by Lear, James
He sprang to his feet, grabbed the candlestick, and barged out of the cubicle. “Arthur! There you are! I’ve been looking for you!”
“Are you all right, Mr. Simmonds? You look flushed.”
“I’m just helping a couple of passengers who were…er… trapped in the toilet. Now, look lively. What’s going on?”
I stuffed my cock back in my pants, adjusted my clothes, and pushed the door open. There stood Arthur, wide-eyed, carrying a storm lantern.
“Mr. Mitchell, sir! Are you hurt?”
“No, Arthur, I’m fine. Mr. Simmonds has been most… helpful. What’s happening?”
Bertrand tumbled out of the toilet and into the corridor, and stood for a while taking deep gulps of air. Arthur looked puzzled, and glanced from one to another.
Simmonds took control.
“We are stuck in the tunnel, gentlemen. The signal turned red very suddenly. We stopped as quickly as we could, but the engineer thinks we may have damaged one of the wheels. He’s trying to ascertain now whether it’s safe to proceed.”
“Where are we?”
“Near Grantham. In the Stoke Tunnel.”
“Are we safe?”
“We’re quite safe, sir. The tunnel is very long, but there are signals all the way along the track. No train will come anywhere near us. I’m sure we’ll be moving again shortly.”
“What happened to the lights?” asked Bertrand, who found the surrounding gloom far less attractive than I did.
“The electrics overloaded when the engineer put the brakes on, I suppose,” said Simmonds.
“So,” I said, still hard in my pants, “we have nothing to do but wait.”
“Exactly, sir. If I were you, I would go back to your compartment and sit tight.”
“Oh—I prefer the company in here…” I gestured back to the toilet.
Simmonds cleared his throat, made some excuse about talking to the engineer, and fled.
“You’re a doctor, aren’t you, sir?”
“Yes, Arthur.”
“I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, that it might be a good idea if you were to see a few of the passengers. One or two of them were hurt when the train stopped.
“You’re right. I should have thought of that myself. Lead the way.”
“Certainly, sir.” Arthur held up his lantern. “If I might just say something…”
“What, Arthur?”
“The young gentleman.” He nodded toward Bertrand. “He might just need to wipe his sleeve.”
A huge blob of semen sat on Bertrand’s arm, soaking into the fabric.
“Merde alors!” He rubbed it in, and we made our way along the train.
“Shit!”
I thought I had seen a ghost. Up ahead in the dark corridor was a fluttering white shape. As we drew near, it resolved itself into the more familiar contours of Daisy Athenasy. Her face was white, her lips a dark, purplish color; she looked exactly as she did on the screen, in black and white. Glamorous—but to me, as a doctor, alarmingly ill.
She staggered as if drunk. I wondered if she had taken an overdose.
“Miss Athenasy!”
I barged past Arthur and caught Daisy just as she was about to fall to the floor. Her eyelids were closing. I felt her hand; it was freezing cold.
“Miss Athenasy, what is the matter?”
“Oh! Help me!” She looked up into my eyes, just as I’d seen her do on screen. “Help me, please…” And then she went limp. I placed her carefully on the floor, and pressed my ear to her chest; her heart was beating, a little fast perhaps, but nothing worse. She was not dying.
“Bertrand, fetch my bag from the compartment.” I always carry a few basic medical supplies with me.
Bertrand groped his way along the corridor, while Arthur entered the private carriage.
“Oh, my God. Mr. Mitchell, sir… Oh, my God.”
There, in the private compartment, illuminated only by the candles on the dining table, sat Hugo Taylor, his head in his hands, blood dripping from a wound in his scalp, seeping between his fingers, running down his hands, and soaking into his brilliant white cuffs.
“Mr. Taylor!”
He looked up and flinched.
“It’s all right, Mr. Taylor. It’s me. Mitch. I’m a doctor.”
“Oh, thank God. I thought…”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He held up his bloodstained hands. “Bloody train lurched and brought me rather violently into collision with that.” He nodded toward the corner of the zinc-topped cocktail cabinet that was bolted to one wall of the carriage. “Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?”
“Let me see. Arthur! Hold the lantern close.”
I parted Taylor’s thick black hair and found the wound, an inch above the hairline on the right-hand side of his skull. It was messy, but not deep. It did not look as if it had been made by a sharp metal corner.
“You’ll survive. What happened exactly?”
“I don’t know. I was arguing with Daisy, as per. I just got up to leave, because I couldn’t stand any more of her nonsense, when I was thrown off my balance and hit the bloody whatsit.”
“Was it a direct hit?”
He looked up into my face. “No… I more sort of… Well, I was sort of dragged across it, if you see what I mean.”
“Because it looks more like it was done with a blunt instrument. A blackjack, or a sandbag, or something.”
“I’ve never actually seen a blackjack, outside of a film set. Do such things really exist?”
“I guess so. Ah, here’s Bertrand. I’m going to get a dressing on that. Stop the bleeding.” Arthur left us with the lantern, and went off to illuminate the rest of the train as best he could.
I soon had the wound cleaned and dressed—Taylor did not wince, even when I put on the stinging antiseptic. He looked like a war hero—a role he had often played on stage and screen. He stood up, obviously felt faint for a moment, but rallied quickly and shook my hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Call me Mitch.”
“I will.” There was a faint moan from the corridor. “Oh, dear. Looks like the Sugar Plum Fairy is coming back to her senses.” He lowered his voice. “The few that she has.” He stepped out. “That’s it, Daisy dear. Pick yourself up. You’ll crush your lovely gown. Everything’s fine. Hugo’s fine. You’re fine. Let’s get you into bed.”
Daisy got to her feet, using Taylor’s body as a sort of climbing frame, and hobbled into the carriage.
“Oh! Your poor head!”
“Nothing to worry about. Come on. Thank you, gentlemen. I hope you will let me buy you dinner in London. As a way of saying thank you.”
“It would be our very great pleasure,” I said, trying to put as much innuendo into the words as possible.
The compartment door was pulled shut—leaving us on the outside.
“He is charming, this Hugo Taylor,” said Bertrand.
“Damn right he is. And he knows it.”
There were several sprains and cuts to attend to, but nothing too severe. The soldiers had made themselves useful, calming people down, getting them back to their seats, distributing lanterns and clearing luggage from the entryways.
The sergeant looked pleased to see me, and I was certainly pleased to see him. “Everything under control, sergeant?”
“Yes, sir. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Between us, we settled the passengers. I could offer little except reassurance and the odd bandage, but people were more frightened than injured. After 20 minutes, my work was done. Bertrand was waiting for me at the door, looking nervous and uneasy.
“What’s the matter?”
“Those soldiers… They are very…”
“What?”
“Vulgaire.”
His cheeks were flushed, but he would say nothing more on the subject. I looked back at the carriage, which was quiet and tidy now. The p
assengers had settled in for what we all believed would be a long wait.
And then, suddenly, the lights came back on.
We blinked and gasped at the miracle. I thought I caught sight of a little under-kilt fumbling among the soldiers, but I may have been mistaken.
A cheer arose, in which Bertrand and I joined.
Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peered through the window to see the damp brickwork of the Stoke Tunnel all around us.
We made our way back up the train with lighter hearts. Daisy and Hugo’s compartment was quiet and closed. The bathroom, scene of our recent adventure, was in use—to someone’s great relief, I imagined. I hoped there was not too much evidence on the floor. We deposited my medical bag in our compartment, and went on to the first-class dining car. It was long past lunchtime, and I was hungry. I wondered if that fillet of sole and highly praised roast chicken was still on the menu. And to be honest, I needed a drink. The experience had shaken me.
We were not alone. The friendly old white-haired steward was flitting from table to table, and when he saw us he clasped a hand to his head.
“Gentlemen! I had given you up for lost! I’m afraid all the tables are taken… Unless I can find someone—”
“Here!” It was Frankie, completely unruffled, sharing a table with the young mother and her three daughters. “I’m sure we can squeeze up, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Andrews.”
“Not at all. Come on, Lily, you sit on my lap.”
“And this little lady can sit with Uncle Frankie.” He picked up the youngest of the three, a giggling pink-and-white bundle with long gold ringlets. She had inherited her coloring from her father—who, incidentally, was nowhere to be seen. I remembered his liaison with David Rhys, the diamond merchant. There was a mystery there, I was certain.
Bertrand and I seated ourselves, and were soon enjoying an aperitif. Frankie’s good humor carried the day; he made the distressing experience of being stuck in a tunnel seem like an excuse for a party. Martinis were ordered, and bottles of wine. Mrs. Andrews’s eyes twinkled, and the mood spread to our fellow diners. Even the dreaded dowager seemed to thaw a little, and inclined her head when Frankie lifted his glass.
“Ghastly old dragon,” he murmured, “but one must be nice. She dines with my grandmother, of whom I have what you might call great expectations.” He spoke aloud. “Hello, Lady Antonia. How are you coping?”
“The minute we arrive in town I shall telephone Sir Ronald, whom I have known since he was in velveteen breeches, and demand an explanation. One is not accustomed to this kind of inconvenience, and if people like one do not use their influence to stem the tide of socialism that is ruining our country then we might as well start taking our orders directly from Moscow. Chivers! Make a note of that! I shall tell Sir Ronald in person, those very words. Orders directly from Moscow, girl! Come along! What is the matter with you?”
Chivers struggled with a notebook and pencil, her cheeks pink and shiny with drink, her brow knitted.
“Oh, dear old Ronnie, it seems a shame to bother him,” said Frankie, who seemed to be on familiar terms not only with the dowager and the chairman of the railway company, but also with most of the titled heads of Europe, at least if one were to believe his chatter. “He was so sweet to Mummy last year, after that business with Daddy and the Argentine chorus girl.”
“Well!” The dowager looked simultaneously shocked and eager. “So it was true, then.”
“Absolutely, my dear Lady Antonia. Every damn word of it.”
“How shockin’.”
“Yes, but you know Daddy. He was ever thus.”
“Ah yes, indeed he was. Your father was always a scapegrace.”
“And dear Ronnie… Well, of course, he’s always been sweet on Mummy, would have married her himself given half a chance, and a jolly good match it would have been too.”
“That’s no way to speak of your parents, young man,” said Lady Antonia—but she had a twinkle in her eye.
“I have every respect for my father, of course. At least, I have every respect for his wallet.”
“Your father is a very fine man indeed. He is distantly connected to the Stuart line.”
“As he never tires of telling me.”
“And thus may have a legitimate claim to the throne of England, should it ever become vacant.”
“You don’t say!” Frankie giggled. “Imagine! I could be a princess!”
“Well, really!”
Lady Antonia looked disgusted, and took a big sip of martini, almost dipping the tip of her beaklike nose in her drink. Frankie rolled his eyes and turned to us.
“You know, she’s really not as bad as she seems, old Antonia. She looks like a harridan, but she’s a dear old pussycat underneath that fierce exterior. Aren’t you, dear?”
“What am I?”
“A darling old pussycat.”
“Well, really!” Lady Antonia bridled; Chivers flinched, as if expecting a beating. “You are the most vexin’ young man I have ever encountered. How your poor Ma-mah copes I shall never know.” But there was color even in her carved-wax face, and something approaching a smile hovering around the corner of her mouth.
Frankie lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “Mad as a hatter, of course, with simply the most alarming political views. Got herself in with a group that calls itself the British Fascists. Ridiculous load of old bollocks, darling, they hate the wogs and the yids and the queers and the Bolshies, but nonetheless I hoped for a touch before we get very much further down the line. One has creditors popping out all over the place, and a few quid from the old bat would help no end.”
The little girls started jumping up and down, the youngest—who was seated in Frankie’s lap—landing rather heavily, which shut him up for a moment.
“Daddy!” they cried. “Daddy! Daddy!”
And there he was, Mr. Andrews, the serious, neat young father, with a face like thunder. He pushed the children away.
“For God’s sake, Christina, can’t you control them?”
His wife gathered the girls to her, and looked puzzled and hurt. What was he so angry about? I wondered about his mysterious liaison with Rhys, and my suspicions concerning their transactions in the lavatory. He certainly looked like a man with a guilty conscience. I stood, to allow him to sit with his family, just as our lunch was served.
“Oh, dear,” fussed the steward. “I don’t know what to do with you all. This is most awkward.”
“The American gentleman may sit here, if he wishes,” said Lady Antonia, gesturing with one gloved hand to a space beside Miss Chivers. “I shall not raise any objection.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I trust he does not chew with his mouth open, nor slurp his soup.”
“No, ma’am,” I said, my republican self-respect rising at this shocking display of old-world rudeness. “Nor does he swing from the trees, nor eat with his hands.” I sat beside Chivers, who uttered a barely audible “Oh, dear!” and stared out the window at the dank brickwork.
Well, I was not going to let that old gorgon spoil my lunch—I was hungry, and when I’m hungry very little stands between my and my food. The steward served the fish, and it smelled delicious; how on earth they had managed to cook during such adverse conditions was beyond me. But there it was, a delicate, juicy fillet of sole, fragrant and steaming, with a slice of lemon and some brown bread and butter, just waiting to be devoured. My mouth watered as I speared the first piece of flesh on my fork and brought it toward my mouth…
And then, quite suddenly, the train took a violent lurch forward, causing the fish to fly off my fork and onto Lady Antonia’s chest, where it lodged among her pearls. Drinks flew in all directions, the steward stumbled, dumping another plate of fish over Mr. Andrews’s head, and the little girls set up an earsplitting wail.
“What the fuck!” I yelled, before remembering myself.
The movement stopped, and started again suddenly, as if we were being shunted f
rom behind. It was a sickening sensation. And then, just as I began to fear that a collision of some sort was inevitable, the engine lurched again and began to pull us forward. The tunnel fell away on either side, and we were in daylight once again. Despite the buffeting that we had all taken, we were greatly heartened by being in the open air. Snow was still falling, whirling around the windows, and the ground was covered by a good inch, which shone brightly even in the failing winter light.
“At last!” said Frankie. “We’re on the move again. Maybe we will reach London today after all.”
“Would someone kindly tell me what is going on?” said Lady Antonia, for all the world as if this were a conspiracy against her personally. “This is most inconvenient.” She was unaware of the large flake of sole which was dangling from her pearl necklace. Chivers, on the other hand, seemed hypnotized by it.
“Don’t sit there gawping, girl, go and see to our cases. I should not be at all surprised if they were smashed to smithereens, and my personal effects are being fingered by urchins from the third-class carriages.” She pronounced the word in a way I had never heard before: keddiges.
Chivers hurried away, gripping the seat edges as she went, fearful of falling should the train lurch again.
Young Mr. Andrews picked bits of fish out of his hair, and mopped fragrant, fishy juices from his neck; he was going to need a bath as soon as we got to London, and was going to smell very unpleasant in the interim. The steward was doing his best to mop up the sea of wine and cocktails that was slopping over the tabletop.
“I’m so sorry, ladies and gentlemen. So sorry. Oh, my goodness. Oh, dear.” I felt sorry for the poor old thing, and gave him a hand, and within a minute or two we had tidied up the worst of the mess.
“Luncheon is ruined,” moaned the steward, almost in tears. “The chicken… All over the floor…”
“Bring us bread and cheese and bottles of wine!” commanded Lady Antonia, and for once I was in agreement with her.
We were making slow progress along the track; at this rate we would reach London in about three days. Where was the conductor? What was going on? Why was nobody keeping us informed?