The Somme Stations (26 page)

‘The Volunteer Training Corps,’ I said, taking a pull on the wine (which showed no advance on the earlier bottle). ‘I think I’ve vaguely heard of it.’

‘Aye,’ said the Chief, lighting his cigar, and pushing the box over to me. ‘Well don’t strain yourself trying to remember. We’re a sort of home defence militia,’ he continued, blowing smoke. ‘We stand about in the middle of York looking out for Zeppelins … Investigate reports of German spies.’

‘Why aren’t you an officer?’ I said.

‘
Officer
,’ he said, with contempt.

The Chief was working class by birth. That’s why he’d lit his own cigar before passing the box over to me. He was a fist fighter of old (hence the state of his nose), but not by Queens-berry Rules. He’d risen within the police but that didn’t signify socially. He could be a chief inspector whilst remaining true to himself, whereas he would have to have become a different man altogether if he’d been a commissioned army officer. Consequently, he’d stopped at sergeant major in the York and Lancaster regiment – out in the boiling desert with General Gordon and all those other red-coated lunatics. After his thirty years with the colours, he’d been in the Reserves for as long as possible, but now he was reduced to balloon-spotting in this funny rig-out.

At least he was still on the big cigars, though. Lighting up my own Marcella, I asked again, ‘What’s in the bag, Chief?’

‘Cigarettes,’ he growled, and I knew the explanation for this, and the whole question of what he was doing in Albert, would have to wait.

‘Look here,’ he said. ‘The Somme battle – your lot were in on the start. What sort of show is it?’

‘Well, I’ve seen some pretty warm times,’ I said, blowing smoke, and feeling like a fraud.

Whereas being in the war had killed many men, I could see that
not
being in it was killing the Chief. With him, everything was upside-down. Most patriotic men resented those of their fellows who didn’t fight. The Chief resented those that did. Accordingly I was torn as I spoke to him. I didn’t want to make myself out a hero. Then again, I could see him glazing over as I told him our mudlarking exploits – the trench digging and fixing. He was hungry for details of being under fire; he seemed fascinated by ordnance – all the gauges of shell I’d dodged. And then there was his obsession of old: machine guns.

‘You’ve felt the bullet go close?’ he said. ‘The little wind?’

I nodded and, seeing that the Chief looked quite defeated at missing out on this experience, I added, ‘Only once or twice, mind.’

I reserved the full story of William Harvey for our second bottle. In the meantime I gave the Chief tales of a fusiliersapper’s life. When I told him about Burton Dump and the lines going forward that would be brought into regular use from Monday onwards, he couldn’t help but grinning.

‘It was railways that started this show; looks like they’ll finish it as well.’

‘How did they start it?’

‘The Huns had to be sure they could defend to the east while attacking to the west. See – ’

I thought he was going to show me the disposition of the German armies using wine glasses and cigars, so I cut in:

‘But what are you up to, Chief? I mean, why are you out here?’

Since he couldn’t put me off any longer, he explained fast, as though the business was just too daft for words. The Chief, who had practically run the York railwaymen’s shooting leagues, had got up a ‘shooting party’ – him and some of his superannuated mates in the Volunteer Training Corps. They’d given demonstrations of marksmanship or failing that (since not all had retained A1 vision as the Chief had) general gun-craft. At first they’d toured the army camps in and around York. Now they were visiting some of the rest camps in France.

‘The troops hate to be out-shot by an old cunt like me,’ said the Chief. ‘It spurs them on. If they do beat us, we give ’em cigarettes by way of a prize. We have army fags gratis from one of the York quartermasters, but …’

He was holding up the empty bottle, frowning at it.

I called for another.

‘… But what we get from the quarter bloke’, he ran on, ‘is that powdery army stuff. Boy tobacco … So I lay out myself for decent fags from time to time …’

‘I’ve taken up regular smoking,’ I said.

‘Yeah?’ said the Chief. ‘Well, you need a hobby.’ He was reaching into the bag, saying, ‘I got this lot from a little market they have here – ’

I said, ‘Are they Woodbines, by any chance?’

‘What do you want?’ said the Chief, ‘Jam on it?’ He put a hundred fags on the table in front of me, the packets marked ‘Virginians Select’.

‘For me?’ I said.

The Chief nodded.

‘I’m obliged to you. Now what’s going on at York station?’

The Chief pulled a face: ‘Half the porters are bloody women.’

The wife had told me that in one of her letters – leaving out the ‘bloody’.

‘How do they get on?’

The Chief shrugged: ‘They’re not equal to the heavier luggage.’

‘What else? The government’s taken over the railways, hasn’t it?’

The Chief nodded.

‘We have a bloke from London in the Station Master’s office. All excursions suspended. All breakfast, lunch and dining cars suspended.’

‘I suppose the only blokes left are the real crocks.’

‘Apart from the express drivers,’ said the Chief.

I thought about asking whether he’d heard of Tinsley’s hero, Tom Shaw.

Instead, I started in on telling the Chief about the death of Scholes, but he’d heard the news already. I asked him about Scholes’s old pal, Flower, who’d gone off to the Military Mounted Police.

‘In hospital,’ said the Chief.

‘Shot?’ I said.

‘Not bloody likely,’ said the Chief.

‘Well then what?’ I said.

‘What do you think?’ said the Chief. ‘Kicked by a bloody horse.’

‘Serious?’

‘It is for him,’ he said, with some satisfaction.

I then asked what – or whether – he’d heard about the death of William Harvey, since he’d obviously not had my letter about it. He had done: read of it in the
North Eastern Railway Journal
. He knew the circumstances had been considered suspicious, although the magazine had left out that bit. I gave him the story of the investigation, and the hard time of it we’d all had from Sergeant Major Thackeray.

‘So you were all in the shit?’ he said.

‘Still are,’ I said. ‘Charges might be brought at any minute.’

‘Any theories, lad?’

Of the many things I could have said, I asked him about Oamer – the character of the man.

The Chief said, ‘He was a popular bloke in the booking office.’

‘But what do
you
make of him?’

‘Well, he’s queer of course.’

‘He’s a good soldier,’ I said.

‘General Gordon was queer,’ said the Chief. ‘It’s said Kitchener is.’

‘But would Oamer be the sort to go off, you know, adventuring with much younger blokes?’

The Chief drained his glass, poured himself another one, drank it, kept silence for a good half minute. (He’d regained some of his old style now that we were talking of an investigation.) At length, he said, ‘I know the bloke he lives with. He’s Deputy Manager of the Yorkshire General Bank in Parliament Street … Name’s Archibald … summat or other. They have a place on Scarcroft Road – big house. You’re meant to think it’s two flats, but that’s just a tale. This Archibald … He’s not a
young
bloke.’

‘But you’ve not answered my question,’ I said, and from the flashing glare he gave me, I thought the Chief was going to lay me out.
This
was the man I knew!

‘I’ve no bloody notion,’ he said.

The bar was filling up with soldiers. Once again, the Chief was looking a bit lost. He see could the other blokes eyeing his odd uniform and wondering about it. I watched him light up another of his Marcellas, and it looked a very lonely endeavour, as he puffed and blew to get it going. It was as though he was trying to make up for his age, his scrawniness and the funny uniform, by the lighting of a big cigar. When he’d got it
going, he stood up, showing no sign of unsteadiness from the wine.

‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘Lorry’s waiting in the Square. I’m putting up with some King’s Own Yorkshires a couple of miles west. Tomorrow it’s back to Blighty.’

‘How’s the police office going on?’ I asked, also standing.

‘Just me and Wright at present,’ said the Chief, as I set about stuffing the cigarettes into my pockets. ‘Any bad lad coming onto York station has a free hand just at present.’

‘Now that I don’t believe,’ I said.

Back in the street, under a lonely lamp, we heard a few distant crumps from the front.

‘I did get forward a couple of weeks ago,’ said the Chief, blowing smoke. ‘… But it was a quiet sector,’ he added glumly.

‘You look in fine fettle, Chief,’ I said.

Still in this gloomy phase, the Chief said, ‘Bloody shame about young Harvey. He was a good kid.’

‘Was he?’ I said, and I looked the question at the Chief.

‘He would aggravate some of the blokes in the shooting leagues,’ the Chief admitted. ‘He was from an army family. His old man had been in the colours … won a medal out in Africa. The lad thought nothing of railways, you see – looked down on the oily blokes.’

I nodded. My own impression was confirmed. There had without question been grounds for a fight between Tinsley and Harvey on Spurn. As a battalion we were meant to be the-railway-in-the-army, but here was a case of the railway
against
the army.

‘Did you hear about his mother?’

The Chief nodded.

‘She married twice didn’t she?’ I said. ‘And it was the first husband that was William’s father?’

‘That’s it,’ said the Chief.

‘And he was the one who won the medal?’

‘You wouldn’t catch the second one in the bloody colours. He’s spent his whole life behind – or in front of – the bar in the Station Hotel.’

I had the dawning sense of having been a fool about something.

‘I thought that bloke, the barman, was William’s father.’

The Chief was scowling at me.

‘Who was his real father? I asked. ‘What did he do when he left the army?’

‘John Read?’ said the Chief. ‘He went in the Reserves for a while. For a job, he did nothing … No, that’s wrong, he’d been a carriage cleaner for a while … But could never find his way … Went a bit loony. The kid carried the second husband’s name.’

John Read … I knew the name.

‘Whoever did it,’ said the Chief, ‘you’ll bring him in.’

It was about the first compliment I’d had from him, and it wasn’t right.

‘You might look a bit gormless at times,’ the Chief ran on, ‘but you keep your eyes skinned.’

… But I was still thinking of John Read.

On the half-illuminated street corner, the Chief and I nodded at each other, shook hands, clapped each other on the back. About the only thing we didn’t do, in the awkwardness of our parting, was salute. The Chief turned about and walked away. I remained standing, watching his retreating figure, breathing deeply the cordite air of Albert and trying to work out how drunk I was. I tilted my face up, and a thousand stars swung into view, like a packet of stars that had been spilt. That had happened a little too quickly. I was on the way all right. Three blokes were approaching along the street, but on the other side. Glancing down, I saw that I held two remaining packets of the Virginians Select. I made to stuff them into my top pockets when I discovered the letter I’d written to the wife. I called to the Chief, who turned slowly.

‘Will you take a letter back home for me?’ I said, going up to him with envelope held out.

He spat hard.

‘Might as well,’ he said. ‘I
look
like a bloody postman.’ He peered at the address. ‘Why didn’t you put it through the army post?’

I grinned. ‘The contents are confidential,’ I said.

‘You dirty bugger,’ said the Chief, and I looked over the road to see Oliver Butler and his brothers. Butler was eyeing me. He’d seen the Chief, and the handover of the letter. He turned and called to his brothers like a man calling to his dogs, and they moved rapidly away. The Chief did not seem to have clocked them. He was moving away more slowly in the opposite direction, and I watched him go, thinking: if you’re in a lull at pushing seventy, you stay in a lull. Would he ever be back to commanding me at York station? The police office would never be the same, nothing ever would be. It annoyed me to think that the men who’d drawn up the notice announcing the formation of the battalion had not let on about that.

I turned into the street that Dawson and Tinsley had gone down. It was full of buried jollity, light leaking up from the basements, and the muffled sound of dozens of Tommies enjoying themselves. I came to a sign propped against railings. The moment I saw it, I said out loud to myself: ‘Oh Christ.’

It read, ‘COME IN FOR JOHN SMITH’S YORKSHIRE BITTER’. I read it over again, looking for some fault in the wording, some indication it wasn’t true, but the buggers had even spelt ‘Yorkshire’ correctly. I descended the steps, and pushed open the door. That Dawson would be in there was a surety. No doubt this was the place he’d been looking for all along. Someone must have tipped him the wink.

I expected to find him roaring, but when I caught sight of him – which I did immediately on entering – he was sitting at a table talking in a normal fashion. Tinsley was beside
him, smiling, and looking very composed, all considered. But then Dawson had only a glass of
wine
in front of him. Perhaps he had missed seeing the sign. No … I couldn’t credit that.

Dawson was addressing a couple of RE blokes that I recognised from Burton Dump. Tinsley, seeing me come in, waved across the bar. This place was altogether more business-like than the other, and more fun too. The tablecloths were black and white squares, and the place was ram-packed with uniformed men. Was there a piano? I can’t now recall, but there was an undercurrent of musicality, a lot of shouting, a great heat rising from somewhere. Dotted about the bar were other examples of the owners’ good English: a sign reading ‘BOILED EGGS’, a second announcing ‘BREAKFAST AVAILABLE ALL DAY’, a third: ‘THE PROPRIETOR AND STAFF WELCOME OUR VALOROUS BRITISH ALLIES’. Well, the writer was just showing off with that last one.