The spasm passed; she pulled her arm back, flicked at the shawl, gathered her dress around her knees. “When I’ve said what I’m going to, will you promise to go away? Very quietly, and not . . . make trouble for me? Please, Jesse. I did let you in. . . .”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t worry, Margaret, that’s all right.” His voice, talking, sounded like the voice of a stranger. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say; but listening to it meant he could stay close just a little longer. He felt suddenly he knew what it would be like to be given a cigarette just before you were hanged; how every puff would mean another second’s life.
She twined her fingers together, looked down at the carpet. “I . . . want to get this just right,” she said. “I want to . . . say it properly, Jesse, because I don’t want to hurt you. I . . . like you too much for that.
“I . . . knew about it, of course, I’ve known all the time. That was why I let you in. Because I . . . like you very much, Jesse, and didn’t want to hurt. And now you see I’ve . . . trusted you, so you mustn’t let me down. I can’t marry you, Jesse, because I don’t love you. I never will. Can you understand that? It’s terribly hard knowing . . . well, how you feel and all that and still having to say it to you but I’ve got to because it just wouldn’t work. I . . . knew this was going to happen sometime; I used to lie awake at night thinking about it, thinking all about you, honestly I did, but it wasn’t any good. It just . . . wouldn’t work, that’s all. So . . . no. I’m terribly sorry but . . . no.”
How can a man balance his life on a dream, how can he be such a fool? How can he live when the dream gets knocked apart? . . .
She saw his face alter and reached for his hand again. “Jesse, please . . . I think you’ve been terribly sweet waiting all this time and I . . . know about the money, I know why you said that, I know you just wanted to give me a . . . good life. It was terribly sweet of you to think like that about me and I . . . know you’d do it. But it just wouldn’t work. . . . Oh, God, isn’t this awful. . . .”
You try to wake from what you know is a dream, and you can’t. Because you’re awake already, this is the dream they call life. You move in the dream and talk, even when something inside you wants to twist and die. He rubbed her knee, feeling the firm smoothness. “Margaret,” he said. “I don’t want you to rush into anything. Look, in a couple of months I shall be comin’ back through. . . .”
She bit her lip. “I knew you were . . . going to say that as well. But . . . no, Jesse. It isn’t any use thinking about it; I’ve tried to and it wouldn’t work. I don’t want to . . . have to go through this again and hurt you all over another time. Please don’t ask me again. Ever.”
He thought dully: He couldn’t buy her. Couldn’t win her, and couldn’t buy. Because he wasn’t man enough, and that was the simple truth. Just not quite what she wanted. That was what he’d known all along, deep down, but he’d never faced it; he’d kissed his pillows nights, and whispered love for Margaret, because he hadn’t dared bring the truth into the light. And now he’d got the rest of time to try and forget . . . this.
She was still watching him. She said, “Please understand . . . “
And he felt better. God preserve him, some weight seemed to shift suddenly and let him talk. “Margaret,” he said, “this sounds damn stupid, don’t know how to say it. . . .”
“Try . . . “
He said, “I don’t want to . . . hold you down. It’s . . . selfish, like somehow having a . . . bird in a cage, owning it. . . . Only I didn’t think on it that way before. Reckon I . . . really love you because I don’t want that to happen to you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt. Don’t you worry, Margaret, it’ll be all right. It’ll be all right now. Reckon I’ll just . . . well, get out o’ your way like. . . .”
She put a hand to her head. “God, this is awful. I knew it would happen. . . . Jesse, don’t just . . . well, vanish. You know, go off an’ . . . never come back. You see I . . . like you so very much, as a friend, I should feel terrible if you did that. Can’t things be like they . . . were before; I mean can’t you just sort of . . . come in and see me, like you used to? Don’t go right away, please. . . .”
Even that, he thought. God, I’ll do even that.
She stood up. “And now go. Please . . .”
He nodded dumbly. “It’ll be all right. . . .”
“Jesse,” she said. “I don’t want to . . . get in any deeper. But . . .” She kissed him, quickly. There was no feeling there this time. No fire. He stood until she let him go; then he walked quickly to the door.
He heard, dimly, his boots ringing on the street. Somewhere a long way off from him was a vague sighing, a susurration; could have been the blood in his ears, could have been the sea. The house doorways and the dark-socketed windows seemed to lurch toward him of their own accord, fall away behind. He felt as a ghost might feel grappling with the concept of death, trying to assimilate an idea too big for its consciousness. There was no Margaret now, not anymore. No Margaret. Now he must leave the grown-up world where people married and loved and mated and mattered to each other, go back for all time to his child’s universe of oil and steel. And the days would come, and the days would go, till on one of them he would die.
He crossed the road outside the George; then he was walking under the yard entrance, climbing the stairs, opening again the door of his room. Putting out the light, smelling Goody Thompson’s fresh-sour sheets.
The bed felt cold as a tomb.
The fishwives woke him, hawking their wares through the streets. Somewhere there was a clanking of milk churns; voices crisped in the cold air of the yard. He lay still, face down, and there was an empty time before the cold new fall of grief. He remembered he was dead; he got up and dressed, not feeling the icy air on his body. He washed, shaved the blue-chinned face of a stranger, went out to the Burrell. Her livery glowed in weak sunlight, topped by a thin bright icing of snow. He opened her firebox, raked the embers of the fire and fed it. He felt no desire to eat; he went down to the quay instead, haggled absentmindedly for the fish he was going to buy, arranged for its delivery to the George. He saw the boxes stowed in time for late service at the church, stayed on for confession. He didn’t go near the Mermaid; he wanted nothing now but to leave, get back on the road. He checked the Lady Margaret again, polished her nameplates, hubs, flywheel boss. Then he remembered seeing something in a shop window, something he’d intended to buy: a little tableau, the Virgin, Joseph, the Shepherds kneeling, the Christchild in the manger. He knocked at the shop door, bought it and had it packed; his mother set great store by such things, and it would look well on the sideboard over Christmas.
By then it was lunchtime. He made himself eat, swallowing food that tasted like string. He nearly paid his bill before he remembered. Now it went on account; the account of Strange and Sons of Dorset. After the meal he went to one of the bars of the George, drank to try and wash the sour taste from his mouth. Subconsciously he found himself waiting; for footsteps, a remembered voice, some message from Margaret to tell him not to go, she’d changed her mind. It was a bad state of mind to get into, but he couldn’t help himself. No message came.
It was nearly three of the clock before he walked out to the Burrell and built steam. He uncoupled the Margaret and turned her, shackled the load to the push-pole lug and backed it into the road. A difficult feat, but he did it without thinking. He disconnected the loco, brought her around again, hooked on, shoved the reversing lever forward and inched open on the regulator. The rumbling of the wheels started at last. He knew once clear of Purbeck he wouldn’t come back. Couldn’t, despite his promise. He’d send Tim or one of the others. The thing he had inside him wouldn’t stay dead; if he saw her again it would have to be killed all over. And once was more than enough.
He had to pass the pub. The chimney smoked, but there was no other sign of life. The train crashed behind him, thunderously obedient. Fifty yards on, he used the whistle, over and again, w
aking Margaret’s huge iron voice, filling the street with steam. Childish, but he couldn’t stop himself. Then he was clear. Swan-age dropping away behind as he climbed toward the heath. He built up speed. He was late; in that other world he seemed to have left so long ago, a man called Dickon would be worrying.
Way off on the left a semaphore stood stark against the sky. He hooted to it, the two pips followed by the long call that all the haulers used. For a moment the thing stayed dead; then he saw the arms flip an acknowledgment. Out there he knew Zeiss glasses would be trained on the Burrell. The Guildsmen had answered; soon a message would be streaking north along the little local towers. The Lady Margaret, locomotive, Strange and Sons, Durnovaria; out of Swanage routed for Corvesgeat, fifteen thirty hours. All well . . .
Night came quickly; night, and the burning frost. Jesse swung west well before Wareham, cutting straight across the heath. The Burrell thundered steadily, gripping the road with her seven-foot drive wheels, leaving thin wraiths of steam behind her in the dark. He stopped once, to fill his tanks and light the lamps, then pushed on again into the heathland. A light mist or frost smoke was forming now; it clung to the hollows of the rough ground, glowing oddly in the light from the side lamps. The wind soughed and threatened. North of the Purbecks, off the narrow coastal strip, the winter could strike quick and hard; come morning the heath could be impassable, the trackways lost under two feet or more of snow.
An hour out from Swanage, and the Margaret still singing her tireless song of power. Jesse thought, blearily, that she at least kept faith. The semaphores had lost her now in the dark; there would be no more messages till she made her base. He could imagine old Dickon standing at the yard gate under the flaring cressets, worried, cocking his head to catch the beating of an exhaust miles away. The loco passed through Wool. Soon be home now; home, to whatever comfort remained...
The boarder took him nearly by surprise. The train had slowed near the crest of a rise when the man ran alongside, lunged for the footplate step. Jesse heard the scrape of a shoe on the road; some sixth sense warned him of movement in the darkness. The shovel was up, swinging for the stranger’s head, before it was checked by an agonized yelp. “Hey’ ol’ boy, don’ you know your friends?”
Jesse, half off balance, grunted and grabbled at the steering. “Col. What the hell are you doin’ here?”
De la Haye, still breathing hard, grinned at him in the reflection of the sidelights. “Jus’ a fellow traveler, my friend. Happy to see you come along there, I tell you. Had a li’l bit of trouble, thought a’d have to spend the night on the bloody heath...”
“What trouble?”
“Oh, I was ridin’ out to a place a’ know,” said de la Haye. “Place out by Culliford, li’l farm. Christmas with friends. Nice daughters. Hey, Jesse, you know?” He punched Jesse’s arm, started to laugh. Jesse set his mouth. “What happened to your horse?”
“Bloody thing foundered, broke its leg.”
“Where?”
“On the road back there,” said de la Haye carelessly. “A’ cut its throat an’ rolled it in a ditch. Din’ want the damn routiers spottin’ it, gettin’ on my tail. . .” He blew his hands, held them out to the firebox, shivered dramatically inside his sheepskin coat. “Damn cold, Jesse, cold as a bitch . . . How far you go?”
“Home. Durnovaria.”
De la Haye peered at him. “Hey, you don’ sound good. You sick, ol’ Jesse?”
“No.”
Col shook his arm insistently. “Whassamatter, ol’ pal? Anythin’ a friend can do to help?”
Jesse ignored him, eyes searching the road ahead. De la Haye bellowed suddenly with laughter. “Was the beer. The beer, no? Ol’ Jesse, your stomach has shrunk!” He held up a clenched fist. “Like the stomach of a li’l baby, no? Not the old Jesse anymore; ah, life is hell. . .”
Jesse glanced down at the gauge, turned the belly tank cocks, heard water splash on the road, touched the injector controls, saw the burst of steam as the lifts fed the boiler. The pounding didn’t change its beat. He said steadily, “Reckon it must have been the beer that done it. Reckon I might go on the wagon. Gettin’ old.”
De la Haye peered at him, intently. “Jesse,” he said. “You got problems, my son. You got troubles. What gives? C’mon, spill....”
That damnable intuition hadn’t left him, then. He’d had it right through college; seemed somehow to know what you were thinking nearly as soon as it came into your head. It was Col’s big weapon; he used it to have his way with women. Jesse laughed bitterly; and suddenly the story was coming out. He didn’t want to tell it; but he did, down to the last word. Once started, he couldn’t stop.
Col heard him in silence; then he started to shake. The shaking was laughter. He leaned back against the cab side, holding onto a stanchion. “Jesse, Jesse, you are a lad. Christ, you never change. . . . Oh, you bloody Saxon . . .” He went off into fresh peals, wiped his eyes. “So . . . so she show you her pretty li’l scut, heh? Jesse, you are a lad; when will you learn? What, you go to her with—with this. . . .” He banged the Margaret’s hornplate. “An’ your face so earnest an’ black—oh, Jesse, a’ can see that face of yours. Man, she don’ want your great iron destrier. Christ above, no. . . . But a’—a’ tell you what you do . . .”
Jesse turned down the corners of his lips. “Why don’t you just shut up. . . .”
De la Haye shook his arm. “Nah, listen. Don’ get mad, listen. You . . . woo her, Jesse; she like that, that one. You know? Get the ol’ glad rags on, man, get a butterfly car, mak’ its wings of cloth of gold. She like that. . . . Only don’ stand no shovin’, ol’ Jesse. An’ don’ ask her nothin’, not no more. You tell her what you want, say you goin’ to get it. . . . Pay for your beer with a golden guinea, tell her you’ll tak’ the change upstairs, no? She’s worth it, Jesse, she’s worth havin’, is that one. Oh, but she’s nice. . . .”
“Go to hell. . . .”
“You don’ want her?” De la Haye looked hurt. “A’ jus’ try to help, ol’ pal. . . . You los’ interest now?”
“Yeah,” said Jesse. “I lost interest.”
“Ahhh . . .” Col sighed. “Ah, but is a shame. Young love all blighted. . . . Tell you what, though.” He brightened. “You given me a great idea, ol’ Jesse. You don’ want her, a’ have her myself. O.K.?”
When you hear the wail that means your father’s dead, your hands go on wiping down a crosshead guide. When the world turns red and flashes, and drums roll inside your skull, your eyes watch ahead at the road, your fingers stay quiet on the wheel. Jesse heard his own voice speak dryly. “You’re a lying bastard, Col, you always were. She wouldn’t fall for you. . . .”
Col snapped his fingers, danced on the footplate. “Man, a’ got it halfway made. Oh, but she’s nice. . . . Those li’l eyes, they were flashin’ a bit las’ night, no? Is easy, man, easy.. .. A’ tell you what: a’ bet she be sadistic in bed. But nice, ahhh, nice . . .” His gestures somehow suggested rapture. “I tak’ her five ways in a night,” he said. “An’ send you proof. O.K.?”
Maybe he doesn’t mean it. Maybe he’s lying. But he isn’t. I know Col; and Col doesn’t lie. Not about this. What he says he’ll do, he’ll do. . . . Jesse grinned, just with his teeth. “You do that, Col. Break her in. Then I take her off you. O.K.?”
De la Haye laughed and gripped his shoulder. “Jesse, you are a lad. Eh . . .? Eh . . .?”
A light flashed briefly, ahead and to the right, way out on the heathland. Col spun around, stared at where it had been, looked back to Jesse. “You see that?”
Grimly. “I saw.”
De la Haye looked around the footplate nervously. “You got a gun?”
“Why?”
“The bloody light. The routiers . . .”
“You don’t fight the routiers with a gun.”
Col shook his head. “Man, I hope you know what you’re doin....”
Jesse wrenched at the firebox doors, letting out a blaze of light and heat. “
Stoke . . .”
“What?”
“Stoke!”
“O.K., man,” said de la Haye. “All right, O.K. . . .” He swung the shovel, building the fire. Kicked the doors shut, straightened up. “A’ love you an’ leave you soon,” he said. “When we pass the light. If we pass the light . . .”
The signal, if it had been a signal, was not repeated. The heath stretched out empty and black. Ahead was a long series of ridges; the Lady Margaret bellowed heavily, breasting the first of them. Col stared round again uneasily, hung out the cab to look back along the train. The high shoulders of the tarps were vaguely visible in the night. “What you carryin’, Jesse?” he asked. “You got the goods?”
Jesse shrugged. “Bulk stuff. Cattle cake, sugar, dried fruit. Not worth their trouble.”
De la Haye nodded worriedly. “Wha’s in the trail load?”
“Brandy, some silks. Bit of tobacco. Veterinary supply. Animal castrators.” He glanced sideways. “Cord grip. Bloodless.”
Col looked startled again, then started to laugh. “Jesse, you are a lad. A right bloody lad . . . But tha’s a good load, ol’ pal. Nice pickings . . .”
Jesse nodded, feeling empty. “Ten thousand quid’s worth. Give or take a few hundred.”
De la Haye whistled. “Yeah. Tha’s a good load. . . .”
They passed the point where the light had appeared, left it behind. Nearly two hours out now, not much longer to run. The Margaret came off the downslope, hit the second rise. The moon slid clear of a cloud, showed the long ribbon of road stretching ahead. They were almost off the heath now, Durnovaria just over the horizon. Jesse saw a track running away to the left before the moon, veiling itself, gave the road back to darkness.
De la Haye gripped his shoulder. “You be fine now,” he said. “We passed the bastards. . . . You be all right. I drop off now, ol’ pal; thanks for th’ ride. An’ remember, ‘bout the li’l girl. You get in there punchin’, you do what a’ say. O.K., ol’ Jesse?”
A Day in the Life Page 6