The Necropolis Railway (14 page)

Vincent left a long pause, giving me plenty of time to regret speaking ill of the dead - it was wanting to sound like a true engine man that had done it, that and the beer - before saying, 'You're bang on, there.'

Just then, Saturday Night Mack stopped shouting about trousers and sat down at our table with three fresh pints of Red Lion on a tray. 'Chatting about that bad business on Monday, are we?' he said, and took a long drink.

'You're on the Necropolis, aren't you?' I said, because I had to get back to that.

Mack nodded.

'What do you do for that lot?'

'Always asking questions, this boy,' said Vincent, wriggling in his seat. 'Always very keen to learn.'

But Mack didn't seem to mind; I fancied he preferred my company to Vincent's, and that Vincent would have liked me to think they were better mates than they really were.
‘I
put my hand to shifting bodies, humping floral sprays, sweeping up, and a bit of parading on occasion,' he replied.

'So
you're one of those silent walkin
g-behind-the-coffin fellows?' I said. I knew this to be a silly sort of remark even as it came from my lips, but the queer thing was that Mack again did not mind.

'Walking behind? Yes. Silence? No,' he said. 'I
do
talk on the job, you see, otherwise I could never do the words of comfort.' He waved to somebody near the bar, and called out a word I couldn't understand. It was something like 'Norbs!' It could have been that little gingery fellow who hadn't shaved that he was calling to.

'What are the words of comfort?' I asked.

'Bloody hell,' said Vincent, 'we're trying to have a bit of a beano here.'

'It depends if I do a long comfort or a short one,' said Saturday Night Mack, putting the ice on Vincent once again. 'What would be a long one?'

He took a deep breath, and then he was off: 'For no man liveth to himself and no man dieth to himself, for whether we live, we live unto the Lord, and whether we die, we die unto the Lord. Whether we live, therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.'

'I see,' I said. 'And if it's a short one?'

'Chin up,' said Mack, and he caught up his beer and finished it off.
‘I
mainly do short ones,' he said, standing up, 'and sometimes not even that.' He whacked down his glass and dashed off into a crowd of his friends. A few seconds later he came running back to us. 'Anybody fancy another?'

I tried to give him a tanner but he wasn't having it.

After a bit more shouting and prancing about he came back to us, dragging half his crowd with him, who carried on drinking in the crowd around our table.

'Idiots,' he said, pointing to the crowd. 'Sensible fellows,' he said, pointing to us. The idiots seemed to be more fun, though, so I thought it good of him to stick with us.

'You've got a pretty big set up down at Brookwood,' I said.

'Pretty big,' he said.

'What's the cemetery like?'

'I'll tell you what: steer clear if you believe in spirits.' He took a big belt of his beer, and I could see that he was saturated but it suited him to be like that.

'Mack believes in ghosts,' said Vincent. 'He has these table-top, spirit-talking goes.'

'What happens at these things?' I asked Mack.

"The veil is lifted and I see through to the other side.'

'What's it like?'

'What's it
like?'
he said, and he puffed out his cheeks and made his eyes go big. 'Going back to Brookwood,' he went on, 'you've got four thousand acres, best part of fifty thousand trees. It's the biggest cemetery going, nothing to touch it in the whole Empire, but I'll tell you what,' and here he just grinned.

'What?' I said.

'Business ain't so good at present.'

I liked Mack; despite being a semi-drunk and maybe a rogue, he was a pleasant fellow to chat with. 'Why is business bad?' I asked him.

'When they set it all up, all the graveyards in London were full to bursting, and nobody was allowed to start any new ones. But that was all changed just before our show was started.'

'How did that come about?'

'Act of Parliament.'

'What act?'

'Bloody hell, leave off,' said Vincent. 'Mack's brain is working under two hundred and twenty pounds of pressure as it is.'

'Date of the Act
...'
said Mack, 'can't remember. Name of it
...
that's gone too. Ask me when I'm not DRUNK.'

He said that last word very loud.

'So the Necropolis is in a bad state?' I said.

'Well, now,' said Saturday Night Mack, sitting back, picking up his glass and seeing it was empty, 'there's a fellow does talks on it, a fellow c
alled Stanley, and you can tell
what's what in our line by his audiences.' 'I looked in on one of those,' I said. 'Crowded, was it?' said Mack.

'Hardly
...
Listen,' I said - and the questions were coming like winking, thanks to the Red Lion - 'do you know a johnny called Rowland Smith?'

This one had Vincent all ablaze, though saying nothing.

Mack nodded, and it was a job for me to tell whether that meant he knew of my connection with Smith or not. I couldn't believe Vincent wouldn't have told him if they were any sorts of mates at all.

'Really, he's the true Governor,' said Mack. 'He's come over from the South Western to sort us out. Erskine Long's the chairman, and he don't seem to like it, but there it is.'

'So Rowland Smith's all right, is he?'

Mack shrugged. 'His notion is to sell off the land,' he said.

Somebody darted over to Mack and gave him a beer.

'Tell you what,' he said. 'We used to have a Sunday run, and you could pick up the big penny working that turn. Smith's put a stop to it. Nowadays the trip only happens three or four times a week, and that's his decree as well.'

'What's happened to wages?'

'I'm a fifteen-bob-a-week bloke now; it's barely enough to cover my slate in this place.'

I could see very well that it wouldn't be. Saturday Night Mack was a drinking machine, always with a glass in his hand, and he seemed to know everybody in the Citadel. For the next half hour he kept coming and going, whereas I seemed to be trapped at our table with Vincent, hemmed in by the crowd. Some of them were joxies, and they kept lolling right across our table.

'Nice fresh greens,' said Vincent, as one of them rolled against me.

'Want a lady?' she said.

I couldn't believe the softness of her, but I was scared of saying yes, for I had never gone down the road with any girl before, let alone this sort, and I didn't know where she would take me. I thought she might be backed up by an army of blackguards.

'Want a lady?' she said again.

'What for?' I said.

'What for!' said Vincent, and he gave out a sound that was the next best thing to laughing.

'For
...
a while,' said the joxie, who then went off, saying something not very friendly.

'Man,' said Vincent, 'we're down in Waterloo,' and he started shaking his head. I had heard of these girls, who sold what you could not believe would ever be for sale; there were commonly supposed to be some in Scarborough, but I never thought I would see one, leave alone actually be kissed by one.

Vincent lifted his pewter and drank. "They'll fuck you for a consideration, sir!' he said in a funny voice.

For some reason, thoughts of my landlady were in my head, and I did not like the complication of them. 'Why do you call me sir when you're drunk?' I said to Vincent.

'I have a lot more respect for people when I'm sloshed,' said Vincent, 'and you can make of that what you like.'

I tried to look him straight in the eye but the Citadel had now started to move; it was increasing in speed by the second, until the velocity was something remarkable, but, unlike the Atlantics of Mr Ivatt, it did not go in a straight line.

Chapter Fifteen

Tuesday 8 December

Three days later I was in the shed early, stabbing with the handle of a brush at a mass of ash and mud on the brake block of Thirty-One, when the Governor walked up. He was smiling as usual - well, it was usual when he talked to me.

'Fancy a trip to Brookwood?' he said, and he almost bowed, like a magician about to demonstrate some marvellous phenomenon.

'I'll bloody say,' I said, and I chucked down the brush and rubbed my hands on my trousers, because you're supposed to be clean at all times on the footplate. I then realised I'd made a bloomer with that 'bloody', but the Governor didn't take exception. He was walking down the shed between two lines of Atlantics, galvanising the whole place as he went, sending blokes off wheeling barrows, or scrambling into the pits or doing whatever they should have been doing in the first place. He led me to Twenty-Nine, which was just off-shed, standing in a light rain.

'Hop up,' said the Governor.

I climbed onto the cab, and there was the man with the black beard who fired for the half when he was on spare, and who I now knew to be Clive Castle. There was a good fire in the hole, steam pressure was climbing nicely and the cab was pretty clean, but really only half done, so I decided to finish the job. I reached into the locker for the wire brush, then glanced across at Castle. He looked at me, but gave no friendly nod, of course. But I was becoming bolder with the Nine Elms fellows; I would not eat dog. So I said, very business
-
like: 'I'm coming out with you on the run.'

No answer. His face was very white, or maybe it was just the blackness of his hair and beard that made me think so. He had something on his mind, all right, something bad, but then they all did all the time. It would have been funny - if I didn't believe that evil was at the back of it.

'Where's Rose?' I said, because I had the idea that only he would let me on for a ride.

'Barney Rose?' said Castle. 'Search me.'

I heard a clatter, and an oil can was placed on the footplate behind me. I could tell by the sound that it was empty. Turning about, I saw Arthur Hunt flashing past on his way to going under the engine with a new oil can. The trip was to be with the big man.

Well, I resolved immediately that he would have no reason to find fault. I climbed down from the cab and scurried off to stores, where I meant to pick up a tin of Brasso, although in fact I came upon one on a workbench halfway there, together with a good clean rag which I also caught up. Returning to the footplate of Twenty-Nine, I began hastily polishing the injector wheels, engine brake, regulator. This was laying on luxury as far as cleaning duties went, but I was determined that Arthur Hunt would think me up to the mark.

Of course, it would happen that I was taking a bit of a breather when Hunt flew up onto the footplate with the new oil can in his hand. He'd been filling the pots underneath, but there wasn't a mark on him - which
was
the mark of a true engine man. Whether this man was a killer, or a friend of killers, he was always perfect about his business, so that I couldn't help but be keen to show him my paces. He wore his usual suit and a tie, and there was a rag folded as neatly as any silk handkerchief in his enormous hands.

I screwed up my courage to a 'Good morning, Mr Hunt
’
but of course I needn't have bothered.

The first thing he did was take my Brasso and stow it in the locker, cursing in an under-breath. Then without a word he flung my rag onto the fire, which ate it with a great whump. As he did this I noticed - and I saw to my horror that he had noticed too - that the firehole door ground against coal dust a little as it slid along its runners. Seeing that, while I'd got the handbrake looking like the crown jewels, I'd neglected one of the first footplate tasks, I tried to make amends by reaching once again into the locker for the wire brush, but in doing so I clashed arms with Hunt. I was trying to help, but it looked as though I was attempting to come to blows. He turned and gave me such a look that I shrank down onto the sandbox, where Clive Castle immediately told me I could not sit.

Hunt called over my head to Castle, 'We're ready for off, Clive.' He yanked the whistle, and as he did so a terrified blackbird crouched down in a black puddle next to one of the rails alongside us. Birds, as I supposed, could go anywhere they wanted, so why would they come to this hellish spot?