A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

by Mills, Magnus

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Looks as if you’ve got a long journey ahead of you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The orchestra was accompanied by several of Grosbeak’s henchmen. I thought they spoke rather gruffly as they ordered the musicians into the carriages, but I assumed they had a strict timetable to adhere to. For this reason their impatience could be excused.

  ‘Well, good luck, Greylag,’ I ventured, shaking his hand.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

  Likewise, Whimbrel shook hands with Greylag; he also slipped a silver coin into his pocket.

  ‘You may find it useful,’ he said.

  Greylag thanked him, then turned and climbed into his allotted carriage. He didn’t give me a second glance. Further along the platform a whistle was blown; immediately the engine blew its own whistle in response. Whimbrel and I stepped back a little as the wheels began to turn.

  ‘I’ve been hoping to secure Greylag’s freedom,’ I said, ‘but it’s too late now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Whimbrel agreed, ‘it’s too late now.’

  Greylag was lost from view. We watched as the train rolled slowly out of the station, carrying him off to the City of Scoffers.

  Chapter 21

  ‘Might just make it!’ cried a blur that came hurtling past us.

  It was Sanderling. He was running as fast as his legs would carry him, clutching a valise in one hand and a railway ticket in the other. His dandy coat was all unbuttoned, so that it flapped wildly around him as he rushed along. Some of the train’s sliding doors remained open, and Sanderling clearly thought he had a chance of catching it. Unfortunately, such was his haste that his hat came off his head and he failed even to notice. It went bowling along the platform behind him; quickly I dashed after it, picked it up and set off in pursuit. By now he had drawn level with the last carriage and managed to swing his bag through the doorway. At the same instant a pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and helped him inside. Summoning a final spurt, I caught up with the train and tossed his hat into the carriage. Then a second pair of hands grabbed me and pulled me aboard, so that I landed in a heap next to Sanderling. I looked up and saw Gadwall gazing down at me.

  ‘Glad you decided to join us,’ he said.

  The train was now gathering speed. I took a few seconds to get my breath back, then went to the door and peered out. In the distance I could see the diminishing figure of Whimbrel, still standing on the platform.

  ‘I suppose the train can’t be stopped?’ I enquired.

  ‘Correct,’ answered Gadwall. He leant over and slid the door closed. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ he added.

  Sanderling looked at me and shrugged.

  ‘Apologies for that,’ he said. ‘Thanks for saving my hat though.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ I replied.

  There were about twenty of us in the carriage, including Greylag and perhaps fifteen other musicians. The interior was bare, with no seats apart from a folding one at the far end. This had already been taken by one of the ‘guards’, so the rest of us made ourselves as comfortable as we could along the rough wooden walls. After a while Gadwall came and sat down beside me and Sanderling.

  The train rattled on towards the east.

  We’d been sitting there for thirty minutes when Sanderling broke the silence.

  ‘Why aren’t there any windows?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing to see,’ said Gadwall.

  ‘I notice there aren’t any lights either,’ Sanderling continued, ‘only those ventilation slits. What happens when it gets dark?’

  ‘We can all go to sleep.’

  Gadwall’s blunt rejoinder more or less put paid to any further discussion. He was far from unfriendly, however, and in due course he took a bar of chocolate from his pocket. This he passed around the carriage, inviting everyone to partake. When it ran out, one of his companions produced a similar bar. This, too, was shared amongst all and sundry, including the members of the orchestra. Evidently some of them had never tasted chocolate before, and the perceived act of kindness was enough to create a friendly atmosphere for the next few hours.

  At some stage I must have drifted off to sleep. When I awoke night had fallen and I realised the train had come to a halt. Inside the carriage all was quiet, but I could hear faint voices outside; also some occasional footsteps. Light dappled momentarily through the ventilation slit, as if a lamp was being swung in the darkness. A minute passed and then there was a loud clunk and the train juddered: presumably some additional carriages were being attached. The sudden movement roused Sanderling briefly. He opened his eyes, rubbed them and asked where we were. When I told him I didn’t know he grunted and went straight back to sleep. There were some more voices nearby; then the lamplight gradually receded. After another delay a whistle was blown and the train began moving again, quite slowly. We trundled along at a steady pace for what felt like an hour before gathering speed once more. I had no idea how many miles we’d travelled, or how many more there were to go. I just sat there staring up at a narrow strip of fathomless sky until eventually I, too, went back to sleep.

  When next I surfaced I heard a bell clanging and a voice crying out ‘City of Scoffers!’ It was rather cold. The pale light of dawn crept into the carriage as we emerged, one by one, from our slumbers. Somebody opened the sliding door from the outside; Sanderling was fully awake in an instant.

  ‘Ah good,’ he said, standing up and fastening his dandy coat. ‘We’re here.’

  The train had drawn into a large station with at least a dozen platforms. There was frantic activity everywhere: carriages being loaded and unloaded, and passengers disembarking. Another train was waiting at the far side of our own platform: it was facing in the opposite direction and obviously preparing to leave. This was a most welcome sight. It meant I simply had to cross over, hop aboard and I’d soon be on my way back to Fallowfields.

  First, though, I considered it only proper to bid farewell to my travelling companions. Greylag and the rest of the orchestra were already being ‘rounded up’ by some of Gadwall’s assistants. They got down from the train and assembled in a large group while a headcount was carried out. I was about to go and speak to Greylag when I spotted Sanderling stalking off down the platform.

  ‘Sanderling!’ I called, but he didn’t seem to hear. ‘Sanderling!’ I repeated.

  He had a very single-minded look about him, and I thought I had a good idea what he was going in search of. I made an attempt to follow, but he was moving through the crowd so rapidly that I soon lost sight of him. By now the orchestra had formed into two files and was beginning to march away. Greylag was in the lead.

  ‘Goodbye, Greylag!’ I called, as he passed me by, but he didn’t hear me either.

  Gadwall himself had hurried off the minute the carriage door opened, which meant I was now alone. With everybody gone about their business, I decided I might as well take my leave at once.

  When I tried to board the other train, however, a uniformed man appeared and asked me for my ticket. When I told him I hadn’t got one he politely directed me to the ticket hall. There were a number of small windows with men sitting behind them. I chose one at random and spoke through the opening.

  ‘A ticket for Fallowfields, please.’

  I placed my solitary anvil on the counter.

  ‘Travel permit?’ said the booking clerk.

  ‘I haven’t got one,’ I replied.

  ‘Outbound journeys require a travel permit.’

  ‘Where do I get one of those?’

  ‘Passes and permits.’

  He pointed towards the far end of the hall. I thanked him and he smiled politely before closing his window and turning away. I glanced across towards my train: doors were being closed and whistles were being blown.

  ‘Damn!’ I thought to myself. ‘I’m going to miss it!’

  All the same, I realised I had no alternative but to go and find out about a travel permit. Doubtless another t
rain would be leaving in an hour or so, so I retrieved my coin and wandered along the ticket hall. Now that I had a little more time on my hands I was able to take in my surroundings properly. On first impressions it was all extremely well organised. The vast interior had countless windows, timetables and notices displaying departures and arrivals; there was also a left luggage office, a lost property office, a parcels dispatch office, a waiting room and a booth selling platform tickets. In a far corner I found the department I was seeking: PASSES AND PERMITS. I approached the window and rang a bell.

  Presently a man appeared. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I need a travel permit, please.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  He looked down at the counter as if expecting to see something lying there. I produced my anvil and placed it before him.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I have to check your reference; from your employer. What’s your job?’

  ‘I haven’t got a job.’

  ‘Haven’t got a job?’ he repeated. ‘How can you not have a job in the City of Scoffers?’

  He said this in such an incredulous tone that two or three of his colleagues joined him at the window and peered out at me with curiosity.

  ‘I’ve only just got here,’ I explained.

  His colleague on the right said something to him quietly; then he leaned forward and looked me up and down. I was wearing my dandy coat but I had no luggage with me because of my surprise departure. After appraising me for several moments he spoke at last.

  ‘A Fallowfieldsman, I presume?’

  ‘Correct,’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ he declared, ‘we can’t make any exceptions, not even for you people.’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by this.

  ‘What should I do then?’ I asked.

  Fortunately, his associates had started to lose interest in me and were drifting away. Otherwise they’d have witnessed my obvious shock when he gave his reply.

  ‘You’ll have to get a job,’ he said. ‘There’s an employment exchange at the corner of the street.’

  Reeling from this piece of information I retraced my steps down the length of the ticket hall, arriving at the platform just in time to see my train departing. I walked slowly after it as it clanked and swayed over the points and into the wasteland beyond the city. When I reached the end of the platform I stopped. I could hardly believe what had happened. Gradually the retreating train dwindled until it could be seen or heard no more, yet still I remained standing where I was. For ages and ages I stared blankly across the railway tracks, scarcely aware of the desultory gusts of wind that tugged at my coat, or the restless engines shunting back and forth along the sidings. Behind the station loomed tall buildings shrouded in vapour; factory hooters were blaring and smoke was rising from their immense chimneys; sparks flew inside cavernous steel sheds; beneath a gantry an iron girder descended steadily on a hook and chain; cables unwound from revolving drums; all around me the City of Scoffers was gathering momentum for the day ahead, while I could do nothing but gaze haplessly into an apparent void.

  It was only when my stomach started rumbling that I remembered I hadn’t eaten for several hours. With new determination I turned around and headed for the front entrance of the station. After a hearty breakfast, I resolved, everything would begin to look a lot better.

  When I got out into the street there were crowds surging in all directions, but I managed to get my bearings and went in search of some sustenance. By peeking through a few windows I soon discovered that two kinds of establishment served breakfast: there were canteens which charged one anvil, and restaurants which charged two. From what I could gather the food was exactly the same in both, so I concluded that the difference must rest in the way it was cooked. Not that I had any choice in the matter: my total wealth amounted to one anvil, so I chose a suitable-looking canteen and went in. For somewhere to be properly suitable, of course, I would have preferred it to be completely empty. As a former officer-of-state in Greater Fallowfields I’d become accustomed to the luxury of dining alone. Here in the city, by contrast, it was necessary to share premises with other people. Moreover, they were all sitting in very close proximity to one another. The canteen I’d selected only had two or three empty tables, but I quickly recognised that I wasn’t going to come across anywhere quieter at such a busy time of day. As it was, I almost lost my place before I started. Having seemingly reserved a table, I went and washed my hands only to return and find someone else had taken it. After that I made sure I was quicker off the mark: within a few minutes I had a table all to myself.What I couldn’t help noticing, however, was that everyone behaved as though nobody else was in the room. For instance, there was a man sitting about two feet away on my right who reminded me slightly of Whimbrel. I was almost tempted to strike up a conversation with him, except that not once did he glance in my direction or even acknowledge my presence. He just sat silently minding his own business. The same applied to the man on my left, and the man to the left of him. In fact, no one paid the faintest attention to anybody else, so that each of us was effectively dining alone after all.

  Before parting with my anvil I took a last look at the troublesome coin. It was odd to think that only a few weeks ago I had mistaken it for my stipendiary sixpence, which in its turn had made me feel like a man of importance. Now it was barely enough to buy my breakfast; and I realised that getting a job was no longer merely a convenient means for obtaining a travel permit: it was now a necessity. With these thoughts in mind I paid my bill and set off towards the employment exchange.

  My hopes were immediately raised when I spotted Merganser going in the same direction. He was some distance ahead, so I hurried after him, knowing that this could be a good opportunity for me. If I could get to speak with him he’d most likely be able to fix something up and save the day. I was now gaining on him rapidly. He entered the building only a short while before I did, but when I got inside he’d vanished, presumably into some back room or other. Even so, the sighting gave me cause for renewed optimism: no doubt I would run into him again in the near future.

  The employment exchange was arranged in a similar manner to the ticket hall. I had entered through a grand doorway, and now saw innumerable little windows with men sitting behind them. There were notices around the walls directing ‘customers’ to various sections, but I ignored these and approached the first window I came to. The man on the other side was wearing spectacles.

  ‘Tell me you’re a blacksmith,’ he said. ‘We’re crying out for them at the moment.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I answered. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘A related trade, perhaps? Foundry man, drop forger, welder, riveter, turner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you any of these?’ he said, reading from a list. ‘Panel beater? Tinsmith? Coppersmith? Toolmaker?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Boilermaker?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mechanic?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wheelwright? Cartwright? Cooper?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about construction? Stonemason? Bricklayer? Scaffolder? Joiner? Plasterer? Plumber? Painter? Decorator? Glazier? Roofer?’

  ‘None of the above,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No need to keep saying sorry,’ he remarked. ‘There’s jobs a-plenty if we can just find you the right one. Now let’s have a look.’ He flipped briefly through a card index before resuming the interrogation. ‘Baker? Confectioner? Pastry chef?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you proficient in electrical circuitry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Telegraphy?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Dentistry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Weaving or spinning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The maintenance of clocks?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Typesetting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Agriculture?’
>
  ‘No.’

  ‘Horticulture?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Glassblowing?’

  ‘No.’

  The man paused and examined me over the rim of his spectacles.

  ‘Are you a seamstress?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly not,’ I replied.

  For a long moment he sat there with a furrowed brow. Then a thought occurred to him.

  ‘Can you read and write?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, I wish you’d said,’ he said. ‘We could have saved ourselves a lot of bother.’ He referred to the very last card in his index. ‘Here we are: a vacancy for a booking clerk.’

  ‘Is that with the railway?’ I enquired.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s with the municipal orchestra.’

  Chapter 22

  I was given an address and a letter of introduction; also a map of the elevated tramline. This, apparently, circumnavigated the city at rooftop level. It could whisk passengers from one district to another in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately I had no money for the fare, so I had to walk. By way of consolation, I told myself that going on foot would help me get to know my new surroundings in more detail. Obviously I couldn’t take in the whole place all at once, but a casual stroll on my first day would be a start. My destination was the civic concert hall; according to the map it was situated in Twenty-seventh Avenue. This in itself was a novelty. It seemed that the entire metropolis was laid out in an orderly grid with all the roads designated by a number or a letter from the alphabet. What a difference to Fallowfields, which was a maze of winding, higgledy-piggledy streets, some paved, some cobbled; and where any notion of planning was unheard of! I’d never thought about it before, but most of the street names in the imperial capital were completely baffling and gave no clue to one’s whereabouts. Here in the City of Scoffers you knew that if you were standing in F-Street, then the neighbouring road would logically be called G-Street, and so on. In Fallowfields, by contrast, we had thoroughfares with names like Fire Engine Lane, Lost Sheep Crossing and Pudding Street Approach. I recalled that I once spent a fruitless afternoon searching in vain for Snakes and Ladders Yard. Subsequent investigation revealed that the so-called yard had long since been built over; it further transpired that Fire Engine Lane didn’t have a fire station (neither, incidentally, did Pump Street or Helmet Row); Lost Sheep Crossing turned out to be a narrow passage where sheep couldn’t possibly become lost; and Pudding Street Approach was nowhere near Pudding Street.