No Winding-Sheet

‘You said a post office would give you cash on your savings book.’

‘They would in England. I’m not sure about the Isle of Wight. It might be like the Isle of Man and have its own laws and things. Look, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll lie up here in the station again tonight and then tomorrow, when the post offices will be open again, I’ll take out some money and we’ll cross by the first ferry that’s going.’

‘Won’t they wonder what we’re doing at the station again? That porter, or whatever he was, saw us in the waiting room, you know, and’ — Maycock giggled — ‘you can’t pretend your mother is still in the Ladies.’

‘Perhaps there’s another station somewhere. A place as big as Southampton is bound to have more than one, I should think. Look at London.’

‘Never been there.’

‘We went up to London to Waterloo, and my dad told me there’s Paddington, Kings Cross, Euston and umpteen others and they’ve all got waiting rooms and refreshments and even shops.’

‘Let’s ask if there’s another station, then.’

‘I’m not so hot on asking. The less we speak to other people the safer we are. I don’t even like that coach driver knowing we’re in Southampton. We’re not safe until the police catch the murderers.’

They began to retrace their steps, but, at Travis’s suggestion, they divagated from their outward route and found a park. Here they sat on a bench with a woman who was reading a Sunday paper. She looked up from the crossword puzzle she was doing and asked, in an American accent, ‘Would you guys know the name of a planet discovered by Sir William Herschel? I guess I know my planets, but I just can’t seem to bring this one to mind.’

‘Uranus,’ said Maycock.

‘Why, thank you! Yes, I guess that’s right. The last ‘u’ fits with my downs column. I always say there’s no way of beating a real good English education. I guess you attend a first-class school.’

‘I’m interested in astronomy, that’s all,’ said Maycock.

‘My, my! Would that be one of your special studies at your school?’

‘No, it’s just a hobby.’

‘I’m afraid we have to be going,’ said Travis, looking at his wristwatch. ‘What did you want to get talking to her for, you fool?’ he said angrily to his friend when they were out of earshot of the bench.

‘What did it matter? She’s only a woman.’

‘Of course it matters. I’ve told you. Get it into your fat head that the fewer people who know we have been here the better.’

Maycock was silent until they had left the park and were headed back towards the town. Then he said, ‘I’m sick of this. I’m going home.’

‘All right. You go. Get yourself murdered. Who cares?’

They walked on, aimlessly now, and found themselves presently in the shopping centre. The shops were closed, but a man was standing gazing in at one of the shop windows. Maycock was the first to recognise him. He caught Travis’s sleeve and pointed with his other hand.

‘Look! There’s Old Piebald again!’ he said. Almost before he spoke, Travis, too, had recognised the man. He bundled his companion into a shop doorway.

‘Take your school cap off and shove it in your pocket,’ he said, ‘and turn up the collar of your raincoat and sling your rucksack on the ground and stand in front of it, with your back to the street. He may be coming this way.’

Mr Pybus, however, did not come their way. They gave him three minutes by Travis’s watch and then Travis said he thought it was safe enough to follow him.

‘Follow him?’ said Maycock.

‘Stalk him. He’s going towards the station. Let’s make sure he’s going to take a train. I expect he is, because he’ll have to be back in school tomorrow.’

They had to pass the shop window into which the art master had been gazing. They paused there for a moment. In the centre of the window was a painting of fishing boats in harbour, a delicate and distinctive bit of work, discreetly framed. Beside it was a placard which read: Boats at Cos. Exhibition of paintings by Marcus Pybus in gallery at rear. Inspection invited.

The boys walked on, quickening their pace until their quarry was in sight. Then they followed more slowly, retaining sufficient distance between themselves and Mr Pybus. He approached the station and entered it. Cautiously they followed. There was a queue at the ticket office. They joined it, making sure that there was always a fair number of passengers between them and the art master. When they had heard Mr Pybus ask for a ticket to their home town, they slipped away.

‘Let’s eat,’ said Maycock.

‘I thought you were going home.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind so much now he’s gone.’

‘I thought you might like to share a compartment with him.’

‘Oh, stop being funny.’

On other occasions these exchanges would have resulted in a friendly scuffle, but, mindful of where they were, the boys did not indulge in this, but made their way to the station buffet, where the girl who took their money said, ‘Not you two again! Do you live here or something?’

‘Train spotters,’ said the resourceful Travis.