mourners on the train were making of the place: probably thinking they were getting their money's worth because it was all a bit different, just as poor dead Mike had said.
Ahead of me, Hunt had Thirty-One in good order. There was no trace of smoke; he was just pumping out little ghosts of steam every now and again. The nothingness of the steam met the nothingness of the white sky, and it was all certainly very beautiful and strange, but this five-miles-an-hour business, well it was no job for a man, and that was probably where all his evil nature came from.
I followed the train to a station that was a sort of perfect white wooden house with tubs of flowers all around. It was called North Station, and did not look real. There was no fence around it and no road, so you just walked towards it over grass and graves, or came to it on the train. Climbing onto the platform caused no more trouble than stepping onto a box. I walked up and watched from one end of the platform or another – I could not say which, for 'up' and 'down' had no meaning in a place like this. Some of the mourners, and two of the coffins, came off. I noticed a gang of hearty vicars I'd not spotted before, and Thirty-One sat there simmering, with Arthur Hunt inside no doubt doing exactly the same.
One of the coffins, with the mourners tagging along behind, was being taken along a winding track in the grass. I thought at first they were going to march off and put the thing straight into the ground, but then I saw that the coffin men were winding towards a pretty building in the trees that was half house and half chapel. Why that one went there and the other two bodies stayed in the train I did not know.
The doors all along the train were left open, and I stepped up into the rear carriage. There were empty wooden racks here -nothing much more. It reminded me of the stable carriages that came through Grosmont. I opened a door and stepped through into another section of the carriage, and here were more wooden racks, two with coffins on them, flowers wedged into steel brackets, and Saturday Night Mack staring at a page of a magazine. Over his round shoulder I read: 'PRIZE OF AN EIGHT-ROOMED HOUSE: ANYONE CAN WIN IT AND THEN LIVE RENT-FREE FOR LIFE'.
'Bloody hell, where did you come from?' he said, putting down his paper on one of the coffins. It was Hoity- Toity Bits. 'The other part,' I said. 'There's nobody in there.' 'Third Class, that is,' said Saturday Night Mack. I looked down at the pages of Hoity-Toity Bits, and read 'QUEER TREASURES OWNED BY KING EDWARD' and 'CURIOUS EFFECTS OF A CRUST OF BREAD'. 'What's this part?' 'Second.' 'What's the difference between third and second?' 'Nothing,' said Mack, and he went back to reading his paper.
'Where's first?' I asked, and he jerked his thumb at a door opposite the one I'd just walked through. 'Anything different about that?'
'Not as I've noticed,' said Mack. He put the paper down again. 'Some differences in the fittings for them as want to look closely, but it's all really just a matter of the number on the door,' he said, and folded his arms.
I sighed – I was still pretty shaken up – and said, 'It's all snob business, really, isn't it?'
'That's bang on, that is,' said Mack, and he looked at me as if I'd just told him something he could never have thought of for himself. I looked down at the new page of his magazine, and read the words 'REMARKABLE FACTS ABOUT BOGUS WINDFALLS'. We heard a couple of doors bang in other carriages; we were both rocked on our feet slightly, then we were away. 'Where to now, then?' I asked him. 'Church of England part – South Station,' he said, as the cemetery rolled backwards on either side of us. 'So that last one was chapel?' 'Chapel, plus Jewish and Papist – those folks all go together.' 'But the Jews need their own churches of a special sort.'
'Well, it's hard lines, in't it? They can't run to one of those here.' 'I'll bet not many of them come here, then.'
'That's just where you're wrong, mate. A lot of that sort do come here on account of liking to be buried. Well, they don't like it, but they prefer it to burning. Who's driving this engine?' he went on, 'Arthur?' I nodded. 'How did you know?' 'By the smoothness of the running.'
1 was supposed to be on with him – his mate was taken sick -' 'Probably on the pop last night,' said Mack.
'He's chucked me off the footplate.' My questions could have no meaning any more, but I could not stop asking. 'Why exactly is Mr Hunt on the half-link, Mack? And why won't they pass Vincent?' I had heard of a speaking machine they had over at Blackpool, and I imagined I sounded the same,, asking questions in a hollow voice, with no hope of answer. 'Don't ask me,' said Mack, 'it's all shed business.' I looked around the coffin carriage.
'How is it that you're riding in here with the bodies?' I asked him.
'Guard duty,' said Mack. 'A lot of these stiffs are covered in jewels, and there are people in this world with a mind to have such goods away.' 'But they'd have to open the coffins first.'
'Ever heard of a screwdriver?' said Mack, and he gave me a smile that started off little and grew.
Now we were at the second cemetery station, the South Station. It looked exactly like the first, except turned around and put on the other side of the track; and here too there was a little building half-hidden in trees near by.
Mack opened his door and let in a gang of his mates from the Necropolis Company. They took the two coffins away, with Mack lending a hand and the mourners following. I was left alone on the platform. I watched Hunt climb down from Thirty-One, wiping his hands on the cloth. He strode towards the South Station building and through the door marked 'South Bar', then I hopped off the platform and walked over the track behind the train and out into the cemetery.
I pushed on through the grass and heather. My boots and trousers were soon sopping, and that was fine. I would go back to Grosmont and work in the shop with Dad. I thought of the farmers driving their beasts across the headland to the top of Bay, coming up in the morning with the sun. They brought them into the yard behind the shop for poleaxing by Dad, but they would just as soon bring them to me or whoever was paying out. I would take over the deliveries – running the trap out to Whitby on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and down the steep street to the centre of Bay every morning. But who would be on hand to carry the mallet to stick behind the trap wheels if it should roll back coming up? That's what I had done for Dad, the one bit of work in the butchering line I had regularly performed. Perhaps I would have my own son to do it for me.
I had struck a line of small stone angels: one held a stone star, another a sword, a third an anchor. Behind them was a new-dug grave with black soil and flowers on top, all crushed by the rain, but brightened by it at the same time. Looking up from this I saw a man on a horse; he was pulling a rope that was also held by three men on foot behind. It was a very long rope, and the men were all silently taking it towards a part of the cemetery where the graves gave out.
I could've carried on stumbling all day: one direction is just as good as another when everybody about you is dead. I heard a horse and trap going along the cemetery lanes somewhere, and dripping rain marking time. After the best part of half an hour's wandering I headed back to the South Station, where Thirty-One was still waiting, and for the first time I thought of that engine, which had been the scene of such a disaster for me, as the Red Bastard.
Chapter Sixteen
Tuesday 8 December continued
I climbed back up onto the platform, and through the door labelled 'South Bar' into a light, white, wooden room. The only bit of brick was the fireplace, and there was a good blaze going. There were a few wooden tables with white cloths. Being in that room made you feel it was sunny outside, but when you looked at the windows there was the dripping rain making sad patterns. A barmaid was handing over a jug of something and four glasses to Saturday Night Mack and some of his mates. Mack was leaning with his back to the bar, looking out into the room as if he owned it.
'You're back,' he said. 'Lads,' he went on, turning to his mates, 'here we have Mr Jim Stringer.'
He got another glass, and poured me out a drink from the jug. 'Red Lion,' he said, when we'd both had a good belt of it. 'We bring it up on the train for them. That was our idea, me and the boys. We're off duty as from now so we can take a pint.' 'We can,' said a little gingery fellow, 'and we do.'
When I started talking to Mack, most of the Necropolis boys turned away and went into their own bits of chat, all except for this gingery one, who was called Terry and might have been trying to grow a moustache, and might
