my supreme goal is the footplate.'
'Oh, my eye!' said Rose, before adding more quietly, 'Another Henry Taylor! He was always pretty keen to come up.' He was sweating and smiling in a strained way. 'Taylor was quite an ardent lad like yourself… but that's all right.'
'I believe that any young railman aspires to the footplate,' I suddenly heard myself saying, 'and I see no mystery in that, because I hold the life to be a grand one of freedom, healthy effort, endless variety, and delightful good friendship.'
'Where on earth did you get all that?' asked Rose, and he really did seem astonished at my remarks. But I was watching the hard-looking fellow at the far end of the room who'd put the paper down once again and started staring at me. His shirt had no collar but it was clean and pressed. He looked like a grey wolf, and was obviously the right sort, but I did not like him, whereas I had always assumed that I would like men of the right sort.
Tt has been indicated to me,' I carried on, giving this fellow back as straight a look as I could, 'that I might be climbing onto the footplate of a slow-goods in six months from now, and that I could be wielding the shovel pretty freely from then onwards.'
Hunt took his pipe out of his mouth, and pretty well demanded, 'Who has given you all these promises?' For a working man, he talked like a swell, but with too much of London in his voice. 'Mr Rowland Smith,' I said.
From the look the man gave me – a look of nothingness -1 at first assumed he did not know the name, but that I could hardly credit.
'Mr Rowland Smith,' I said, 'is a director of the company that employs you, sir: the London and South Western Railway.'
'And you', he said, settling back on his bench in a way that made me realise that this wooden room was the kingdom over which he ruled, 'are his little friend?' 'It is not -' 'What wage has he started you at?' the wolf cut in.
'Fifteen shillings,' I said, at which he caught up his paper sharply, spitting at the same time, then muttering something I could not catch, save for a single word which I could not help but think was 'devil', however much I wanted it to be something else. The man was at his paper for only a second, then he was moving fast towards me, saying, 'There need be no further -'
There was more, but again I couldn't catch it for he had booted the door shut in my face.
Chapter Five
Grosmont Rowland Smith came to Grosmont on 30 August 1903. Even after all these years, and all that went on at Nine Elms and the Necropolis, it's the day I remember, and it runs through my mind like one of the old bioscopes – going too fast, I mean, which is how it was at the time.
Thirtieth of August was a Sunday, and I had been in the ladies' lavatories at Grosmont, as usual on the quiet days, getting the sand out of the sinks, trickling the Jeyes into the khazis, shuffling about with my bucket and dreaming of the main line. I had to give most of my attention to the ladies' conveniences because the Board would from time to time send out a Mr Curtis to inspect them. As far as I could tell this fellow did nothing all day but pounce on North Eastern stationmasters and peer into their ladies' conveniences – a very out-of-the-way line for any respectable gentleman to be in.
I was thinking what a rotten sort of day it had been. The bike ride in had been worse than usual because it had been so hot. The sign in Baytown pointing to Grosmont said seven miles but when you got to Grosmont the sign pointing back the other way said nine miles, and I reckoned that was the one telling the truth.
So I'd been moping about all morning with a bad head from the heat, being vexed by the booming rams on the hills and the chiming of the station clock on the 'down'. At 2 p.m., I came out of the ladies', and old Eddie Murgatroyd from Beck Hole Farm came up to look at the time, which it seemed he wasted a lot of time by finding out. Later, a limestone train came through, leaving behind it even more silence than there'd been before. At two- thirty I was sitting on the bench on the 'up' making a show of cleaning some lamps with a linseed rag, when the stationmaster, Mr T. T. Crystal, turned up and placed himself in front of me. Because my heart was not really in my work I'd been getting endless scoldings from Crystal over the past few weeks, and I could tell I was in for another.
'I want them all filled and the wicks trimmed,' he said, pointing to the lamps. 'I know, Mr Crystal,' I said, looking down at his boots.
'Well, you didn't bloody know yesterday. I had to do the furring job myself.' Mr Crystal was chapel; he never gave a proper curse.
Behind his boots, a cornfield moved in the wind, like a bright yellow sea, restless and dazzling, and I knew this meant danger. I turned my head slightly to the right and counted all the buildings in Grosmont, which I had done many times. There were fourteen in all: eight houses, two shops, two churches, one public house and a tunnel. 'Where's your knife for trimming the wicks?' said Crystal.
I took the penknife out of the pocket of my waistcoat, and that checked him, but not for too long. 'Are you liking it here?' he said. 'I am, Mr Crystal,' I said to the boots. I am very much.' 'I hear you're interested in speed records.' 'Very much, Mr Crystal.'
1 have to say, that is not evident from your work on these lamps. What's your plan?' 'What do you mean, Mr Crystal?' 'I mean in life.'
I wanted to get on to the traffic side, as I have already said, but there was no point mentioning that to Crystal, because as far as he was concerned I was dreaming of a life in the ink-spilling line.
'I wouldn't mind being SM at Newcastle Central, Mr Crystal.' I'd sort of gone dead as I came out with this, because I instantly knew it was the wrong thing to say, that position being a long way beyond the expectations of even Crystal himself, but even though I am the type that usually buttons up during a scolding, I carried on in the same flat voice, really as though I was trying to bring about the explosion I knew to be close at hand. 'It is one of the most notable stations in the country. I think I have it in me to reach that position in twenty years' time or so, with application and a following wind.'
'A following wind?' shouted Crystal. 'You'd need a bloody hurricane!' Then he pointed to his blooms. 'When you've done with the lamps, water those pansies in front of the bike store because I'm futting telling you this: I'm not dropping the certificate for the first time in ten years on account of you.'
He walked off to the ticket office, and, as I filled the watering can from the stand pipe on the 'up', I heard him muttering to somebody in there about something, which was queer because there was no ticket clerk on a Sunday – Crystal did the job himself. I started watering, thinking: there are no flipping flowers at Newcastle, the atmosphere does not permit it, not with above 1,000 trains a day being worked through there, Newcastle Central being one of the foremost stations on NER metals instead of some half-forgotten halt with not above a dozen trains through each day. I stood up, and replaced some of the lamps that had been on the platform, and as I did so I could hear hooves and wheels going away from the cab yard. Ten minutes later, a johnny in a grey suit emerged from the ticket office and came drifting along the platform. Watching him walk was like listening to funny music playing. He went straightaway into the gentlemen's and something made me put down the lamp I was supposed to be cleaning, pick up my bucket and walk in after him. Somehow I knew that my moment had come – but also that it only was a moment.
The smell of the Jeyes and the darkness after the dazzle of the platform had me in a daze, and I could see him in the corner, making water as if he was performing a circus trick, with his fine grey coat all ruffled up behind him like a bustle, hands on his hips. I was watching the back of him but then he turned around, allowing me my first view of his face. It was smooth, and nearly too handsome to be real. His suit was fancy and expensive, but in a quiet way. I couldn't put my finger on the matter, but I believed there was something magnified about his jacket. His necker was large and yellow and worn loose, and I thought: he will not be a pipe or cigar man but will smoke cigarettes. Here was?500 per annum, in any event. 'You're for York, sir?' I said.
He smiled at me and lowered his head; he seemed impressed that I had worked this out, but then we were on the 'up'. 'I'm waiting for the two forty-eight,' he said. 'Is it on time?'
'Yes, sir,' I said, although only Mr Plumber in the signal box, who would have had the bell when the train left Whitby, could have said that for certain.
