in on the start. What sort of show is it?’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen some pretty warm times,’ I said, blowing smoke, and feeling like a fraud.

  Whereas being in the war had killed many men, I could see that not being in it was killing the Chief. With him, everything was upside-down. Most patriotic men resented those of their fellows who didn’t fight. The Chief resented those that did. Accordingly I was torn as I spoke to him. I didn’t want to make myself out a hero. Then again, I could see him glazing over as I told him our mudlarking exploits – the trench digging and fixing. He was hungry for details of being under fire; he seemed fascinated by ordnance – all the gauges of shell I’d dodged. And then there was his obsession of old: machine guns.

  ‘You’ve felt the bullet go close?’ he said. ‘The little wind?’

  I nodded and, seeing that the Chief looked quite defeated at missing out on this experience, I added, ‘Only once or twice, mind.’

  I reserved the full story of William Harvey for our second bottle. In the meantime I gave the Chief tales of a fusiliersapper’s life. When I told him about Burton Dump and the lines going forward that would be brought into regular use from Monday onwards, he couldn’t help but grinning.

  ‘It was railways that started this show; looks like they’ll finish it as well.’

  ‘How did they start it?’

  ‘The Huns had to be sure they could defend to the east while attacking to the west. See – ’

  I thought he was going to show me the disposition of the German armies using wine glasses and cigars, so I cut in:

  ‘But what are you up to, Chief? I mean, why are you out here?’

  Since he couldn’t put me off any longer, he explained fast, as though the business was just too daft for words. The Chief, who had practically run the York railwaymen’s shooting leagues, had got up a ‘shooting party’ – him and some of his superannuated mates in the Volunteer Training Corps. They’d given demonstrations of marksmanship or failing that (since not all had retained A1 vision as the Chief had) general gun-craft. At first they’d toured the army camps in and around York. Now they were visiting some of the rest camps in France.

  ‘The troops hate to be out-shot by an old cunt like me,’ said the Chief. ‘It spurs them on. If they do beat us, we give ’em cigarettes by way of a prize. We have army fags gratis from one of the York quartermasters, but …’

  He was holding up the empty bottle, frowning at it.

  I called for another.

  ‘… But what we get from the quarter bloke’, he ran on, ‘is that powdery army stuff. Boy tobacco … So I lay out myself for decent fags from time to time …’

  ‘I’ve taken up regular smoking,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah?’ said the Chief. ‘Well, you need a hobby.’ He was reaching into the bag, saying, ‘I got this lot from a little market they have here – ’

  I said, ‘Are they Woodbines, by any chance?’

  ‘What do you want?’ said the Chief, ‘Jam on it?’ He put a hundred fags on the table in front of me, the packets marked ‘Virginians Select’.

  ‘For me?’ I
said.

  The Chief nodded.

  ‘I’m obliged to you. Now what’s going on at York station?’

  The Chief pulled a face: ‘Half the porters are bloody women.’

  The wife had told me that in one of her letters – leaving out the ‘bloody’.

  ‘How do they get on?’

  The Chief shrugged: ‘They’re not equal to the heavier luggage.’

  ‘What else? The government’s taken over the railways, hasn’t it?’

  The Chief nodded.

  ‘We have a bloke from London in the Station Master’s office. All excursions suspended. All breakfast, lunch and dining cars suspended.’

  ‘I suppose the only blokes left are the real crocks.’

  ‘Apart from the express drivers,’ said the Chief.

  I thought about asking whether he’d heard of Tinsley’s hero, Tom Shaw.

  Instead, I started in on telling the Chief about the death of Scholes, but he’d heard the news already. I asked him about Scholes’s old pal, Flower, who’d gone off to the Military Mounted Police.

  ‘In hospital,’ said the Chief.

  ‘Shot?’ I said.

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ said the Chief.

  ‘Well then what?’ I said.

  ‘What do you think?’ said the Chief. ‘Kicked by a bloody horse.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘It is for him,’ he said, with some satisfaction.

  I then asked what – or whether – he’d heard about the death of William Harvey, since he’d obviously not had my letter about it. He had done: read of it in the North Eastern Railway Journal. He knew the circumstances had been considered suspicious, although the magazine had left out that bit. I gave him the story of the investigation, and the hard time of it we’d all had from Sergeant Major Thackeray.

  ‘So you were all in the shit?’ he said.

  ‘Still are,’ I said. ‘Charges might be brought at any minute.’

  ‘Any theories, lad?’

  Of the many things I could have said, I asked him about Oamer – the character of the man.