half wide. All about the metal walls of the firehole hung ghostly grey ash – the place seemed to keep a memory of every fire that had burned in there. For ten minutes I munched on my snap and tried to make sense of a drawing of the Westinghouse Automatic Brake. Once, I heard a clatter from within the shed that fairly made my hair stand on end, but after a second's thought I knew it to be rats.
The Westinghouse Brake comes with many complications, and presently I fell into a doze. How long it lasted I don't know, but I woke up in the greyness feeling: this is too complete. There ought to have been a circle of light around the firehole door but it was firmly closed, and a firehole door cannot be opened from the inside, for all that is meant to be inside is the fire. I tried to kick the door but my quarters were too cramped to allow it. I tried standing and stretching but could not unbend my body in any direction.
Then I saw a little twist of smoke coming up through the grate, and I knew that after the Taylor kid it was my turn. I was about to suffocate, then to disappear altogether. I cried out once, 'No!' and as I did so the smoke leapt into my lungs, and afterwards it was all coughing, with the smoke now coming up from all parts of the grill. I could not see the sides of the metal box in which I was locked, but as I kicked and pounded against them they seemed to close in on me. I could not breathe, and nor could I stop myself from trying to breathe. Shaking and dying, and trying to pray, I lay down on the floor of the box, and all at once the smoke changed colour around me. It was streaming freely over my head and away from me, turning like twine, and I found that with my coughs came breaths. I sat up and saw the fire door open once again and the smoke drifting slowly through. I rolled through the doorway and found a pair of shaky legs on the footplate of the engine. The backs of my hands were bloody but I could only feel and not see the blood, since my bull's eye was broken. From the top of the shed I could hear the scuffling of boots in ash, and laughter.
Railway blokes, I knew, were likely to go in for all kinds of japes with a new man on the job, but this little exploit had nearly finished me off.
Chapter Seven
Saturday 21 November
On the Saturday, Vincent rolled up again, once more in the mood for a chat. He settled down with his snap on the top of the coal pen I happened to be at, which was downwind of the coaling stage so my face was black and my eyes were red. 'I can see you're up against it today,' said Vincent.
'Clear off, will you, mate,' I said, but in an under-breath. It came to me that I just didn't trust this little fellow; I couldn't say for certain whether he was behind the exploit in the Old Shed but he was top of my list.
'I'm cleaning a big Birmingham class,' he said. 'Been at it for two days, and the job's nearly done. I'm going at her with rape oil just now.' 'Coming up nicely, is she?' I said in a weary kind of way. 'Top hole,' said Vincent.
That was all tommy-rot, for the engine he was speaking of would be black and you can't clean a black engine in a black shed, but I said nothing, and carried on shovelling while he watched me in a superior way.
He began eating, and I spotted that his dinner was a clanger, which is a pastry with jam or apple at one end and bits of meat and potato at the other. They'd had them on the North Eastern too – and up there a clanger was an engine man's dinner. There was no law against eating one if you weren't on the footplate, but it was all wrong in my eyes.
'I could do with some goggles, I tell you,' I shouted at Vincent, as the yard pilot banged another wagon up to the coaling stage.
'That's a funny bit of kit for a railwayman,' he roared back, as the blokes began chucking down the coal. 'In France,' I said, 'engine men wear them on the footplates.' 'Go on!' said Vincent.
'Honour bright' I said, and Vincent repeated these words with a sneer, adding: 'You read that in the Boy's Own Paper, I suppose.'
'Railway Magazine,' I shouted back, but he didn't hear, or pretended not to. 'In France,' I said again, 'they call the drivers ingenieurs.'
'Give it a bloody rest, will you?' said Vincent, who'd gone moody again. He bit into his clanger, then quickly put it down, and I thought: I know what's happened – the jam's shot through the meat end. Serve him right, too.
'I suppose you think cab roofs should be all over,' said Vincent.
'Well,' I said, stopping shovelling because I was desperate for a proper chat, really, 'that would be up-to-date, at least.'
'Only trouble is, you'd have drivers falling asleep all the time if they didn't get a soaking or a bit of a blow to keep them going.'
'How could that happen? In America the drivers sit on seats in the footplate, and they don't fall asleep.'
'Seats? Can you imagine a first-class man like my uncle Arthur sitting down at the regulator?'
'Uncle!' and I fairly gasped the word out, for Vincent did not look like the sort of happy-go-lucky young fellow that has an uncle, and Arthur Hunt did not seem like the amiable sort of bloke you imagine as having a nephew.
'I'm wondering how those two ended up on the half-link,' I said. 'Your uncle especially. He looks all right to me, and you don't get taken off the main line just on account of a hard nature.'
Vincent gave me one of his looks. 'Arthur won't lick the Governor's boots, and Barney's no toady either, but he's easier meat for the bastards on account of being a more obliging sort of bloke.' 'They were both top-link men at one time, though?' Vincent nodded: 'Lodging turns,' he muttered. He was a very suspicious fellow, slow as Christmas at giving out facts. 'So they're both in hot water, are they?' 'Drowning in it.' 'Why don't they get stood down?'
'Too popular about the shed. There'd be a bloody riot if Arthur went, especially. Barney's got to look out for himself a bit more.' 'Why?'
'Five years back he crashed the express just before Salisbury.' 'A bad smash, was it?'
Vincent nodded: 'Made the hills rattle; he was never the same after that.' 'How do you mean?'
But Vincent said nothing to that. I looked at him, trying to fathom his face, which was like a white billiard ball, right down to the little blue chalky marks. 'This summer,' Vincent went on after a while, 'they said he ran over in the yard here, and they tried to get him for that.' 'He went past a stop signal?' 'That's what somebody said – some little splitter.'
I asked who, but he wouldn't say. He may have been slow with information but it was coming now, and it was, in a sly way, against Barney Rose. The half-link, it seemed to me, were pretty thick with each other, but Vincent preferred Hunt to Rose. I found I had a great appetite for all that he could tell me, and I wasn't sure whether it was a strength or weakness in me, but it was something altogether new.
'Barney's all right though,' he went on. 'He doesn't mind the Brookwood runs.' Now, he'd mentioned that spot before. 'Where's Brookwood?' I asked.
'I don't know why you don't look it up in The Railway Magazine,' said Vincent; 'it's sure to be in there.'
We both turned away at that moment, for an 0-8-2 monster tank was coming up like nightfall. As the coal blokes began to fill its bunker, Vincent stuffed what was left of his clanger under his jacket, but it was no good, because the dust gets you from all sides.
I put in a few minutes more with the shovel before I spoke to him again. 'The Governor said nothing about me shovelling coal on these heaps.'
'But he's on sick leave just at the moment,' said Vincent, and a little smile sneaked quickly across his face. 'Maybe you should have watched your step a bit with Arthur.'
'But I've only ever said half a dozen words to him since I've been here.'
'Maybe they were the wrong half dozen,' said Vincent, bringing his clanger out of his pocket again. 'Or maybe there's a bit of a mystery about why you're here in the first place.'
'What are you getting at?' I asked, but of course I knew very well because the thing was a mystery to me as much as anybody.
'I mean, look here,' said Vincent, 'you meet some johnny up in the bloody middle of nowhere.'
He meant Smith, who was the cause of all my troubles in some way, but I tried to pretend that my thoughts concerning that gentleman came without complications. 'He wasn't some johnny, he's a director of this company.'
