The Furys (28 page)

But what had his sudden return meant? This failure of her brother seemed to have opened a door, a sort of door in her mother's mind. And through it there now came in long processions the figures of the past, the deeds, the words, the hopes, the belief. One long panorama. Peter had opened this door. ‘Sometimes when I think of that action I could kill him,' she exclaimed aloud. Then she went downstairs. Mr Kilkey had fallen asleep in his chair. She saw how late it was. She decided to put the kettle on. She began to lay the table for supper. Suddenly she thought, ‘I wonder where he is now? I wonder what he's doing?'

3

Peter was standing in the open space. It had begun to rain. He turned up the collar of his coat, looking up and down the street. There was something about his demeanour that seemed charged with indecision. He kept looking from left to right. There seemed something fascinating about the patch of reddened sky, just above the loco sheds. He kept staring at this now. The dull glare appeared to throw sharply into focus the clouds of steam that hung like a sort of perpetual white pall over the sheds. Then he suddenly remembered hearing his father remark that they would be laying new lengths of rail that night. His brother Desmond might be there. He was a foreman ganger now. Why was his mother so afraid he would go to Vulcan Street? Why did his father always appear embarrassed when he mentioned his brother's name? These questions remained imprinted on Peter's mind. People kept hurrying past him, women with raised umbrellas, men grimed and talking loudly as they passed to and fro. These were men from the tramway sheds. Peter recognized them by their uniforms. A light flashed up as a train roared by. He hurried away, and did not stop until he had reached the bottom of the street. He stood again, still fascinated by that red glare in the sky. ‘I'm going to watch them working,' he said, and walked on in the direction of the sheds. Outside the tramway sheds he stopped again, watching cars being stabled, hearing the voice of the watchman shouting. He could see the man standing far up in the shed, on the edge of the pit, along which men were walking with hammers on their shoulders. Then he heard a tram just behind him. It was empty. The conductor was sitting gazing bewilderedly out of the window, the driver muffled up so that Peter could hardly see the man's face. When this car turned into the shed he continued on his way. He knew the road to the embankment. He had played there as a child. Where the sheds ended he crossed a road, now in black darkness, and walked along until he came to a long low railing. Between this line of railing and the boarded embankment there ran a narrow path which, he remembered, was used only by the loco men going to and from their work. He stood leaning against the railings, looking down towards the sheds. In the far distance he could hear hammering. At the bottom of this lane he saw the light over the little green door. He had often been through that door. He could even remember how many times he had been chased away from it by angry loco men. He began to walk in the direction of the light, but again he stopped. He would not be able to get through. There was always somebody standing about. No. Best try the other way. He had been that way too. He turned back.

He climbed the railings and ran across a piece of waste ground. He climbed a fencing. He was now standing in the same small houseless street as before. There was a leather warehouse at the bottom of this street. Almost opposite he saw a light at the bottom of the entry. He ran across and stood at the corner. What time was it now? he asked himself. On one side of this entry there ran for over a quarter of a mile a wall almost twenty feet high. Standing there in the deserted street, he could almost feel the immensity of this wall. At the other side of the entry stood a public convenience. Its slate walls were begrimed, snotted, and much scrawled with chalk. The rain running down these walls gave them a glistening surface as the yellowish light caught them. Inside the convenience he could hear the harsh guttural noise of a running tap. He wondered why this tap was allowed to run. The air was rank, a pungent odour came from the leather warehouses. The whole atmosphere harboured a foulness. In the entry itself decaying vegetables, old tins, newspaper, and rags lay about. Peter could feel the rain trickling down his neck. He stared into the entry. He knew that in the middle of it there was a gas-light affixed to the top of the wall. He had once tried to climb its piping and had fallen. He kept looking round, furtively, as though somebody were watching him. Then he ran into the entry, and did not stop running until he stood under the light. He looked up. The darkness, broken only by this splash of spluttering gas-light, appeared to give the wall additional height. He felt the piping with his hands. He could hear men's voices quite clearly now. ‘They must be working just behind here,' he was thinking. He put his foot in a niche in the wall and pulled himself up. Then he let go suddenly and dropped into the entry. The piping would not hold his weight. Ought he to go home? They would be waiting for him. No. He hadn't been out since he came home. He was going to climb that wall and watch the men working the rails. He tried again. This time he got a grip on an outjutting stone. He held on, his feet groping for a niche. Looking up again at the light, he noticed the slimy surface of the walls that, like the walls of the convenience, glistened under the rain. The wall itself seemed to ooze forth a peculiar rankness. Peter spat, the strange odours strong in his nostrils. There was something dead and beastly about the entry in which he stood. Now he could hear the noise of the oil-flares. A wagon shunted somewhere. Then a crashing sound as a load of rails were unshipped from the bogie. He raised his hands, catching hold of another stone, holding his breath, listening. He was certain somebody was climbing behind him. He looked down, but there was nothing, only the darkness. He had climbed nearly six feet now. The wall must be nearly twenty feet high, he was thinking as he pulled himself up higher. His right hand slipped, the wall appeared to be very greasy in parts, and Peter wondered where the grease could have come from. Would he ever get to the top? Somebody shouted, ‘Hey there, Wooden-face!' He heard the voice quite distinctly. He laughed. He climbed again, as though the man's voice had given him an additional impetus, he was only half-way up. He clung tenaciously to the wall. Conscious of the rain running down his neck, he redoubled his efforts. When he reached the top, he flung himself flat upon the wall and exclaimed, ‘Phew!' He shut his eyes, afraid to look down.

The depth to the permanent way was greater than that to the entry. He lay on his side. Then he opened his eyes and looked over, his two hands gripping tightly to the edge of the wall. He could now see the men right beneath him. There was something fantastic, almost grotesque, in their movements as they worked in the light of the oil-flares. To his left he could see an engine and tender, to his right a great mountain of sleepers. Further, another mound. A neat pile of new fish-plates. The ground about was littered with wedges. The men were engaged in fixing a new length of rail on one of the inner lines. Two lengths away the points gleamed white beneath the light. Peter began counting the men in the four-foot. Twelve, thirteen, twenty men. Peter supposed this was the main junction. The great network of lines gleamed like long silver ribbons. Straining his eyes and looking over the heads of the men he could discern another set of lines. He counted five sets. The plate-layers were relaying on the lines nearest to the wall on which he now lay. Beyond the black shape of the engine and tender, all was shrouded in a sort of black fog. Somebody shouted suddenly, ‘Easy and over,' and Peter held his breath. The new rails slipped from the bogie with a low thunderous sound. He could see men picking up the long hammers. The concourse of sound deafened him. He put his fingers to his ears. Beyond this section of men he could see another group, seated about a brazier. They were drinking tea from cans, eating food from unwrapped newspaper parcels and red handkerchiefs. He could hear them talking about engines. A light engine. He began to feel cold, but dare not move. He pushed his head out still further. The height made him dizzy. He spat, following the spittle with his eyes as it fell through the darkness. He thought he saw it hit the rubble. Then he drew his head back again. ‘What time is it now?' he was thinking. They would be waiting up for him at home. Supposing his brother Desmond was down there! Peter suddenly decided that it would be a rather good idea if he climbed over the wall and rolled slowly down to the embankment. Desmond might well be working with that gang. His brother worked on this very section. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard the steady rhythmical roar of a train. Somebody shouted, ‘Hey there, Wooden-face!' Again Peter laughed. Who was Wooden-face? Why did they call the man by that name? The men were now running another length of rail into position. As they bent down he could see the backs of their necks, their bared arms. The hammers flashed through the air. Again he put his fingers to his ears. Reaching over with his hand, he felt the other side of the wall. It was as smooth as glass. It ran sheer down to the high banking. Peter looked over and followed its line with his eyes. He would like to go down, to sit on the banking hidden in the darkness, and to watch them working.

Somewhere to the right a man began to sing, his deep baritone voice swelling into the night air with the clearness of a bell. Peter listened attentively. He was singing a popular song. Beyond where this man stood he could see the line of loco sheds, and thought, ‘That's where Dad works. Funny to think of Dad working on the railway after being on ships nearly his whole life through. Desmond works somewhere in that section too.' Across the metals the engine and tender suddenly moved with a low hissing sound. ‘You can dodge almost anything except a light engine,' his father had once remarked. That must be a light engine. It moved so silently along the metals, like a snake. Something came rumbling up the line. He saw the men from the brazier get up and move off in the direction of this rumbling sound. The darkness swallowed them up. Peter sat up now, clutching the wall. He felt a pain in his neck. If only he could get down that wall! He felt a sort of sliminess where he lay, the air itself seemed to secrete it, a dampness touched him, rottenness seemed to hang about. Then the clock at the tramway sheds struck the hour. But he did not hear it now. He looked up. The gas-light was directly above him. He peered into the entry. He could see nothing. A foul odour appeared to rise up from the depths. Tramps, rag-women, children used this entry. Peter remembered the many times his mother had warned him about going to it. People used it as a convenience. He heard the bogie coming up again, heard the men's voices biting on the night air. The bogie stopped. He heard the loud clanking of the coupling chain. Everybody appeared to be talking at once.

‘They are going to drop the rails there,' he thought, just as the side of the bogie appeared to take fire, as the rails crashed to the ground. He watched a man picking fish-plates from the pile. Others were now gathering up the scattered wedges. Peter studied the man gathering the fish-plates. He was talking to himself. Then he saw him fling these plates one after the other into the length. Again that dull roar came to Peter's ears. Hearing it, his whole body stiffened. He stretched out his arms again and lay close to the edge. The smoke from the flares belched up, thick and black, roaring viciously as the wind caught them. Peter could feel this smoke in his nostrils. Again that roar, a low shuddering sound that seemed to swell and swell. It must be a train, he thought. It drew nearer now. Looking to his right he saw a dim glare, the reflection from the engine-fire. He could hear the hissing of steam. The man flinging the plates into the length drew his attention once more. He had walked back to the brazier. He saw the man pick up a can and drink from it. The stout little ganger shouted, ‘Hurry up there, Wooden-face!' Why did they call him that? The man came back again. Right under Peter he stopped, looking about, as though he too were conscious of this approaching avalanche of sound. Peter shut his eyes again. The oncoming roar drowned the noise of the hammers. Peter shut his eyes tightly, opened them again. The steady rhythm of the train seemed almost upon him. The man was still standing in the four-foot. The little ganger was calling again. ‘Hurry up there, will you? Wooden-face, hurry up!' The man came on, stepping over the metals. Suddenly a voice screamed, ‘
STAND BACK THERE
!
EXPRESS GOODS
.' The voice was like bronze. It seemed to overwhelm all other sounds. ‘They are shouting at
him,'
thought Peter. ‘They are shouting at that man with the fish-plates. It must be him.' His whole body tensed itself, as though it had in that moment succumbed to the roar of the oncoming train. But he could not see it. He could see nothing beyond the flares, only the black shapes, the outlines of the loco sheds. Voices ceased, there was nothing save this low screeching sound. Then the long shape, like a monstrous snake, hissing steam and flame, seemed to spit itself into the light, as though the darkness itself had hurled it forth. ‘
STAND BACK THERE
,
WOODEN
-
FACE
!
EXPRESS GOODS
.
STAND BACK
!'

Ugh! Peter closed his eyes again, murmuring, ‘It's here! Now. It's on top of him! Ugh!' The tall man was still standing in the four-foot. His face was violent red under the flares. Peter thought he had red hair too, but the man's hair was as fair as flax. ‘He must be deaf. Why doesn't he get out of the way?' Peter yelled.

The stout ganger waved his arms frantically. The man came on, heedless of the shouting, the wild gesticulations on the part of his workmates. The very pulse of the train seemed to beat in his ears. When the man saw the train coming he knew it was too late. He could not move. The train swept on. He could feel an intense heat, as though a flying furnace were shooting towards him. As the shape grew bigger he threw up his hands and pitched forward flat upon his face. His two hands pawed the earth. He tore at the earth, crying, ‘
JESUS CHRIST
!' His body gripped the sleepers. A dull roar came to his ears, it seemed to swell. He tried to move his hand. He cried out, a terrific pain shooting through his head. The train roared on. He lay shivering in the four-foot. Men were shouting and running in his direction. But he could not move. His body seemed glued to the ground. Somebody shouted, ‘Dobson! Dobson!' Then he rolled over on his back. His face was black with sweat. With his fingers he had made two holes in the earth. He saw a huge light above his head. It was the sky. More voices, running feet. ‘My God!' he said. ‘My God!' He felt himself picked up. They were carrying him. They stopped again. They were near the brazier. Somebody was pouring hot tea down his throat. ‘All right, Dobson! Damn it, man! you must be deaf not to hear that. The whole of the north of England can hear that Goods!' They moved on again. He could hear the gentle hiss of the engine and tender. They were putting him on the tender now. ‘Mary,' he said. Somebody was stroking his head. ‘What a weight he is!' ‘Aye.' The driver standing on the footplate of the light engine said, ‘Hurt?'