Ten Tales Tall and True (14 page)

“You're wrong and I can prove it,” says the stranger. They stare at him.

At first sight there is nothing unusual in this man whose modest smile seems to apologize for his slightly taller than average height. The large pockets, the discreet epaulets of his well-cut, dove-grey jacket would look equally inconspicuous in a cinema queue or an officers' mess, yet he faces the six pairs of enquiring eyes with a relaxed and flawless confidence which so acts upon two of the women that they sigh with relief.

“Who the hell are you?” asks the old man, and the teacher says, “The driver – I recognize his voice.” “Correct! So you see, I'm not lying back in a London club, I'm here beside you. I really am one of you. May I join you for a moment?”

Taking a small metal frame from a pocket the driver opens it into a stool with a canvas seat, places that in the aisle and sits down facing them. Although his chin now rests on his steeply angled knees he does not look at all ridiculous. Most of the company are impressed.

“I feel so safe,” murmurs Mrs Dear, and “Stop scowling Dad, it isn't polite,” says the mother, and Mr Dear says, “Excuse me sir, I have said harsh things about British Rail in my time …” (“Of
course you have” says the driver genially) “… but I have never doubted that our trains are the safest in the world and our drivers second to none – if only the trade unions would stop confusing them with promises of Utopian conditions.”

“Thank you,” says the driver.

“Train driving seems to have changed in recent years,” says the teacher in a high clear voice.

“Excuse me madam,” says the driver, “I'll gladly explain anything you do not understand after I've had time to … to …” (and suddenly he looks confused, embarrassed, almost boyish) “… you see it isn't every day I have a chance to speak to John Halifax!”

“Eh!” says the old man staring at him.

“You
are
John Halifax, the last of the steam men? Who took three whole minutes off the Bundlon to Glaik run in the great railway race between LMS and the LNER in nineteen thirty-four?”

“You know about that?” whispers the old man with a wondering stare.

“You are a legend in railway circles, Mr Halifax.”

“But how did you know I was on the train?”

“Aha!” says the driver waggishly, “I'm not supposed to tell passengers certain things, but to hell with security. The ticket office clerks are not the ignorant gits the public assume. They keep me informed. I used your grandchild's escapade as an excuse to seek you out, and here I am!”

“I see!” whispers the old man, smiling and nodding to himself.

“Please don't get cross, but I need to ask you a terribly personal question,” says the driver, “It's about the last great railway race. Do you remember stoking the Spitfire Thunderbolt up the Devil's Kidney gradient with only three minutes to reach Beattock Summit or the race would be lost?”

“Oh I remember!”

“Were you, on that heroic drive, exhausting yourself, torturing yourself, pressing out every ounce of your energy and intelligence merely to advertise the old LMS?”

“No, I was not.”

“Then why did you do it? I know it wasn't for money.”

“I did it for steam,” says the old man after a pause, “I did it for British steam.”

“I
knew
you would give me that answer!” cries the delighted driver, and Mr Dear says, “Excuse me, may I butt in? You see Mr Halifax and I kick, you might say, with opposite feet. He's left and I'm right. I didn't realize before now that we are essential parts of the same body. Captain Rogers has made me see that for the first time. Mr Halifax, I am no toady. When I offer you my hand I am merely demonstrating my respect for you as a man. I am apologizing for nothing. But here … is … my hand. Will you …?”

Leaning sideways he stretches out his arm across the aisle.

“Put it there!” says the old steam man and they
shake heartily. Suddenly all three men are chuckling and the mother and Mrs Dear smiling happily and Patsy bumping boisterously up and down. But in a voice used to calling unruly classes to order the teacher says, “Perhaps Captain Rogers will now tell us why he isn't with his engine!”

The passengers stare at the driver who shrugs, spreads his hands and says, “I'm afraid, madam, the heroic age of engine driving went out with steam. The modern engine (we call them traction units nowadays) only requires my attention from time to time. Our speed and position are being monitored, at the present moment, from headquarters in Stoke-on-Trent. It's a perfectly safe system. All Europe uses it. And America.”

“But in America last week there was a terrible accident…”

“Yes, madam, through a fault in their central data bank at Detroit. These big continental systems are all far too centralized. The British branch of the system has enough autonomy to prevent such accidents here. So you see, although I am not drinking brandy in a London club (I never touch alcohol – doctor's orders!) I look more like a Piccadilly lounge-lizard than like the legendary John Halifax here. My main task is to keep down the buffet prices and stop passengers bickering with one another. And I'm not always successful.”

“I think you succeed splendidly!” says Mrs Dear enthusiastically.

“Hear hear!” says her husband.

“You're certainly good with passengers –” says the teacher, and, “You aren't the fool I took you for, I'll give you that,” says the old man.

“Thank you John,” says the driver gratefully, “With all due respect to the other passengers here, it is your opinion which counts with me.”

The chiming is heard then the firm friendly voice says, “Good day good people, there is no cause for alarm. This is your driver Captain Rogers speaking. Here is a special message for Captain Rogers. Will he please proceed to the traction unit? Proceed to the traction unit. Thank you.”

“Pre-recorded, of course?” says the old steam man knowingly.

“Quite right,” says the driver, who has risen and pocketed his stool, “If the traction unit is empty when a message comes from HQ, the graphic print-out activates that announcement and – duty calls! I'm sorry I have to return to my cabin. I'll probably find a rotten stock-market report that forces me to raise the price of tea again. I hope not. Goodbye John.”

“Goodbye, er…?”

“Felix. Goodbye good people.”

He departs leaving nearly everyone in a relaxed and social mood.

“What a nice man!” says Mrs Dear, and the mother agrees. Mr Dear announces, “He was informed – and informative.”

The teacher says, “But the situation he laid bare for us was not reassuring. Nobody is driving this train.

“Utter rubbish!” cries Mr Dear, “There's a … there are all kinds of things driving this train, data-banks and computers and silicon chips all ticking and whirring in the headquarters at Stockton- on-Tees.”

“Stoke-on-Trent,” murmurs his wife.

“Shut up dear, the town doesn't matter.”

“Well,” says the teacher, “I find it disturbing to be driven by machines which aren't on board with us. Don't you, Mr Halifax?”

The old steam man ponders a while then says hesitantly, “I might have done if I hadn't met the driver. But he's an educated chap. He wouldn't take things so casually if there was any danger, now would he?”

“Madam,” says Mr Dear, “We are actually far far safer being driven by a machine in Stoke-Newington. No thug with a gun can force it to stop the train, or divert us into a siding where terrorists threaten our lives in order to blackmail the government.”

They sit in silence for a while then the teacher says firmly, “You are both perfectly right. I have been very, very foolish.”

And then the chiming sounds and they hear that soothing voice again.

“This is your driver, Captain Rogers. We are
cruising above the Wash at a speed of two hundred and sixty-one kilometres per hour, and the Quantum-Cortexin ventilation system is keeping the air at the exact temperature of the human skin. So far our run has gone very smoothly, and I deeply regret that I must now apologize for a delay in the anticipated time of arrival. An error in our central data-bank has resulted in the 1999 Aquarian from Bundlon to Shaglow running on the same line as the 1999 Aquarian from Shaglow to Bundlon. The collision is scheduled to occur in exactly eight minutes thirteen seconds …” (there is a brief outcry which nobody notices they contribute to) “… at a point eight and a half kilometres south of Bagchester. But there is absolutely no need for alarm. Our technicians in Stoke-Poges are working overtime to reprogramme the master computer and may actually prevent the collision. Meanwhile we have ample time to put into effect the following safety precautions so please listen carefully. Under the arms of your seats you will find slight metal projections. These are the ends of your safety-belt. Pull them out and lock them round you. That is all you need to do. The fire-prevention system is working perfectly and shortly before impact steel shutters will close off the windows to prevent injury from splintered glass. At the present moment television crews and ambulances are whizzing toward the point of collision from all over England, and in cases of real poverty British Rail have undertaken to pay
the ambulance fees. I need not say how much I personally regret the inconvenience, but we're in this together, and I appeal to the spirit of Dunkirk…” (the old steam man snarls) “…that capacity for calmness under stress which has made us famous throughout the globe. Passengers near the traction unit should not attempt to move to the rear of the train. This sound …” (there is a sudden swish and thud) “… is the noise of the doors between the carriages sealing themselves to prevent a stampede. But there is no need for alarm. The collision is not scheduled for another, er… seven minutes three seconds exactly, and I will have time to visit your compartments with my personal key and ensure that safety precautions are being observed. This is not goodbye, but
au revoir
. And fasten those belts!”

With a click his voice falls silent and is followed by bracing music of a bright and military sort, but not played loud enough to drown normal conversation.

“Oh what can we do, Dad?” asks the mother, but the old steam man says gruffly, “Attend to the child Miriam.”

The metal projections under the arm-rests pull out into elasticated metal bands with locking buckles at the ends.

“I don't want to be tied up!” says Patsy sulkily.

“Just pretend we're in an aeroplane, dear,” says the mother, locking the belt, “Look Grampa's
doing it! We're all doing it! And now…” says the mother in the faint voice of one who fights against hysteria “…we're all safe as houses!”

“Dear, I…I'm terrified,” says Mrs Dear.

Her husband says tenderly, “It's a bad business, dear, but I'm sure we'll pull through somehow.” Then he looks to the teacher and says quietly, “Madam, I owe you an apology. This rail system is more inept, more inane, more… altogether bad than I thought possible in a country like ours.”

“You can say that again!” groans the old steam man.

“I want to get off this train,” says the child sulkily and for while they listen to the quiet rushing of the wheels.

Suddenly the teacher cries, “The child is correct! We should slow the train down and jump off it!”

She fumbles with the lock of her belt saying, “I know our speed is controlled by wireless waves or something but the motor – the thing which makes the wheels turn – is quite near us, in the traction unit, could we not…”

“By heck it's worth a try!” shouts the fireman, fumbling at his belt, “Just let me get at that engine! Just let me get out of this … This bloody belt won't unlock!”

“Neither will mine,” says Mr Dear in a peculiar voice. None of the seat belts unlock. The teacher says forlornly, “I suppose they call this security.”
But the old steam man refuses to sit still. Pressing his elbows against the chair-back he hurls his massive bulk forward again and again, muttering through gritted teeth, “I won't – let – the bastards – do it!”

Though the belt does not break it suddenly gives an inch then another inch as a rending sound is heard inside the upholstery.

Then somewhere a door swishes open and the driver is beside them asking smoothly, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Quick Felix!” says the old steam man, relaxing for a moment, “Get me out of this seat and into your cabin. I want a crack at the motor. I'm sure I can damage it with something heavy. I'll shove my body into it if that will let some of us off!”

“Too late for heroics John!” declares the driver, “I cannot possibly allow you to damage company property in that wanton fashion.”

His voice is clear and cold. He wears a belt with a gun holster, and has his hand on it. He stands at ease but every line of his body indicates martial discipline. All stare aghast at him. The old man says, “You … are … insane!” and flings himself forward against the belt again but the driver says, “No, John Halifax! You are insane and I have this to prove it.”

He draws his gun and fires. It explodes with a thud, not a bang. The fireman slumps forward though his belt holds him in the chair. Mrs Dear starts
screaming for help so he shoots her too. There is now a dim, sharp-smelling smoke in the air but the survivors are too stunned to cough. They stare at the driver in a way which clearly upsets him, for he waves the gun about saying testily, “I have NOT killed them! This is an anaesthetic gas pistol developed for use against civilians in Ulster, does anyone else want a whiff? Saves emotional stress. A spell of oblivion and with luck you wake up in the ward of a comfortable, crowded hospital.”

“Thank you, no!” says the teacher icily, “We prefer to face death with open eyes, however futile and unnecessary it is.”