The inquest was held a week later, and I did not copy out the report. It was too long, Jim, but there wasn’t much to it for all that. Sidney Stewart Taylor and David Brown gave evidence. They seemed from it to be very respectable – as you would say, ‘above suspicion’. A doctor gave evidence that Matthew Waddington had been dead, and in the water, not above a week. He was found to have suffered a blow to the forehead, whether from a fall or a blow could not be stated, and his liver was in a very poor condition. He was known to have had a weakness for alcohol. An open verdict was returned.
So there you have it, Jim: nothing else notable had occurred at the lock as far as I can tell, and this is one more death among all the other thousands. I mentioned it to Lillian, and she had heard of the matter from Peter, who knows the Naburn gravedigger. (He mixes in all the best circles, does Peter.) She said the police force in Naburn – that is, Hartas and Hill – were sure Matthew Waddington had been murdered. I think this will not surprise you, but quite honestly I do not want to know any more.
I pray for you every day in St Andrew’s Church, and I know you will laugh, but after all you are, as you always point out at the start of your letters, ‘still living’. (Jim, there is no need to point that out: if you were not living you would not be writing.)
I will close now. Write again soon, and do keep small.
With all my love,
Lydia.
PS: In your last letter, you said that some leave might be in the offing. When, Jim?
Half an hour later, I returned the letter to my greatcoat pocket after reading it over for the third time, at which moment the engine gave a whistle, a sure sign that we were a long way behind the lines.
We were approaching the town of Amiens in a very old French ‘Nord’ carriage which boasted open seating – that is to say, no compartments. In spite of the brass ‘Défense de Fumer’ signs on the backs of the seats, I personally had a Virginians Select on the go, and the signs were ignored by most of the thirty or so blokes riding up. The majority were Burton Dump men, equipped with the same liberty pass as rested in my pocket, and among them was Oliver Butler. I looked up to see him facing my way about five rows along. I couldn’t see his brothers about, though. Amiens was a civilised place, not suited to their rough-house ways, and perhaps Oliver had told them as much.
Alfred Tinsley sat opposite to me. We knew Amiens by the approach of a great cathedral spire. Famous for its cathedral, was Amiens – its cathedral and its station, which was now closing around us.
The place was normal, as before: civilian services running to time, gorgeous-coloured advertising posters. The station dining rooms, located on our arrival platform, seemed all fitted out in gold, and there was a white-coated bloke sitting inside, folding napkins. Some military wagons and troop carriages were to be seen, but these were in far-off sidings. I pointed out a British 2-8-0 to Tinsley, and he said, ‘Well, there are heaps of those round here’, and didn’t seem particularly interested.
The ticket collector looked long and hard at our passes, but finished off his inspection with a respectful nod.
‘That’s the Frenchers all over for you,’ I said to Tinsley as we strolled through the ticket gate. ‘… Like to keep you guessing.’
Coming out from under the station glass, we saw that Amiens was enclosed in a thin white mist of the sort you only seem to get in the afternoons. It was like the half-formed idea of snow, and the place was freezing. Still, they had the tables set out in front of the cafés, and there were people sitting at them too – usually greatcoated soldiers with pretty, muffled-up women. I saw a man smoking, and then passing the cigarette to the woman. I’d never seen that done in Britain. Women seemed to be a speciality of Amiens – beautiful ones, I mean and we saw some real peaches.
‘They’ve got everything here,’ said Tinsley, ‘women, proper buildings that stand up, tablecloths on the tables.’
We came upon the cathedral, and the size came as a shock – every part of it trying to be higher than the other part. The Germans had been in Amiens at the start of the war. How come they hadn’t wrecked it?
‘This is Gothic,’ I said to Tinsley when we were inside. ‘Like York Minster … I think.’
It was like York Minster, only more so. Tinsley put some change into a box marked, ‘For the Poor of Amiens’ – rewarding the town for being normal. Watching him wandering about in there, I thought of the bullet that had landed in The Count of Monte Cristo. I had taken it to one of the Royal Artillery blokes at the Dump, and without saying where I’d found it, I’d asked whether he thought it came from a British or a German weapon. He said it was too misshapen to say, but most likely German. As regards the book itself, I’d asked Oamer if I might keep it, and he’d agreed, saying, ‘It’s not going to save my life again, is it?’ I would now be able to give it back to Harry with the best possible excuse for not having read it, and I decided that as far as the lad was concerned, it might as well have saved my life as Oamer’s.
Behind the cathedral was an area of narrow canals running between ancient-looking houses connected by wooden bridges. It was a beautiful spot, but I looked into the waters of the canals expecting to see dead men floating there, and when I looked into the sky it appeared to be unnaturally empty and silent as though something had lately been taken away. As we drifted about, the light fell, and the buildings became distinct by virtue of the different colours of light showing from them. About half of them turned out to be pubs or restaurants, and this quarter was evidently a big draw for the Tommies. We had three or four glasses of beer apiece, then went into a little restaurant and ordered what turned out to be a quarter of a chicken apiece with herbs and fried potato – and gravy. There was no gravy at Burton Dump, never had been and never would be. The owner of the place came up to us and asked ‘Bon?’
‘Très bon,’ I said, but that only encouraged the bloke to say something else in French that I didn’t get, but that I fancied might be, ‘Thank you for fighting the war – I hope you win it.’
‘You know, I could live in France,’ said Tinsley, as we were fishing out our francs to pay the bill.
‘You are doing,’ I said.
‘After the war, I mean,’ he said, and I was struck by his confidence in using that expression.
‘If you lived in France you couldn’t be a train driver in York,’ I said.
‘I know,’ said Tinsley, ‘that’s the trouble.’
He must have been a bit squiffed because he started in about how the locomotives were more exciting over here, the carriages wider-bodied, the stations bigger. They had bigger ideas about everything in France. Only he couldn’t live without tea, and they didn’t run to that. When we left the restaurant, the owner said, ‘Bonne journée.’
‘That means “Have a good journey”,’ said Tinsley. ‘It’s the politeness of the French for you.’
After our supper there was a bit more drifting, but it struck me that, while Tinsley’s body might be wandering aimlessly in the maze of little houses and canals, his mind was not.
‘What are you after?’ I said.
‘Oh,’ he said, and he coloured up. ‘Something Bernie Dawson told me about ages ago.’
‘A pub?’ I said.
‘Not exactly a pub,’ said Tinsley.
‘I think you want to be over that way,’ I said, indicating a quarter where the lights in the windows burned lower and redder. He’d missed his chance in Albert, so here was another opportunity.
‘Fancy coming with me?’ Tinsley enquired, looking in the direction indicated, and not at me. ‘I think you should.’
Towards the end of one particular cobbled street, the only people on view were women, mostly sitting on the first-floor windowsills, and looking at the blokes walking past – the uniformed ones especially. Tinsley stopped, and eyed one back, going crimson in the process. I was sure it would have been the longest he’d ever looked directly at a woman – about three seconds. It was enough though, and she jumped down off the window ledg
e, indicating that he should follow her into the house.
‘I might just go in here for a glass of beer,’ Tinsley said, turning to me.
‘Afterwards,’ I said, ‘wash it.’
‘What?’ he said, with a strange sort of grin, ‘the beer glass?’
The woman had left the door half open, disclosing an ordinary sort of living room of a good size with two soldiers – sergeants – sitting in it, smoking cigars, having either just finished their business there, or smoking in anticipation of it. I removed my cap, and watched from the doorway as a woman – an older version of the one who’d been on the windowsill – came into this room from a smaller one to the rear, and spoke to Tinsley. She used some word like ‘assignation’. Wasn’t her friend a pretty lady? An assignation was possible for seven francs, so Tinsley fished about in his pockets for a while, before announcing to the woman, ‘I’ve only got five.’ She didn’t understand, or pretended not to. Tinsley turned and looked at me, his face redder than I would have thought it possible to be, and I handed him two francs.
‘Thanks, old man,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay you back,’ and he added in an under-breath. ‘You know, I’m more shaky than I was on the first day of the Somme battle …’
But he hadn’t been shaky at all before that show, as far as I could see.
‘Per favore,’ he said, turning and handing over the coin to the woman.
‘That’s Italian,’ I said from behind him. ‘You’re in France.’
But it made no difference. While the two sergeants smoked on, he was being escorted into the rear room.
‘I’ll see you in the goat bar!’ I called out. (This was an estaminet with a painting of a goat over the door. We’d walked past it a couple of times.)
I was fishing for cigarettes prior to quitting the house when the madame returned with another woman, about of an age with the one of the windowsill, and a first-class belter it had to be admitted, being small, dark, and dancerish, with an amused expression.
The madame stood her in front of me, and told me the name of the girl was Françoise, so I put out my hand, and we shook hands, at which Françoise laughed a little, but only a little. (I looked sidelong at the sergeants to see if they thought this a funny going-on, but they just continued with their own talk.) Françoise eyed me steadily as the madame gave an account of all the points in favour of her. This was done mainly in French, but sometimes an English expression would break in, such as, ‘You will like her’, at which I thought: I already do. I believe the idea was that I would interrupt this speech, pay over the money and go off with Françoise, but seeing I was making no move, the madame came to halt with the question:
‘Oui ou non?’
This was a clever stroke. Even I could understand the enquiry, and to say ‘Non’ would surely appear rude to Françoise … Only I kept thinking of the wife going all that way to Naburn in the rain for me, and I knew I would have to get out of it. I wished I knew the words for ‘I’m sorry but I have another appointment’, and I was trying to think of something along those lines when Françoise took a step towards me, put her hand delicately on the back of my head and, standing on tip-toe, whispered something into my ear. It sounded like the greatest secret ever told – in French. They both stood back and watched me, and then a brainwave came to me in the form of a single word. I recollected it from the time of the battalion’s arrival in France: the word that Captain Quinn would be ever-likely to say if he were French.
‘Malheureusement …’ I said.
Well, it did the job in an instant. Françoise fairly spun away from me and sat down with the two smoking sergeants, who she seemed to know of old. I made the remainder of my excuses to thin air, turned and quit the establishment. Ten minutes later, in the countrified-looking estaminet with the goat painted over the door, I was wondering whether I might in all conscience have gone with Françoise, only with the request: ‘Par main’. It was rather annoying that the phrase had only come to me at that moment.
There was a tap on my shoulder; I turned about, and there was Tinsley, still looking rather flushed.
‘Did you wash it?’ I said.
‘Leave off, Jim,’ he said. ‘… She was very nice. Will you stand me a beer, old man?’
I wondered if he’d be ‘old manning’ me forever, now that he’d lost his ring.
‘She was very polite,’ he ran on, as I called for the drink.
‘Well that’s something,’ I said.
‘At the end she said “termine” or “terminez”, or something.’
‘Right,’ I said, nodding.
‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing that she said that?’
‘Well, it depends which one it was.’
Tinsley blew out his cheeks.
‘Anyhow,’ he said, as I passed him his beer, ‘I’m a man about town now.’
‘What town?’
‘I mean … man of the world.’
‘Get that down you,’ I said, indicating the beer, ‘it’s nearly train time.’
We rode back towards Albert in what might have been the very same carriage we’d come out in. As before, Tinsley sat over opposite me, and he had to crane around, while I looked directly forward, at the retreating dark spire of the Amiens cathedral. Our afternoon out had been the next best thing to an afternoon of home leave, of which there still seemed no prospect. Also as before, almost every man in the carriage smoked. Not Oliver Butler, however. He was facing me, and of course eyeing me too, from halfway along the carriage. It was as though he had read the letter I had in my pocket, but he could not have done. I’d guarded it closely since its arrival. The wife had unearthed the one kind of event at Naburn Lock that could have caused the sort of reaction to any mention of the place that I’d seen from Butler, namely a death. For a surety, he knew what had happened to this Matthew Waddington, and it was odds on that either he’d done for the bloke himself, or the twins had. The twins were favourite, of course, the pair of them being cracked, but I doubted they could do anything without their brother knowing. The next question was whether or how this connected to the death of William Harvey. Had Harvey known anything of the Naburn business, and threatened to speak out about it?
And then had Scholes known what Harvey had known? And had Oliver Butler put a bullet into him on that account?
Alfred Tinsley was leaning towards me. He had something to say, but he wasn’t saying it. The carriage was lit by low gas, giving just enough of a blue-ish light for me to see that the smoke over the men’s heads was mainly old; that it was stale smoke from past-cigarettes, signifying that most of the occupants were now asleep.
‘Jim,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Why did you give up the footplate?’
I recalled, for Tinsley’s benefit, the hot summer’s evening when I’d run that engine into the shed wall at Sowerby Bridge. I’d done it while employed as a fireman (well, passed cleaner anyhow) on the Lancashire and Yorkshire railway. I told Tinsley of the two hours of questions from the Shed Super that had followed, explaining to Tinsley, as I had explained to the Super, that my mate had told me the brake had been ‘warmed’, but that it had not been, with the consequence that the steam sent into it on my first application of the brake immediately condensed, and the thing did not work.
‘Did the Super not take the point?’ said Tinsley.
‘He did seem to,’ I said, ‘but then I got the chop.’
Tinsley sat back, looking appalled. Oliver Butler, I noticed, was not asleep. But at least he was looking out of the window – at the dark French countryside, which was going past at the rate of about twelve miles an hour – and not eyeballing me.
Tinsley now leant forward again, then turned sideways … so that he too was looking out of the window, and I believed that in that instant he’d changed his mind about something. We began to run over some points, and since we were going so slowly, a great and prolonged clattering was set up.
‘Tom Shaw would go nuts,’ Tinsley said, looking at m
e once again.
‘Why?’
‘At this crawl.’
‘Traffic’s heavy to the front,’ I said. ‘The driver’s kept back by signals, you know that.’
The rattling did not let up. Presently, I asked, ‘Why does he not enlist, do you suppose? Your man Shaw, I mean?’
‘Somebody’s got to drive the expresses,’ said Tinsley. ‘The government directs all the railways now …’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t believe they’d let him go.’
I doubted that, but kept silence.
‘He’s not a coward, Jim,’ Tinsley said, leaning forward again, in a confidential tone. ‘He’s not afraid of crossing the top brass. I’ve known him pull some pretty bold strokes.’ As he spoke, we were leaving the points behind, coming back to a clear length of line. ‘Why, he’s capable of anything, is Tom Shaw.’
A match was struck somewhere along the carriage, and I said, ‘I suppose he doesn’t smoke, does he?’
‘Oh, he has the odd one,’ said Tinsley, and I was beginning to think once again that Tom Shaw did not exist. Yes, I had seen a photograph, but that might have been of anyone. I took one of my own cigarettes, and offered the pack to Tinsley. He took one, for perhaps the third time in his life, and we were back on another lot of points, clattering as before.
‘Even Tom Shaw has to obey signals,’ I said.
‘Signals, yes,’ said Tinsley. ‘But he’ll pay no mind to the running office. If he wants to get in somewhere ten minutes ahead of time, he’ll just do it.’
‘He ought to join up,’ I said.
‘Oh, I expect he will in time,’ said Tinsley, giving a queer sort of smile, and I wondered: Does that mean that Tinsley will start speaking of him as an enlisted man, Shaw being a product of his imagination? Or was the smile meant to signify that he was letting go of a myth that had supported him? Then again, Tinsley didn’t seem the fantastical sort.
We were once more clear of the points, gaining speed a little. Tinsley leant forwards again, closer than before. He blew smoke to the left, so it didn’t go in my face, and said:
The Somme Stations Page 23