Every Short Story by Alasdair Gray 1951-2012

by Gray, Alasdair

  “Quite right,” says the driver, who has risen and pocketed his stool, “If the traction unit is empty when a message comes from HQ, the graphic print-out activates that announcement and – duty calls! I’m sorry I have to return to my cabin. I’ll probably find a rotten stock-market report that forces me to raise the price of tea again. I hope not. “Goodbye John.”

  “Goodbye, er … ?”

  “Felix. Goodbye good people.”

  He departs leaving nearly everyone in a relaxed and social mood.

  “What a nice man!” says Mrs Dear, and the mother agrees. Mr Dear announces, “He was informed – and informative.”

  The teacher says, “But the situation he laid bare for us was not reassuring. Nobody is driving this train.”

  “Utter rubbish!” cries Mr Dear, “There’s a … there are all kinds of things driving this train, data-banks and computers and silicon chips all ticking and whirring in the headquarters at Stockton-on-Tees.”

  “Stoke-on-Trent,” murmurs his wife.

  “Shut up dear, the town doesn’t matter.”

  “Well,” says the teacher, “I find it disturbing to be driven by machines which aren’t on board with us.

  Don’t you, Mr Halifax?”

  The old steam man ponders a while then says hesitantly. “I might have done if I hadn’t met the driver. But he’s an educated chap. He wouldn’t take things so casually if there was any danger, now would he?”

  “Madam,” says Mr Dear, “We are actually far far safer being driven by a machine in Stoke-Newington. No thug with a gun can force it to stop the train, or divert us into a siding where terrorists threaten our lives in order to blackmail the government.”

  They sit in silence for a while then the teacher says firmly, “You are both perfectly right. I have been very, very foolish.”

  And then the chiming sounds and they hear that soothing voice again.

  “This is your driver, Captain Rogers. We are cruising above the Wash at a speed of two hundred and sixty-one kilometres per hour, and the Quantum-Cortexin ventilation system is keeping the air at the exact temperature of the human skin. So far our run has gone very smoothly, and I deeply regret that I must now apologize for a delay in the anticipated time of arrival. An error in our central data-bank has resulted in the 1999 Aquarian from Bundlon to Shaglow running on the same line as the 1999 Aquarian from Shaglow to Bundlon. The collision is scheduled to occur in exactly eight minutes thirteen seconds …” (there is a brief outcry which nobody notices they contribute to) “… at a point eight and a half kilometres south of Bagchester. But there is absolutely no need for alarm. Our technicians in Stoke-Poges are working overtime to reprogramme the master computer and may actually prevent the collision. Meanwhile we have ample time to put into effect the following safety precautions so please listen carefully. Under the arms of your seats you will find slight metal projections. These are the ends of your safety-belt. Pull them out and lock them round you. That is all you need to do. The fire-prevention system is working perfectly and shortly before impact steel shutters will close off the windows to prevent injury from splintered glass. At the present moment television crews and ambulances are whizzing toward the point of collision from all over England, and in cases of real poverty British Rail have undertaken to pay the ambulance fees. I need not say how much I personally regret the inconvenience, but we’re in this together, and I appeal to the spirit of Dunkirk …” (the old steam man snarls) “… that capacity for calmness under stress which has made us famous throughout the globe. Passengers near the traction unit should not attempt to move to the rear of the train. This sound …” (there is a sudden swish and thud) “… is the noise of the doors between the carriages sealing themselves to prevent a stampede. But there is no need for alarm. The collision is not scheduled for another, er … seven minutes three seconds exactly, and I will have time to visit your compartments with my personal key and ensure that safety precautions are being observed. This is not goodbye, but au revoir. And fasten those belts!”

  With a click his voice falls silent and is followed by bracing music of a bright and military sort, but not played loud enough to drown normal conversation.

  “Oh what can we do, Dad?” asks the mother, but the old steam man says gruffly, “Attend to the child Miriam.”

  The metal projections under the arm-rests pull out into elasticated metal bands with locking buckles at the ends. “I don’t want to be tied up!” says Patsy sulkily.

  “Just pretend we’re in an aeroplane, dear,” says the mother, locking the belt, “Look Grampa’s doing it! We’re all doing it! And now …” says the mother in the faint voice of one who fights against hysteria “… we’re all safe as houses!”

  “Dear, I … I’m terrified,” says Mrs Dear.

  Her husband says tenderly, “It’s a bad business, dear, but I’m sure we’ll pull through somehow.”

  Then he looks to the teacher and says quietly, “Madam, I owe you an apology. This rail system is more inept, more inane, more … altogether bad than I thought possible in a country like ours.”

  “You can say that again!” groans the old steam man.

  “I want to get off this train,” says the child sulkily and for while they listen to the quiet rushing of the wheels.

  Suddenly the teacher cries, “The child is correct! We should slow the train down and jump off it!”

  She fumbles with the lock of her belt saying, “I know our speed is controlled by wireless waves or something but the motor – the thing which makes the wheels turn – is quite near us, in the traction unit, could we not …”

  “By heck it’s worth a try!” shouts the fireman, fumbling at his belt, “Just let me get at that engine! Just let me get out of this … This bloody belt won’t unlock!”

  “Neither will mine,” says Mr Dear in a peculiar voice. None of the seat belts unlock. The teacher says forlornly, “I suppose they call this security.”

  But the old steam man refuses to sit still. Pressing his elbows against the chair-back he hurls his massive bulk forward again and again, muttering through gritted teeth, “I won’t – let – the bastards – do it!”

  Though the belt does not break it suddenly gives an inch then another inch as a rending sound is heard inside the upholstery.

  Then somewhere a door swishes open and the driver is beside them asking smoothly, “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Quick Felix!” says the old steam man, relaxing for a moment, “Get me out of this seat and into your cabin. I want a crack at the motor. I’m sure I can damage it with something heavy. I’ll shove my body into it if that will let some of us off!” “Too late for heroics John!” declares the driver, “I cannot possibly allow you to damage company property in that wanton fashion.”

  His voice is clear and cold. He wears a belt with a gun holster, and has his hand on it. He stands at ease but every line of his body indicates martial discipline. All stare aghast at him. The old man says, “You … are … insane!” and flings himself forward against the belt again but the driver says, “No, John Halifax! You are insane and I have this to prove it.”

  He draws his gun and fires. It explodes with a thud, not a bang. The fireman slumps forward though his belt holds him in the chair. Mrs Dear starts screaming for help so he shoots her too. There is now a dim, sharp-smelling smoke in the air but the survivors are too stunned to cough. They stare at the driver in a way which clearly upsets him, for he waves the gun about saying testily, “I have NOT killed them! This is an anaesthetic gas pistol developed for use against civilians in Ulster, does anyone else want a whiff? Saves emotional stress. A spell of oblivion and with luck you wake up in the ward of a comfortable, crowded hospital.”

  “Thank you, no!” says the teacher icily, “We prefer to face death with open eyes, however futile and unnecessary it is.”

  The chiming sounds and the familiar voice announces that this is Captain Rogers speaking, that three and a half minutes remain before impact, t
hat Captain Rogers should proceed immediately to the guard’s van. With a touch of his earlier, gentler, apologetic manner the driver says goodbye, and explains he is forced to leave them because someone must survive the wreck to report it at the official enquiry. The mother cries, “Oh sir, please unlock Patsy and take him with you, she’s only a little child …” but Patsy screams, “No Mum, I’m staying with you Mum, he’s nasty nasty nasty!” so the driver says quickly, “Goodbye good people,” and leaves.

  When the door snaps shut behind him the mother says in a kind, careful, trembling voice, “You know The Lord Is My Shepherd, Patsy. Let’s say it, shall we?” and together they murmur, “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters …”

  With a clang of metal sheeting the windows are blotted out by shutters.

  “Pitch, pitch dark,” says Mr Dear, “They haven’t even allowed us light.”

  He is clasping his wife’s body so that her unconscious head rests upon his shoulder, and he finds some comfort in this pressure.

  “I know it is a small mercy,” says the voice of the teacher, “But I’m glad that military band no longer sounds.”

  In the darkness the throbbing of the train wheels is more audible and the mother and child pray louder to be heard above it, but not much louder. They reach the end of the prayer, start again at the beginning and continue reciting till the very end.

  “Do you remember,” says the teacher suddenly, “When every carriage had a communication cord that any traveller could pull and stop the train?”

  “Yes!” says Mr Dear with a noise between a groan and a chuckle, “Penalty for improper use £5.”

  “Once upon a time every small boy wanted to drive a train when he grew up,” sighs the teacher, “And in rural communities the station-master played a rubber of whist on Sunday evenings with the schoolmaster, the banker and the local clergyman. I remember a bright spring morning on the platform at Beattock. A porter took a wicker basket from the guard’s van and released a whole flight of carrier pigeons. I remember signal boxes with pots of geraniums on the sills.”

  Mr Dear sighs and says, “We had a human railway once. Why did it change?”

  “Because we did not stick to steam!” says the teacher firmly, “We used to be fuelled by coal, our own British coal which would have lasted us for centuries. Now we depend on dangerous poisonous stuff produced by foreign companies based in America, Arabia and …”

  “You’re wrong,” says Mr Dear, “These companies aren’t based anywhere. I’ve shares in a few. The people running them have offices in Amsterdam and Hong Kong, bank accounts in Switzerland and homes on several continents.” “So that is why we are driven from outside,” cries the teacher, getting excited, “None of US is in charge of us now.”

  “Some of us pretend to be.”

  They hear the faint distant scream of an approaching train siren. It swells so loud that the teacher is forced to yell over it, “But nobody is really in charge of us now! Nobody is in charge of us …”

  She has braced herself for an explosion, but does not hear one, or hears and forgets it immediately. The train is no longer moving. The blackness enfolding her is so warm and snug that for a moment she dreams she is at home in bed. When she hears the voice of a child calling drowsily, “Mummy … Mummy …” she almost believes it is her own. The voice of a mother answers on a wondering note, “I think – Patsy – we’re going to be all right.”

  A moment later the teacher, like other passengers on that train, hears the start of a truly huge and final explosion, but not the end of it.

  THE ENDS OF OUR TETHERS

  FOR AGNES AND MORAG AGAIN

  EDINBURGH 2003

  PROPERTY

  WHEN LONDON was advertised as the world’s fashion capital – when The Beatles seemed the nation’s greatest export – when a Conservative prime minister with a Scottish name said, probably truthfully, that the British people had never been so prosperous, two such people went for a weekend camping holiday in the Highlands.

  They were building workers of seventeen and eighteen who lived with their parents in the town of Dumbarton. On Friday night after work they packed the panniers of their motorbikes, rode up the Vale of Leven, took the shore road by Loch Lomond to Tarbert, turned west to the head of Loch Long then zoomed over The Rest-and-Be-Thankful. As darkness fell they passed through the Highland’s only neat little eighteenth-century town and began looking for a camping place. There was a sea loch to their left, hedged fields to the right, and after a mile or two they saw a side road with a wide grassy verge. Here they stopped, spread a groundsheet, erected a tent and put the motorbikes inside. This left enough room to lay down sleeping bags with the panniers for pillows. Then they tied the tent flaps shut, walked back to the town and spent a pleasant evening in the bar of a small hotel.

  There are many tales of Scottish country pubs serving drink after the legal closing time. This was one such pub. The boys, cheerfully drunk, left it after midnight and returned to the tent through a mild but sobering rain shower. They sobered completely on finding the tent flaps wide open and nothing but the groundsheet inside. They discussed returning to the town and phoning the police but gloomily decided that a Highland policeman might be hard to rouse at that hour, especially if the rousers were urban youths smelling of drink. They agreed to do nothing before daylight and spent a miserable night huddled in their leather clothes back to back on the groundsheet.x

  At eight in the morning they were themselves roused by a man wearing well-cut tweed clothes and accompanied by a policeman. To the boys this man seemed very tall and fresh-faced, perhaps because they felt tired and dirty. He said, “You have insolently camped upon my land without asking my permission. What have you to say for yourselves?”

  The elder boy said they didn’t know that the roadside was not public, also that their motorbikes and other things had been stolen.

  “Not stolen. Impounded,” said the man, “I had them removed last night to the police station. You can thank your lucky stars that I was kind enough to leave you the tent. So now dismantle it, collect your chattels from the station and clear out. I do not object, as a rule, to visitors who behave properly and drop no litter. I regard this –” he indicated the tent – “as a form of litter. I have a friend, a very brave soldier who had similar trouble with a family of people like you. Well, he discovered their address, went with a friend to the municipal housing scheme where they lived and pitched a tent of his own in the middle of their back garden. They didn’t like that one little tiny bit. Quite annoyed about it they were as a matter of fact.”

  The man turned a little and looked steadily out over the loch, mountains, glens, rivers, moors and islands that he regarded (with the support of the police) as his back garden.

  PILLOW TALK

  WAKENING HE TURNED HIS HEAD and saw she was still reading. After a moment he said, “About that e-mail you sent.”

  “I never sent you an e-mail,” she said, eyes still on the book.

  “Not before today, perhaps, but this afternoon you e-mailed me and said—”

  “I repeat,” she interrupted, looking hard at him, “I have never sent you or anyone else an e-mail in my life.”

  “But you did send one to the office this afternoon. I remember it perfectly – the heading stating it was from you to me and everyone else in the firm. Why did you have to tell them? You must have sent it from a friend’s computer or one in the public library.” “You’re still drunk.”

  “If you mean I was drunk when we came to bed you are wrong. We had only one bottle of wine with the evening meal and I drank only one more glass of it than you. I’m glad you’re sorry you sent that message but you’ll never persuade me you didn’t.”

  “You’re hallucinating. What am I supposed to have said?” “That you want to leave me. Five words – I want to leave you – just that.” She stared at him, shut the book and said bitterly, “Oh, ver
y clever. Cruel, but clever.” “Do you want to leave me?”

  “Yes, but I never told you so. I’ve never told anyone that – they think ours is such a solid marriage. You must have noticed it’s a farce and this is your bloody cunning way of blaming me for something I never said and was never going to say.”

  “Blethers!” he cried, “I am never cunning, never cruel. I remember these words coming up very clear and distinct on the computer screen: I want to leave you.”

  “Then why didn’t you mention it when you came home? Why didn’t you mention it over dinner? Are you going to pretend you were brooding over it before we came to bed?” He thought hard for a while then said,

  “You’re right. I must have dreamed it before I woke a moment ago.”

  “I’m glad you’ve sobered up,” she said and resumed reading.

  After a while he said, “But you want to leave me.”

  She sighed and said nothing.

  “When will you do it?”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll ever do it,” she murmured, still appearing to read, “I haven’t the courage to live alone. You’re an alcoholic bore but not violent and I’m too old to find anyone better.”

  “I’m glad!” he said loudly. “I don’t want you ever to leave because I love you. My life will be a misery if you leave me.”

  “Then you’re luckier than I am. Go back to sleep.”

  He turned away from her and tried to sleep. About half an hour later he heard her shut the book and switch off the bedside lamp. He got up and went to a room next door where he had hidden a bottle of whisky for this sort of emergency.