Kathmandu.’
Felix
flipped back a couple of pages. ‘I think this story is set in the late
nineteen—forties,’ he said. ‘Hippies don’t come along until the Sixties.’
‘I
wouldn’t know about that,’ said the ticket office clerk. ‘You see I was just
lying again.’
‘Oh,’
said Felix. ‘Well, can I have a ticket to Mornington Crescent, please?’
‘No you
can’t. Sorry.’
‘Why
can’t I?’
‘Because
there’s no such station.’
‘Of
course there is.’
‘There
isn’t.’
‘Is.’
‘Is
not.’ The ticket office clerk pointed a long slim finger, the shape of an
asparagus tip, towards the Underground map on the wall. ‘See for yourself.’
Felix
saw for himself ‘It’s been crossed out,’ he said.
‘It’s
always been crossed out. No-one has ever been to Mornington Crescent. [12]
‘But I have to get there. I’ve got an appointment at the Ministry of Serendipity.’
‘Ooh!’
said the ticket office clerk. ‘Well, that’s another matter entirely.’ He dug about
in some cubby hole beneath his little window and drew out a strip of aluminium
foil embossed with runic symbols, odd ciphers and the like. ‘Here you go then,
there’s no charge.’
‘No
charge?’
‘Well,
call it five pounds.’
‘Fair
enough.’ And Felix paid up.
He
wandered down to the platform to await the train. Normally on a Saturday
morning such as this, the platform would be a carnival of colour, Exotic Ealingites,
togged up in their finery, setting off ‘up West’. But today, not a soul. The
platform was deserted but for Felix, which meant it wasn’t really deserted
at all, but it almost was. As near as makes no odds.
‘I
wonder where everyone is,’ Felix wondered. And then the train came in.
It was
a very odd train, of a design quite new to Felix, although one he had considered
drawing up and sending off to London Transport. It was sleek and black and
there didn’t seem to be any windows. A door hissed open and Felix peered in.
The carriage was empty.
Felix
sighed. ‘This might appear strange to someone who wasn’t in the know,’ he told
himself.
‘Please
enter the carriage, Mr Lemon,’ came a mechanized
voice. Mr Lemon entered the carriage, with some degree of uncertainty. The door
hissed shut and the train sped off.
Felix
sat down on the only seat. It was spot-lit. It was very comfortable, but there
was nothing much to look at. There not being any windows, or anything.
Presently
the train drew to a halt and the door hissed open. ‘Kindly disembark, Mr
Lemon,’ said the voice. So Felix did so.
He now
stood upon the platform of Mornington Crescent. And a very smart platform it
was too, all litter free and no graffiti. There were posters advertising
seaside resorts such as Skegness and Scarborough. These were printed in those
soft pastel colours, that say 1930s to anyone who cares to listen.
‘Up
the stairs please, Mr Lemon.’
Felix
found the stairs and trudged up them. At the top a door blocked further
progress, so Felix knocked upon it with his knuckle. The door went hiss and
slid back. Felix poked his head through the opening and then followed it with
his body. The door hissed shut again.
Felix
now stood in one of those rooms. You know the ones. The ones with the
leather Chesterfields and the Victorian busts and the picture of Her Majesty on
the wall and the tall window that looks out onto Big Ben and the great big desk
with the leather desk set and brass trough lamp and the man from the ministry
who sits behind it with his back to the window. We’ve been here before, we know
this room.
‘Glad
you could make it, Mr Lemon,’ said the man behind the desk. It was the ticket
office clerk from South Ealing Station.
‘How
did you do that?’ asked Felix.
‘I just
opened my mouth,’ said the man, ‘and the words came out.
‘No,’
said Felix. ‘I mean how did you get here before me?’
‘I was
driving the train.’
‘Oh I
see.’ Felix didn’t.
‘Well,
come and
Felix
flipped back a couple of pages. ‘I think this story is set in the late
nineteen—forties,’ he said. ‘Hippies don’t come along until the Sixties.’
‘I
wouldn’t know about that,’ said the ticket office clerk. ‘You see I was just
lying again.’
‘Oh,’
said Felix. ‘Well, can I have a ticket to Mornington Crescent, please?’
‘No you
can’t. Sorry.’
‘Why
can’t I?’
‘Because
there’s no such station.’
‘Of
course there is.’
‘There
isn’t.’
‘Is.’
‘Is
not.’ The ticket office clerk pointed a long slim finger, the shape of an
asparagus tip, towards the Underground map on the wall. ‘See for yourself.’
Felix
saw for himself ‘It’s been crossed out,’ he said.
‘It’s
always been crossed out. No-one has ever been to Mornington Crescent. [12]
‘But I have to get there. I’ve got an appointment at the Ministry of Serendipity.’
‘Ooh!’
said the ticket office clerk. ‘Well, that’s another matter entirely.’ He dug about
in some cubby hole beneath his little window and drew out a strip of aluminium
foil embossed with runic symbols, odd ciphers and the like. ‘Here you go then,
there’s no charge.’
‘No
charge?’
‘Well,
call it five pounds.’
‘Fair
enough.’ And Felix paid up.
He
wandered down to the platform to await the train. Normally on a Saturday
morning such as this, the platform would be a carnival of colour, Exotic Ealingites,
togged up in their finery, setting off ‘up West’. But today, not a soul. The
platform was deserted but for Felix, which meant it wasn’t really deserted
at all, but it almost was. As near as makes no odds.
‘I
wonder where everyone is,’ Felix wondered. And then the train came in.
It was
a very odd train, of a design quite new to Felix, although one he had considered
drawing up and sending off to London Transport. It was sleek and black and
there didn’t seem to be any windows. A door hissed open and Felix peered in.
The carriage was empty.
Felix
sighed. ‘This might appear strange to someone who wasn’t in the know,’ he told
himself.
‘Please
enter the carriage, Mr Lemon,’ came a mechanized
voice. Mr Lemon entered the carriage, with some degree of uncertainty. The door
hissed shut and the train sped off.
Felix
sat down on the only seat. It was spot-lit. It was very comfortable, but there
was nothing much to look at. There not being any windows, or anything.
Presently
the train drew to a halt and the door hissed open. ‘Kindly disembark, Mr
Lemon,’ said the voice. So Felix did so.
He now
stood upon the platform of Mornington Crescent. And a very smart platform it
was too, all litter free and no graffiti. There were posters advertising
seaside resorts such as Skegness and Scarborough. These were printed in those
soft pastel colours, that say 1930s to anyone who cares to listen.
‘Up
the stairs please, Mr Lemon.’
Felix
found the stairs and trudged up them. At the top a door blocked further
progress, so Felix knocked upon it with his knuckle. The door went hiss and
slid back. Felix poked his head through the opening and then followed it with
his body. The door hissed shut again.
Felix
now stood in one of those rooms. You know the ones. The ones with the
leather Chesterfields and the Victorian busts and the picture of Her Majesty on
the wall and the tall window that looks out onto Big Ben and the great big desk
with the leather desk set and brass trough lamp and the man from the ministry
who sits behind it with his back to the window. We’ve been here before, we know
this room.
‘Glad
you could make it, Mr Lemon,’ said the man behind the desk. It was the ticket
office clerk from South Ealing Station.
‘How
did you do that?’ asked Felix.
‘I just
opened my mouth,’ said the man, ‘and the words came out.
‘No,’
said Felix. ‘I mean how did you get here before me?’
‘I was
driving the train.’
‘Oh I
see.’ Felix didn’t.
‘Well,
come and
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