Scarborough.'
'Your
engine'll break down there, lad,' said another voice, and it was the Chief, who
had now entered the booth, and was lighting his own cigar from the Shed
Super's. 'That way you'll have a good excuse for staying.'
'What's
going to be up with the engine?' I said.
'Injector
steam valve's shot,' said the Chief.
'Leaking
pretty badly,' said another voice, and there was a fourth man in the tiny
booking-on place. 'Just come and have a look!' he said.
In
the confusion of us all getting out of there, and walking into the shed proper,
the new man was introduced to me by the Chief, and he was Tom, or Tommy,
Nugent. He didn't look like an engine man - too small and curly-haired, and too
talkative by half - but he would drive the locomotive to Scarborough. He'd
then come on with me to the boarding house called Paradise and obligingly make
himself available as a second mark for any murderers that might be living
there. He would also be a kind of guard for me, and it did bother me that the
Chief thought this should be necessary, especially since he hadn't seemed
over-protective of me in the past.
We
entered the great shed, and the galvanising coal smell hit me. I thought: How
can blokes keep away from a place like this? But there were not many in there
and not many engines. Half of the berths, which were arranged like the spokes
of a wheel, stood empty. Tommy Nugent led the way, talking thirteen to the
dozen. I couldn't quite catch his words, which were directed to the Shed Super
and the Chief, but I saw that he walked lame, and I liked the combination of
his excited patter and his crocked right leg. He was half crippled but didn't
appear to gloom over it.
The
air in the shed was grey, and every noise echoed. A shunting engine was being
cleaned by a lad I'd often seen about the station, and as he went at the boiler
with Brasso, an older bloke, who sat on the boiler top near the chimney, was
saying, 'It's a half day and double time, so what are you moaning about?'
They
both nodded at Nugent, who seemed a general favourite in the shed. We then
passed one of the Class Zs; a bloke lounging by the boiler frame nodded as we
went by.
'Aye
aye,' he said, and gave a grin, as if to say, 'Look what I've got to lean on.'
('An engine of exceptional grace and power', the Railway
Magazine had called the Z Class.)
But
now our party had come to a stop before a little tuppenny ha'penny J Class. It
was in steam, and too much of the stuff was trailing away from the injector
overflow pipe beneath the footplate on the right hand side.
'And the fire door's jiggered into
the bargain,' Nugent was saying. 'It jams on the runners and it's a right
bugger to shift it.'
'Seems
a bit hard on the passengers,' I said. 'I mean, we are going to take passengers, aren't we?'
'You're
the 5.52 express,' said the Chief. 'I'll say you're taking bloody passengers!'
'She's
been in this state for ages,' said Tommy Nugent. 'She'd get us back home
tonight with no bother, but we don't want to come back,
do we?'
'We
want to come back eventually,' I said.
'Paradise,'
he said, climbing onto the footplate with some difficulty. 'They've got a nerve
calling it that, when they're killing off the fucking guests. Here, what shall
I call you when we get there? Not Detective Sergeant Stringer, I suppose?'
The
Chief looked at me, and gave a grin. He seemed more easy-going today, perhaps
pleased that his plans on my behalf were running smoothly.
'No
flies on Tommy,' he said.
'Just
call me Jim,' I called up to Tommy.
'But
that's your real name.'
'I
don't see any harm in using it,' I said.
I
didn't see the need of all this palaver either. The aim was to kid any spies
the Paradise guest house might have in Scarborough station or engine shed, but
it seemed highly unlikely there'd be any.
'Either
there's something going on in that house,' I said, 'in which case the offenders
will be brought to book, or there isn't, in which case we have a pleasant
Sunday night in
'Your
engine'll break down there, lad,' said another voice, and it was the Chief, who
had now entered the booth, and was lighting his own cigar from the Shed
Super's. 'That way you'll have a good excuse for staying.'
'What's
going to be up with the engine?' I said.
'Injector
steam valve's shot,' said the Chief.
'Leaking
pretty badly,' said another voice, and there was a fourth man in the tiny
booking-on place. 'Just come and have a look!' he said.
In
the confusion of us all getting out of there, and walking into the shed proper,
the new man was introduced to me by the Chief, and he was Tom, or Tommy,
Nugent. He didn't look like an engine man - too small and curly-haired, and too
talkative by half - but he would drive the locomotive to Scarborough. He'd
then come on with me to the boarding house called Paradise and obligingly make
himself available as a second mark for any murderers that might be living
there. He would also be a kind of guard for me, and it did bother me that the
Chief thought this should be necessary, especially since he hadn't seemed
over-protective of me in the past.
We
entered the great shed, and the galvanising coal smell hit me. I thought: How
can blokes keep away from a place like this? But there were not many in there
and not many engines. Half of the berths, which were arranged like the spokes
of a wheel, stood empty. Tommy Nugent led the way, talking thirteen to the
dozen. I couldn't quite catch his words, which were directed to the Shed Super
and the Chief, but I saw that he walked lame, and I liked the combination of
his excited patter and his crocked right leg. He was half crippled but didn't
appear to gloom over it.
The
air in the shed was grey, and every noise echoed. A shunting engine was being
cleaned by a lad I'd often seen about the station, and as he went at the boiler
with Brasso, an older bloke, who sat on the boiler top near the chimney, was
saying, 'It's a half day and double time, so what are you moaning about?'
They
both nodded at Nugent, who seemed a general favourite in the shed. We then
passed one of the Class Zs; a bloke lounging by the boiler frame nodded as we
went by.
'Aye
aye,' he said, and gave a grin, as if to say, 'Look what I've got to lean on.'
('An engine of exceptional grace and power', the Railway
Magazine had called the Z Class.)
But
now our party had come to a stop before a little tuppenny ha'penny J Class. It
was in steam, and too much of the stuff was trailing away from the injector
overflow pipe beneath the footplate on the right hand side.
'And the fire door's jiggered into
the bargain,' Nugent was saying. 'It jams on the runners and it's a right
bugger to shift it.'
'Seems
a bit hard on the passengers,' I said. 'I mean, we are going to take passengers, aren't we?'
'You're
the 5.52 express,' said the Chief. 'I'll say you're taking bloody passengers!'
'She's
been in this state for ages,' said Tommy Nugent. 'She'd get us back home
tonight with no bother, but we don't want to come back,
do we?'
'We
want to come back eventually,' I said.
'Paradise,'
he said, climbing onto the footplate with some difficulty. 'They've got a nerve
calling it that, when they're killing off the fucking guests. Here, what shall
I call you when we get there? Not Detective Sergeant Stringer, I suppose?'
The
Chief looked at me, and gave a grin. He seemed more easy-going today, perhaps
pleased that his plans on my behalf were running smoothly.
'No
flies on Tommy,' he said.
'Just
call me Jim,' I called up to Tommy.
'But
that's your real name.'
'I
don't see any harm in using it,' I said.
I
didn't see the need of all this palaver either. The aim was to kid any spies
the Paradise guest house might have in Scarborough station or engine shed, but
it seemed highly unlikely there'd be any.
'Either
there's something going on in that house,' I said, 'in which case the offenders
will be brought to book, or there isn't, in which case we have a pleasant
Sunday night in
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