The Necropolis Railway (26 page)

'It is written in the minutes of the Necropolis that you sent requests to the directors at their meetings of August, November and December.'

He was looking down at the jug again; he was very intent on the place where the handle joined the body. Then he looked up to me and his eyes were full of orange flame.

'What was your request?' I asked, letting the brake handle slide a little way into my palm.

'I asked for an increase in pay.'

As he swung the water jug, I said, 'You're off your onion,' and the water and the glass exploded against my head as he said in his fast voice: 'I did not receive it on the first occasion, and nor did I receive it on the second or the third, by which time the company's indebtedness to myself for services provided had . . . oh, it had not decreased, oh, it had most certainly not
decreased,
and yet I was to be content merely with the restoration of the Tuesday Address as a weekly -'

I had sunk to the ground as Stanley raved, and that wasn't the end of the matter. I was sinking through the floor as my murderer spoke, and the blood in my eyes turned into the red flowers among those that the board of the North Eastern gave
‘I
.
‘I
. Crystal for his shows. No, the
certificates.
They gave him certificates for the flowers that were everywhere. You couldn't see out of the waiting room for them, and you couldn't properly see out of the signal box either - they were dangerous, those gardenias.

On
the
platform
you
can
see
very
well,
though
-
the
hills
of
Eskdale rising
and
rising,
and
here
is
the
bird
train
coming
down
from Whitby
at
half-past
eleven
on
a
summer
Saturday
morning:
137, that
silly
little
dock
shunter
that
would
have
been
better
off
banging cod
waggons
about
at
West
Cliff,
two
waggons
full
of
pigeons,
and my
old
favourite,
Mr
Saul
Whittaker,
the
pigeon
conveyer,
who
tells no
end
of
yarns,
and
is
semi-drunk
at
all
times.

Number
137
stops,
and
this
time
there
is
a
flat-bed
truck
tagging along
behind,
with
something
under
a
tarp.
In
the
first
pigeon
waggon,
Mr
Saul
Whittaker
rolls
open
the
door
and
slides
down
onto the
platform
like
a
heap
of
brown
sand.
'Bugger
me!'
he
says
-
I don't
know
why,
maybe
it's
the
smell
of
Crystal's
blooms
hitting him
-
and
then,
squatting
down
against
the
truck,
sweating
Old
Six and
breathing
hard,
he
says,
'Sporting
challenge,
lad?'

'I'm
on
for
any
mortal
thing,'
I
say,
while
pulling
the
baskets
for Grosmont
out
of
the
vans.
I
set
them
up
in
a
dead
straight
line
along the
platform,
having
a
look
onto
the
footplate
as
I
move
towards
the

'up'
end.
All
is
too
dark
inside,
the
firehole
door
being
closed:
just two
pairs
of
boots,
maybe,
one
fellow
singing
a
Moody
and
Sankey hymn
in
a
little
voice.

'Ow
do,'
I
say,
but
nothing
comes
back,
and
the
singing
doesn't even
stop.

Behind
me
the
station
clock
goes
clunk,
which
is
twenty-seven past
eleven,
which
is
no
good
because
it
is
Whittaker's
watch
that counts,
and
this
he
is
holding
high
in
the
air
while
tipping
his
head backwards,
looking
about
ready
to
sneeze.
The
silence
carries
on
as
I watch
old
Father
Whittaker,
whose
thin
red
head
is
tipping
ever backwards
...

'Go!'
he
shouts.

'Hold
on,
you
rotter!'
I
shout
back,
but
I'm
pelting
along
that platform
in
any
case,
lifting
the
lids,
with
the
birds
flapping
and crashing
straight
up
into
the
air
like
bombs
going
off
behind
me.
At the
end
of
the
line
I
stop,
gasping
in
front
of
Whittaker
and
his watch,
with
the
birds
in
a
cloud
above
us.
He's
nodding,
grinning all
around
his
head,
and
I
am
blowing
my
nose
on
my
sleeve,
even though
it
is
a
North
Eastern
Railway
coat
and
I'm
proud
to
wear
it. I've
let
the
birds
go
within
one
minute.
The
two
of
us
look
up
and
see
them,
still
hanging
over
the
platform
like
a
Piccadilly
Circus
in
the
sky.
As
we
watch
they
make
a
bigger
circle,
turning
fast
before beginning
to
go
off
in
all
directions
like
sparks
from
a
Catherine
wheel
at
a
bonfire
carnival.

I
start
to
load
the
boxes,
and
when
I've
finished
Whittaker
seems to
be
sucked
rapidly
backwards
into
his
van;
he
doesn't
exactly stand
up.
I
move
along
to
the
back
waggon,
where
I
see,
underneath the
tarpaulin,
the
shafts
of
a
yellow
gig
rocking
on
its
blocks
in
the sunlight.
As
137 starts
barking
and
pulling
away
from
Grosmont,
I say
goodbye
to
that
old
gig,
because
very
soon
there
will
be
no
more
of
its
kind.
I
am
seventeen
years
old,
and
it
is
a
very
special
time.

High-speed
is
coming.

But then I somehow moved my head again. There was a shortage of secondary air; people were appearing and disappearing at a great rate all around Nine Elms, and I was dragging my

feet, which sounded like rain. But then I had to go on a railway journey in Portugal to meet a man who wrote an article in
The Railway
Magazine,
and if only the wind had died down I might have been in with a chance. I was staring into the firebox on Thirty-One, closing my eyes but it was still light. Every time I closed my eyes the music hall began, for I had that damn firebox leaping in my head.

I wanted three more on the right side, three more on the night side. 'It's Welsh coal,' said a voice in my head: 'damned slow to ignite.' The voice went and I found that half of my face was my face and the other half was joined on to something else. When I tried to move, my mouth was dragged into a kind of smile. All was darkness and there was again a shortage of secondary air. I moved my hand up and something at the same time hard and soft came quickly down upon it. I lifted my hand again but not so high, then higher again and the thing came down swiftly once more. So I slid one of my hands up towards the half of my face that was still there, moving my fingers until they touched a rock, which was what joined me to the hard and soft. The voice came back again and this time gave me three words in the softness and the darkness: dart, pricker, paddle. Well, they were the fire irons to be found on any engine. I was grateful for the words because I liked them, but did not know why they had been given to me.