The Somme Stations

The Chief shrugged: ‘They’re not equal to the heavier luggage.’

‘What else? The government’s taken over the railways, hasn’t it?’

The Chief nodded.

‘We have a bloke from London in the Station Master’s office. All excursions suspended. All breakfast, lunch and dining cars suspended.’

‘I suppose the only blokes left are the real crocks.’

‘Apart from the express drivers,’ said the Chief.

I thought about asking whether he’d heard of Tinsley’s hero, Tom Shaw.

Instead, I started in on telling the Chief about the death of Scholes, but he’d heard the news already. I asked him about Scholes’s old pal, Flower, who’d gone off to the Military Mounted Police.

‘In hospital,’ said the Chief.

‘Shot?’ I said.

‘Not bloody likely,’ said the Chief.

‘Well then what?’ I said.

‘What do you think?’ said the Chief. ‘Kicked by a bloody horse.’

‘Serious?’

‘It is for him,’ he said, with some satisfaction.

I then asked what – or whether – he’d heard about the death of William Harvey, since he’d obviously not had my letter about it. He had done: read of it in the North Eastern Railway Journal. He knew the circumstances had been considered suspicious, although the magazine had left out that bit. I gave him the story of the investigation, and the hard time of it we’d all had from Sergeant Major Thackeray.

‘So you were all in the shit?’ he said.

‘Still are,’ I said. ‘Charges might be brought at any minute.’

‘Any theories, lad?’

Of the many things I could have said, I asked him about Oamer – the character of the man.

The Chief said, ‘He was a popular bloke in the booking office.’

‘But what do you make of him?’

‘Well, he’s queer of course.’

‘He’s a good soldier,’ I said.

‘General Gordon was queer,’ said the Chief. ‘It’s said Kitchener is.’

‘But would Oamer be the sort to go off, you know, adventuring with much younger blokes?’

The Chief drained his glass, poured himself another one, drank it, kept silence for a good half minute. (He’d regained some of his old style now that we were talking of an investigation.) At length, he said, ‘I know the bloke he lives with. He’s Deputy Manager of the Yorkshire General Bank in Parliament Street… Name’s Archibald… summat or other. They have a place on Scarcroft Road – big house. You’re meant to think it’s two flats, but that’s just a tale. This Archibald… He’s not a young bloke.’

‘But you’ve not answered my question,’ I said, and from the flashing glare he gave me, I thought the Chief was going to lay me out. This was the man I knew!

‘I’ve no bloody notion,’ he said.

The bar was filling up with soldiers. Once again, the Chief was looking a bit lost. He see could the other blokes eyeing his odd uniform and wondering about it. I watched him light up another of his Marcellas, and it looked a very lonely endeavour, as he puffed and blew to get it going. It was as though he was trying to make up for his age, his scrawniness and the funny uniform, by the lighting of a big cigar. When he’d got it going, he stood up, showing no sign of unsteadiness from the wine.

‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘Lorry’s waiting in the Square. I’m putting up with some King’s Own Yorkshires a couple of miles west. Tomorrow it’s back to Blighty.’

‘How’s the police office going on?’ I asked, also standing.

‘Just me and Wright at present,’ said the Chief, as I set about stuffing the cigarettes into my pockets. ‘Any bad lad coming onto York station has a free hand just at present.’

‘Now that I don’t believe,’ I said.

Back in the street, under a lonely lamp, we heard a few distant crumps from the front.

‘I did get forward a couple of weeks ago,’ said the Chief, blowing smoke. ‘… But it was a quiet sector,’ he added glumly.

‘You look in fine fettle, Chief,’ I said.

Still in this gloomy phase, the Chief said, ‘Bloody shame about young Harvey. He was a good kid.’

‘Was he?’ I said, and I looked the question at the Chief.

‘He would aggravate some of the blokes in the shooting leagues,’ the Chief admitted. ‘He was from an army family. His old man had been in the colours… won a medal out in Africa. The lad thought nothing of railways, you see – looked down on the oily blokes.’

I nodded. My own impression was confirmed. There had without question been grounds for a fight between Tinsley and Harvey on Spurn. As a battalion we were meant to be the-railway-in-the-army, but here was a case of the railway against the army.

‘Did you hear about his mother?’

The Chief nodded.

‘She married twice didn’t she?’ I said. ‘And it was the first husband that was William’s father?’

‘That’s it,’ said the Chief.

‘And he was the one who won the medal?’

‘You wouldn’t catch the second one in the bloody colours. He’s spent his whole life behind – or in front of – the bar in the Station Hotel.’

I had the dawning sense of having been a fool about something.

‘I thought that bloke, the barman, was William’s father.’

The Chief was scowling at me.

‘Who was his real father? I asked. ‘What did he do when he left the army?’

‘John Read?’ said the Chief. ‘He went in the Reserves for a while. For a job, he did nothing… No, that’s wrong, he’d been a carriage cleaner for a while… But could never find his way… Went a bit loony. The kid carried the second husband’s name.’

John Read… I knew the name.

‘Whoever did it,’ said the Chief, ‘you’ll bring him in.’

It was about the first compliment I’d had from him, and it wasn’t right.

‘You might look a bit gormless at times,’ the Chief ran on, ‘but you keep your eyes skinned.’

… But I was still thinking of John Read.

On the half-illuminated street corner, the Chief and I nodded at each other, shook hands, clapped each other on the back. About the only thing we didn’t do, in the awkwardness of our parting, was salute. The Chief turned about and walked away. I remained standing, watching his retreating figure, breathing deeply the cordite air of Albert and trying to work out how drunk I was. I tilted my face up, and a thousand stars swung into view, like a packet of stars that had been spilt. That had happened a little too quickly. I was on the way all right. Three blokes were approaching along the street, but on the other side. Glancing down, I saw that I held two remaining packets of the Virginians Select. I made to stuff them into my top pockets when I discovered the letter I’d written to the wife. I called to the Chief, who turned slowly.

‘Will you take a letter back home for me?’ I said, going up to him with envelope held out.

He spat hard.

‘Might as well,’ he said. ‘I look like a bloody postman.’ He peered at the address. ‘Why didn’t you put it through the army post?’

I grinned. ‘The contents are confidential,’ I said.

‘You dirty bugger,’ said the Chief, and I looked over the road to see Oliver Butler and his brothers. Butler was eyeing me. He’d seen the Chief, and the handover of the letter. He turned and called to his brothers like a man calling to his dogs, and they moved rapidly away. The Chief did not seem to have clocked them. He was moving away more slowly in the opposite direction, and I watched him go, thinking: if you’re in a lull at pushing seventy, you stay in a lull. Would he ever be back to commanding me at York station? The police office would never be the