‘I would,’ said Annie. ‘If I had a daughter.’ And she took Little Orville out of her father’s hands.
‘You don’t understand about business,’ mumbled Orville Barton. ‘Just like your mother.’
Annie was now standing in front of the fireplace with her back to her father. Orville Barton realized she was trembling.
‘I think you’d better go, Dad,’ she said.
‘But . . .’
‘You’re too busy. You’ve always been too busy. I’m sorry I’ve taken up your valuable time.’
‘Now don’t be like that, Annie . . .’ said Orville Barton.
‘I don’t know why you came here, but it certainly wasn’t to see me or your grandson! You couldn’t care less about us!’ she said. ‘You didn’t even remember that I’m a songwriter; and that a few years ago I even wrote quite a successful song
which was the only way Tom and I were able to buy this place . . .’
‘I could have bought it for you!’ exclaimed Mr Orville Barton, looking round.
‘We didn’t want your charity, Dad,’ said his daughter. ‘We don’t mean anything to you!’
‘Of course you do!’ said Orville Barton, and as he looked across at his daughter, he realized she was in tears. Normally, if he had someone in tears in front of him, he could just say, ‘You’re fired!’ And they’d go away and leave him in peace. But he couldn’t say that to his daughter.
‘Look!’ he said, and he sat down at the table, and – then and there – he wrote out a cheque for a lot of money. ‘There!’ he said holding it out to her. ‘That should pay for a few cleaners!’
‘I don’t want your money, Dad!’ cried Annie. ‘I want you to read my letters!’ and she turned away from him.
‘Here!’ said Orville Barton, proffering the cheque again.
‘And I want you to find the time to get to know your grandson,’ said his daughter.
Orville Barton didn’t say anything. He was experiencing yet another feeling that he hadn’t felt for many, many years. He wasn’t quite certain what it was, and he certainly didn’t want to know. But, between you and me, I think it was probably a little tiny touch of humility.
Orville Barton placed the cheque silently on the table. It suddenly looked meaningless and unnecessary, despite the large number of zeroes. Annie, however, left it where it was. She now had Little Orville in one arm and a sandwich box in the other hand.
‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I have to take Tom his lunch. He’s working at the hospital while he’s looking for another job in engineering. Can you give me a lift?’
‘Um . . .’ said Orville Barton. ‘I came by train.’
‘I thought there was a train strike on,’ said his daughter.
‘Well, I caught one,’ said Orville Barton, nodding through the window and the abating storm towards the Euston to Manchester Express.
‘What’s it doing here? There’s no railway station!’ exclaimed Annie.
‘I think it’s waiting for me,’ replied her father.
‘You mean . . . it’s your own
personal
train? Like the Queen has?’ gasped Annie. She knew her father was rich, but she had no idea he was that rich.
‘Erm . . . sort of . . .’ said Orville Barton, uncertainly.
‘Then it can drop me off at the hospital,’ said Annie.
Orville Barton wasn’t sure he could get the Euston to Manchester Express to do anything at all that he wanted, but he kept his mouth shut as Annie climbed onto the train with Little Orville and the sandwich box.
Orville Barton made sure they sat in the First Class compartment, in the least farmyardy bit, and then made his way to the driver’s cab.
‘Now look here!’ he hissed at the train. ‘I don’t want any more nonsense, you wretched machine! I want you to drop my daughter off at the hospital and then I want to go to Manchester.’
‘Phooey!’ cried the train. ‘I hate hospitals, and Manchester’s no fun!’ And before Orville Barton could say another word, the train was speeding over a very high
bridge. In fact it was so high it seemed as if they were flying.
Orville tried to remonstrate with the train, but it was no good. It simply said ‘Phooey! Phooey! Phooey! Phooey! Phooey! Phooey! And Phooey!’ and so he returned to his seat.
‘Are we
flying
?’ asked Annie, as he sat down. Orville Barton looked out of the window.
‘Er . . . yes,’ he said, for there was now no sign of a bridge beneath them, and the earth was a very long way below.
‘What sort of a train
is
this?’ asked Annie.
‘Oh! It’s an experimental model, my dear,’ replied her father. ‘I’m only just finding out what it can do myself!’ As much as he hated not being in control, he hated even more the thought that someone else might realize that he wasn’t . . . especially his daughter.
‘Well, just so long as it drops me off at the hospital,’ said Annie. ‘Tom only has half an hour for his lunch.’
At that moment the train started to plunge back towards the earth. As it plummeted, Annie held Little Orville tight, while her father closed his eyes and pretended that he was an RAF pilot performing an aerobatic stunt at an air show. The pretence helped him to feel in control again.
When he opened his eyes, however, the train was skimming over an ocean of tree-tops that stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see.
‘Dad! I asked you to drop me off at the hospital!’ exclaimed his daughter. ‘This looks more like the Amazon jungle!’
And it did indeed. It looked so like the Amazon jungle that they could plainly see the wide loops of the great river
itself, coiling through the jungle below.
‘I’ll go and have a word with the driver,’ said Orville Barton, and stamped his way towards the front of the train.
‘What are you playing at?’ he shouted at the train. ‘Where are you taking us?’
‘Whooo! Whooo!’ hooted the train. ‘Relax! Have fun! Watch this!’
The train banked sharply and dipped down below the tree-tops so that they were now skimming along the river Amazon, with the wheels of the train just cutting the surface of the water, as it swung at a tremendous speed round the curves and twists and turns of that vast waterway.
‘Whooo! Whooo!’ hooted the train again, and flocks of parrots flew up from the trees, squawking with indignation.
‘Where’s the driver?’ cried a voice, and Orville Barton turned to see his daughter standing in the doorway of the driver’s cabin with a face like a thunderstorm. ‘Er . . .’ said Orville Barton. The truth was he didn’t know quite what to say, so he said, ‘What have you done with Little Orville?’
‘He’s asleep,’ said Annie. ‘Are you driving this train yourself?’
‘No, of course he isn’t,’ said the train.
‘Who’s that?’ exclaimed Annie, jumping and looking all around her.
‘It’s the train,’ said Orville Barton, miserably.
‘I go where I like!’ hooted the train. ‘Whoo! Whoo!’
‘It’s got a mind of its own. It simply won’t do what it’s told. I mean take this morning: I was supposed to be going to Manchester for an important business meeting, but it took me to your place instead! It just . . .’
Orville Barton stopped himself . . . But it was too late.
‘I knew you hadn’t really wanted to see me and Little Orville,’ said his daughter. ‘You never have before, why should you start now?’
‘But I’m glad I did . . .’ began her father.
‘All you care about is money and work!’ cried his daughter. ‘
Your
money!
Your
work! And now you’ve let me get on this ridiculous train, when I should be at the hospital with Tom’s sandwiches! Can’t you see how selfish you are? Mum was right! You never think of anyone else!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Orville Barton. It was the first time for many, many years that the word had passed his lips, and he noticed how unfamiliar it felt as he said it.
‘I’m not ridiculous!’ interjected the train.
‘Yes, you are!’ said Annie severely. ‘Trains are meant to get people to where they want to get to, not whizz off just anywhere!’
‘I’m a Class 4MT BR Standard No. 75027!’ hooted the train. ‘Nobody can call me ridiculous!’
‘Then take me to Ryefield Hospital this instant!’ shouted Annie. Orville Barton had never heard his daughter speak in that way before, and he was glad she was speaking to the train and not to him.
‘Phooey!’ cried the train. ‘You can’t tell me what to do!’
‘Huh!’ said Annie. ‘We’ll see about that!’ And she grabbed one of the levers on the control panel.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Orville Barton.
‘The regulator,’ said his daughter, who had once written a musical about railways for her school, and had therefore learnt a thing or two about trains.
‘No!’ exclaimed the train.
‘I’ll soon slow you down!’ shouted Annie, turning the lever anticlockwise.
‘No! No! No! No! No! No! And No!’ exclaimed the train, and it abruptly lurched to the left, despite the fact that the river at this point turned to the right. Orville and Annie were both thrown on to the floor.
‘Hang on to your gobstoppers!’ cried the train, and it plunged straight into the thickest part of the jungle.
‘Argh!’ screamed Orville.
‘Argh!’ cried Annie.
‘Whooo! Whooo! Whooo! Whooo! Whooo! Whooo! And Whooo!’ hooted the train.
‘Stop it!’ cried Orville, but the train didn’t take the blindest bit of notice.
The jungle canopy was so thick, it was as if they were travelling along the bottom of the sea, where the only rays of sun that ever reach are green and pallid. Leaves and branches slashed and scraped against the windows, as the train swerved round tree-trunks and skidded under lianas and through trailing creepers.
‘We’ll hit something!’ yelled Annie. But they didn’t. They were speeding through a tunnel of vegetation in the heart of the Amazonian rainforest . . .
‘Whooo! Whooo!’ hooted the train again. ‘Whooo! Whooo!’
‘Orville!’ cried Annie, racing back to the First Class carriage, where Little Orville had now woken up and was screaming at the top of his lungs.
‘Slow down! You wicked train!’ she shouted, but the
train just went on faster than ever.
Then, quite suddenly, the train burst into a clearing and screeched to a halt a few inches behind a man who was crouching beside a campfire, cooking. The man span round, and his mouth fell open, giving an unappetizing preview of the meal he was consuming. He screamed, leapt clean over the campfire and the stew, and disappeared into the rainforest on the far side of the clearing. At the same time a dozen or so other rough-looking characters, who had been lounging around in camouflage fatigues, also disappeared into the undergrowth.
‘Listen up, train!’ shouted Orville Barton. ‘If you’re not going to take us where we’re supposed to be going, I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Is that understood? We’ll take a cab.’
‘You’ll be lucky round here!’ observed the train.
‘I said I didn’t want to discuss it!’ said Orville Barton.
‘No you didn’t,’ retorted the train.
At this point the cook peered out from the undergrowth. A bearded face appeared next to his, and pushed the cook towards the intruding train.
One by one the others began to emerge from the bushes. Each was carrying a rifle, and each had a finger on the trigger. They did not look particularly friendly, and in a few moments they had the train surrounded.
Orville ran back to his daughter in the First Class compartment.
Annie was pulling up the seats and cushions to form a barricade.
‘How could you let me get onto this infernal train with
Little Orville here!’ she yelled at her father.
‘I didn’t know it would bring us here!’ pleaded Orville.
‘You knew it was a diabolical machine!’ yelled his daughter. ‘You shouldn’t have let us get on!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Orville for only the second time in recent memory.
‘Da! Da!’ shouted Little Orville, who had now stopped screaming and seemed to be enjoying himself among the mound of cushions.
‘Come out with your hands up!’ shouted one of the armed men outside. Only he shouted it in Spanish.
‘I’ll take care of this, my dear,’ said Orville, though he had no idea what the man had said or what he, himself, was going to do. Nevertheless, he grabbed his briefcase and went to the door of the carriage.
‘Step down from the train!’ shouted the leader of the armed men, only once again he said it in Spanish, so Orville Barton had no idea what he meant, until the man fired a shot into the air, and then Orville hurriedly climbed down from the train.
Annie watched from behind her barricade of seats, as the armed men gathered around her father. All through her childhood she had hoped her father would come and see her in the school play, or watch while she showed him her first ballet steps or listen to her count up to a million, but he never had time. He did come to the school musical she wrote about railways, but that had been exceptional, and, since he and her mother had separated, contact between them had dwindled to almost nothing. She, herself, had always found excuses for him: he was too busy, there was a
crisis on the stock market that day, oil prices had suddenly gone through the roof and so on and so on. And gradually she didn’t need to make excuses for him any more, she just stopped expecting him to pay her any attention whatsoever – even when he failed to come to Little Orville’s christening.
And yet now – seeing her father surrounded by these men with rifles and machine guns – she felt an unaccountable desire to take care of him. More than that: she wanted to do something heroic for him. She wanted to leap from the roof of the train on to the leading gunman, snatch the man’s weapon from him and shoot the rest of them dead in their tracks. She would then throw her father across her shoulder and heave him back on to the train so they could make their escape, and all to an exciting musical soundtrack!
At this moment Little Orville started crying again. Perhaps he understood the stress in his mother’s face. Perhaps he was hungry. Perhaps he needed a nappy change. But whatever the reason, it reminded Annie that she couldn’t leave her little son alone in the train while she became a heroine in a movie that wasn’t even being made. So she held Little Orville in her arms and shushed him, as she watched the drama unfold outside the carriage window.