'I'm pulling your leg, Jim,' he said, sucking on his dead pipe. 'Robinson gave Fielding the contract -1 should say one of the contracts – for stocking the automatic picture post card machines you see on the station platforms.'
'Oh,' I said.
He looked again at his pipe.
'You know, I think I prefer cigars, Jim. At least a fellow can get them lit!
'You smoke cigars, do you?'
'On occasion, yes.'
'Anyhow, that was me for a year, Jim: third class rail pass in my pocket, and I'd go about re-filling these machines with the cards we'd commissioned.'
I knew the machines. They were in most of the bigger stations. You put in a penny, and pulled out a little drawer that contained a card with ha'penny postage already on it. Some showed North Eastern Railway scenes: interesting spots in the system. Others might show Yorkshire views in general. Vaughan pushed the top-most card across to me.
'Is that Hull?' I said.
'Might be,' he said. 'It was one of the winter series.'
For all his build-up, he didn't seem very interested in it. The card was from a painting, and there was writing across the top of it: The Industrial Supremacy of North East England. The Secret of Success: Cheap Power, Labour Facilities and Raw Materials. Then, in smaller type: For information as to sites and special advantages apply to the commercial agent, North Eastern Railway, York. It was hard to imagine anyone wanting to receive it through the post. I looked at Vaughan. He seemed to want me to say something about it.
'That artist is coming it a bit,' I said.
'How's that?' asked Vaughan.
'Looks like a Class S, does that engine. But you'd never see one of those on dock duties – not in a million years.'
'Why not, Jim?' asked Vaughan, but I could tell he wasn't really bothered either way.
'Too big,' I said. 'They're hundred mile an hour jobs. The company's not going to waste 'em on loading fish.'
Vaughan nodded as though he was satisfied with this. He slid over another card.
'Summer Series,' he said.
This too was from a painting. It showed a sea cliff in twilight. 'The Yorkshire Coast' read the heading. Then: 'Railway stations within easy reach. For particulars write to the Chief Passenger Agent, Department 'A, North Eastern Railway, York.' Vaughan was eyeing me again. I felt minded to ask what he was playing at, but couldn't quite see my way to doing it. Another card was put down: a photograph of a signal gantry on what looked like a foggy day.
'Where's that?' I said.
'Search me,' said Vaughan.
'That one's crossed,' I said, pointing to one of the signals, which had a wooden cross nailed over the arm.'… Means it's out of commission.'
'That right, Jim?' said Vaughan. 'Interesting is that.'
But he wasn't interested in the least.
Out came another card. A station master and a couple of porters stood on a little country platform somewhere.
'That fellow's managed to get his dog into the picture,' said Vaughan, pointing, and then another card came from the packet and was put down. This showed a flat-bed wagon carrying a great boiler or some such outsized article that overhung the wagon by about six feet. A handful of railway officials stood about grinning foolishly.
'Out-of-gauge load,' I said.
'However would they move a thing like that, Jim?' asked Vaughan, who kept looking over my shoulder, as though expecting someone to come up behind me. But the pub was still quite empty.
'They've to keep the next track clear,' I said.
Vaughan nodded.
'They'd run a breakdown wagon along behind it,' I said. 'A crane, I mean, to lift it clear of any obstacles that might come up trackside. Fancy another?' I said, indicating our empty glasses. Vaughan gave a quick nod; I walked up to the bar, shouted 'Rose!' and the trick worked for me too.
When I came back to the table and handed Vaughan his pint he took down his feet from the stool, and ran his hands through his long hair. He then blew his nose on the blue handkerchief, and I saw that there was another card in my place, and this was a comic one, like a picture out of the funny papers. It showed a baby in a cot, and the words above read: 'A Present from Scarborough'.
'One for the holiday makers,' said Vaughan, who was now fiddling with his pipe.
'Enough said,' I replied, giving a grin. But then a thought struck me: 'I don't suppose this one was sold on the stations.'
'Not likely,' said Vaughan. 'This isn't one of the Fielding lot. I'm a sort of free agent now when it comes to the cards.'
He'd got his pipe going properly at last. Rose had gone away from the bar again. Vaughan said, 'I bring a good many over from France, as a matter of fact, Jim.'
'Oh yes?' I said. 'Pictures of French trains, would that be?'
'Not quite, Jim,' and he put down another card, which showed a lady holding a bicycle.
She had no clothes on.
I looked up at Vaughan, who was frowning slightly and sucking on his pipe in a very thoughtful manner.
PART THREE
Chapter Nineteen
'Do you suppose she means to get on that bike?' I said, handing back the card.
Vaughan took his pipe out of his mouth and gave a grin.
'I think the saddle's set a little too high, Jim,' he said. 'But she looks a game sort, doesn't she? Matter of fact, I know she is.'
'You know her?' I said.
'Home grown, she is,' he said, and I didn't quite take his meaning.
He now returned the package to the cape pocket, and I was relieved at that. I wasn't well enough acquainted with Vaughan to talk sex with him.
He said, 'Drink up, Jim, or we'll be late for supper,' and we walked out of the pub, and reversed our steps, with no sound in the Scarborough Old Town but the breathing of the German Sea.
For a while, nothing was said between us. Vaughan seemed to have attained his object in showing me that particular card, and it had done its work – I'd been made to feel rather hot by it, which brought Amanda Rickerby more and more to mind. Not that I hadn't seen plenty of similar ones before. They would do the rounds of any engine shed, and there was an envelope in the police office that was full of them, and marked 'Improper'. Any stuff of that nature discovered on a train (down the back of a seat or folded into a newspaper on the luggage rack) and taken into the lost luggage office would not be collected or enquired after, and would come to us. But the rum thing was that when it was placed in the left luggage it wouldn't be called for either. So we had our ever-growing file in the police office containing pictures and little home-made- looking books, and one day the Chief said to me, bold as you like, 'Every man in this office looks at that file when left alone,' a remark that put me on the spot rather, and was no doubt meant to do so. I just coloured up and changed the subject, for I had leafed through it from time to time.
