As I walked the narrow corridor, rocking back and forth with the gait of the train, I looked out of the picture windows framing one side of the carriage which displayed the built-up cityscape of London with a grey pea-souper fug hanging low like a malevolent cloud. I was glad to be leaving the filthy city, heading for fresh air, glorious vistas and of course the item from Lord Ardmillan’s collection that I had coveted for the past thirty years.
On entering the lounge a haze of cigar smoke hung in the air, and the deep rumbling laughter of gentlemen in conversation jarred me from the fugue state that the clickety-clack of the train workings had temporarily put me in. There were fifteen high backed leather chairs grouped in two’s and three’s around the lounge, with small side tables. Seven men were seated, and of course, no women. If a woman were to take the Caledonian Sleeper, for propriety’s sake, she and her companion would stay in their compartment for the duration of the journey.
Two somber suited, grey whiskered elderly gentlemen were seated opposite one another on my left, locked in a battle of wills over a game of dominoes. One of the men looked up, caught my eye, and nodded a stern greeting. Four men of business sat together indulging in a game of whist and some banter. Then, I saw a seventh man sitting alone, a blue-grey cloud of pipe smoke swirled from behind an opened copy of The Times Newspaper shrouding his face. The headline writ large across the cover spoke of a thief on the loose. The man’s legs were crossed, but what caught my eye was that he wore the most splendid two-tone inky black and cognac russet leather ankle boots. I knew immediately that these were the handiwork of the famous Mr. Edwin Clapp of Massachusetts for they were much in demand among the fashionable men of London society.
I was still a little flustered from the unfortunate incident in my sleeping compartment and wished for refreshments and silent contemplation. And so, spotting a pair of unoccupied chairs at the end of the lounge carriage I vowed I would sit quietly, take my supper, drink a glass of Port wine, and watch the hours of darkness go by until I became sleepy enough to retire.
I sat heavily in the straight-backed claret leather chair, rested my head, and closed my eyes. I listened to the musical cadenced sounds of the train wheels on the steel track below. I had always found the rhythmic clickety-clack of the train to be lulling. I let my mind wander and was near in a doze when a light Scots voice said,
“Mr. Hannan, sir, I have the supper you requested.”
I opened my eyes to see Cummings leaning over me, his eyes sparkling in the light of the crystal wall sconce. He held a tray with food and a goblet of warm mulled Port, the steam dancing from the lip of the cup. He bent and laid the tray on my lap, and then unraveled a napkin.
I waved my hand. “That will do, thank you. I can tend to myself.” I grumbled morosely. With my peculiar mood, I did not want this man’s attention any longer than necessary. He passed the napkin to me, nodded, and turned to go. My betraying eyes darted to observe the roundness of his firm young buttocks. No, no, no. What was I doing? My hand automatically leaped to my chest so I could feel the shape of my silver cross and banish the impure thoughts from my head.
Before me, on the platter, I had been served a hearty vegetable broth, with warm buttered crumpets. I took a deep draught from the goblet and sighed as the hot spicy Port caused a conflagration in my belly, warming me through.
I ate in silence. To the right of my chair, I could see the nightscape rushing past the window, and to the left, I could see the legs and dazzling ankle boots of the traveler. Watching the silver-tipped laces shimmer and sparkle as the man’s body moved with the jerks and shudders of the train made me smile. I admired a man who was not afraid to step out of line and display his individuality. He was the kind of man I would never be.
Cummings returned to take my empty tray. I paid him no mind, looking away and focusing on the view through my window. I watched the smoggy cityscapes vanish as we sped down the track, to be replaced by a clear starry night sky. Silhouettes of trees gave form to the distant countryside of Buckinghamshire, and my own cheerless reflection in the window was my ever-constant companion.
“Excuse me, my friend?” I looked up to see a finely attired man standing beside the empty chair in front of me.
“Would you care for a little company? Railway journeys can be frightfully boring, don’t you think?”
I was immediately taken by the way he addressed me as his friend and that his accent was of the Americas. I did not believe I had many friends these days, more colleagues, and acquaintances. I was intrigued. My eyes raked the man’s well-cut form. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his hair was dark brown and worn to his nape. He displayed a thick beard that framed a squared jaw and near feminine lips. He had curiously sad hazel eyes, and I felt a pang of sympathy, for he had clearly traveled a long way, was lonely and in want of a companion. I was not completely unsociable and did enjoy conversation, so I let my guard down and gestured to the chair in front of me. The man sat, clasped his hands on his
