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Authors: Andrew Martin
Tags: Mystery
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sent.'
'Smith used to be part of this show,' said Vincent, 'the London and South Western Company, I mean, and he still comes back to cause trouble from time to time, but now he's with another lot.'
'What other lot?' I was desperate for the answer, which
might make everything plain, but Vincent first caught up his bottle and had another long go at his tea.
'Ever heard of the London Necropolis and National Mausoleum Company?' he said after a while.
'No.'
"They run the bodies out to Brookwood Cemetery. Well, they do the ceremonials; we lay on the trains, and the half-link runs 'em.'
'And I'm to work on this funeral train?'
'If you ever get off these coal heaps,' said Vincent with a horrible little grin.
Vincent stood up and put the cork in his bottle. 'You've been sent to work on that show for a reason.'
I was still too busy trying to imagine 'that show' to be thinking of reasons, but I said in a daze: 'What?'
He didn't answer, but instead asked, "This fellow Smith ... he's not been in touch since?'
'No.'
'And he was helpful towards you?'
A funeral train. I had heard of a funeral train, but not a funeral train.
'I say,' said Vincent, 'was he helpful towards you?' 'A proper gent in all regards.' 'Think he might be a Tommy Dodd?' 'A what?'
'Don't know? Then count yourself lucky. Let's say that you're here because he's got friends who've pulled strings, and now, you see, Arthur doesn't like that because he can think of other people who should have had this start before you.'
'Like who?'
'Like friends of his.' Vincent was watching me like a coal rat. 'Friends of his from London. You see, we don't go up there and take your work, poking our nose into your ways...'
I thought of Grosmont, and how the sun had shone every single day as I worked my notice and the rooks had risen off the trees at dusk like cinders of f a fire, and then I thought of Smith, and how he had gulled me from start to finish. He had heard of my liking for high speed, yet had brought me down to work on a funeral train. But why had he done so?
'Hunt thinks I earn too much money for a new lad, doesn't he?' I said. "That's one of the reasons he's got his knife into me.'
'No,' said Vincent, 'he thinks you earn too little, and that nobody should agree to come on at that rate. But you did, and so did those other out-of-town blokes - bloody Taylor and bloody Mike.'
Then I saw a big man stumbling towards us wearing a bowler that was more on his hair than on his head: the Governor. As he began to climb the coal hill, Vincent turned to face him; the two closed, and I thought the Governor looked fit to explode as he reeled back and crowned the side of Vincent's head, roaring, 'Get back to your fucking duty!' For a moment I thought Vincent was going to be up and at him, but he did saunter off eventually, cool as a cucumber, and the Governor led me into the shed to finally start me on the long road to engine driving, by which I mean that he started me cleaning Bampton Number Twenty-Nine.
The Bampton tank was green. It looked somewhat like an M7 , being thirty-five tons of muscular-looking side tank, but there was something not right about it. The dome was too big, like a big, ever-growing bubble rising out of the boiler, threatening to burst.
I spent the rest of that Saturday going at it with paraffin rags on the motion and frame, and tallow on the boiler, and thinking about the private war I'd struck. The missing man, Henry Taylor, was to do with it, I was sure, and so was Mr Rowland Smith. When I was not thinking of that I was revolving in my mind funerals and trains, and how the two might go hand in hand.
For all my troubles, I was glad to be cleaning at last, and I would like to have set to with Brasso on the controls as well, but a fire-raiser came onto the engine at four o'clock and ordered me off the footplate. He didn't seem to mind, though, that I watched him about his work as best I could from down on the tracks. The
'Smith used to be part of this show,' said Vincent, 'the London and South Western Company, I mean, and he still comes back to cause trouble from time to time, but now he's with another lot.'
'What other lot?' I was desperate for the answer, which
might make everything plain, but Vincent first caught up his bottle and had another long go at his tea.
'Ever heard of the London Necropolis and National Mausoleum Company?' he said after a while.
'No.'
"They run the bodies out to Brookwood Cemetery. Well, they do the ceremonials; we lay on the trains, and the half-link runs 'em.'
'And I'm to work on this funeral train?'
'If you ever get off these coal heaps,' said Vincent with a horrible little grin.
Vincent stood up and put the cork in his bottle. 'You've been sent to work on that show for a reason.'
I was still too busy trying to imagine 'that show' to be thinking of reasons, but I said in a daze: 'What?'
He didn't answer, but instead asked, "This fellow Smith ... he's not been in touch since?'
'No.'
'And he was helpful towards you?'
A funeral train. I had heard of a funeral train, but not a funeral train.
'I say,' said Vincent, 'was he helpful towards you?' 'A proper gent in all regards.' 'Think he might be a Tommy Dodd?' 'A what?'
'Don't know? Then count yourself lucky. Let's say that you're here because he's got friends who've pulled strings, and now, you see, Arthur doesn't like that because he can think of other people who should have had this start before you.'
'Like who?'
'Like friends of his.' Vincent was watching me like a coal rat. 'Friends of his from London. You see, we don't go up there and take your work, poking our nose into your ways...'
I thought of Grosmont, and how the sun had shone every single day as I worked my notice and the rooks had risen off the trees at dusk like cinders of f a fire, and then I thought of Smith, and how he had gulled me from start to finish. He had heard of my liking for high speed, yet had brought me down to work on a funeral train. But why had he done so?
'Hunt thinks I earn too much money for a new lad, doesn't he?' I said. "That's one of the reasons he's got his knife into me.'
'No,' said Vincent, 'he thinks you earn too little, and that nobody should agree to come on at that rate. But you did, and so did those other out-of-town blokes - bloody Taylor and bloody Mike.'
Then I saw a big man stumbling towards us wearing a bowler that was more on his hair than on his head: the Governor. As he began to climb the coal hill, Vincent turned to face him; the two closed, and I thought the Governor looked fit to explode as he reeled back and crowned the side of Vincent's head, roaring, 'Get back to your fucking duty!' For a moment I thought Vincent was going to be up and at him, but he did saunter off eventually, cool as a cucumber, and the Governor led me into the shed to finally start me on the long road to engine driving, by which I mean that he started me cleaning Bampton Number Twenty-Nine.
The Bampton tank was green. It looked somewhat like an M7 , being thirty-five tons of muscular-looking side tank, but there was something not right about it. The dome was too big, like a big, ever-growing bubble rising out of the boiler, threatening to burst.
I spent the rest of that Saturday going at it with paraffin rags on the motion and frame, and tallow on the boiler, and thinking about the private war I'd struck. The missing man, Henry Taylor, was to do with it, I was sure, and so was Mr Rowland Smith. When I was not thinking of that I was revolving in my mind funerals and trains, and how the two might go hand in hand.
For all my troubles, I was glad to be cleaning at last, and I would like to have set to with Brasso on the controls as well, but a fire-raiser came onto the engine at four o'clock and ordered me off the footplate. He didn't seem to mind, though, that I watched him about his work as best I could from down on the tracks. The
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