Lost baggage porter

Chapter Twenty-four

The boat made some of its biggest bounces as it moved up towards the dock at Calais. Here was the Gare Maritime: I could picture those words in my head, having read them in the Railway Magazine. It was not quite a mirror of Dover but a simpler place: customs house and station on the dock like a stage, large hotel behind; the town low, wide and dark in the background with one spire like the hub of a cartwheel. The French shouts came towards us as we moved across the illuminated water.

Sampson, with his kitbag, his gun, and his pockets full of money, was foremost in the queue as the gangplank was dropped. I was behind him; Hopkins was behind me. At a nod from a rough customer in a black guernsey (I could tell he was French, but I couldn't tell how I knew), Sampson started walking forwards, and I followed.

I did not trust the steadiness of the ground as I gazed around the customs house. This time there was no pulpit, and the man waiting to look at the tickets sported a uniform, as did half a dozen others sitting about. Two of these were drinking coffee from metal cups, and these two also wore rifles over their shoulders. I looked at these strange, disconnected fellows, who spent their lives killing time half in one country, half in another, and wondered which of them would cop it if Valentine Sampson were to be stopped and asked to turn out his pockets. Sampson would certainly shoot, because he had nowhere to flee to.

He handed his ticket to the French official, who looked it over slowly. Slowly, too, he handed it back, and once again Sampson asked a question or made some remark. It was in French but evidently not carried off quite right, for the official had to lean over and ask for it to be repeated. The official's answer was quite loud, and a lot of pointing went along with it. With Sampson looking back towards me from just before the 'Sortie', Hopkins nudged me forwards, and I thought: I could crown Hopkins, then double back on to the boat and what would Sampson do? Fire across the customs hall and risk all to stop me fleeing? But the thought came once more: if I got away from them, they got away from me. They were nearer to making their escape now, and I was the only one with power to stop them. I was the sleuth hound; the tables were turned somehow. Or was that the confusion of an exhausted mind?

Very likely; I could not keep my thoughts in a straight line; and the strangeness of France added to the strangeness of all.

We crossed the rails by a walkway, then stepped under the cover of the platform for Paris. Except that there wasn't a platform, so the train, which was in but not ready, stood very high. It was a towering engine; brown inasmuch as it had any colour. Compound cylinders, and a mix-up of gadgets sprouted all over it – it was an engine built inside out. That was for ease of maintenance; it didn't look beautiful… but handsome is as handsome does. The tender was massive, overflowing with queer-looking French coal, and I wondered whether it was meant to run to Paris without stop. Hopkins was by my side; Sampson was ten yards off, buying wine and hunches of bread at a stall; beyond him was a promising sign: 'Bureau des Postes et Telegraphes'. Any attempt to telegraph was likely to be a palaver though, with me not knowing the language or the telegraphic address of the Chief, not to mention the likelihood of the Chief being dead. Sampson came up to us, carrying three bottles of wine. They were everyday articles – clear bottles without stoppers, and the loaves which were split with some sort of paste on the top. I bit into the bread, and it was soft and strange and more-ish; I then lifted the wine bottle, and put a load of that in, and when I looked towards Sampson again he was grinning at me.

'They do themselves pretty well this side of the water,' he said.

A thin man was close by, viewing the papers on a circular cabinet outside the book stall. I took this to be Hopkins, but looking again, it was not. A porter was moving towards me with a trolley, setting down little wooden steps at the doors of the train. Imagine doing that every time one came and went. These Frenchers were barmy

Still no sight of Hopkins… Sampson still drinking before me. Dead chuffed, he was. He'd made his breakaway, and he had his ready money. Well, half of it… a certain quantity, at any rate, the balance being at the left-luggage place in Charing Cross.

He passed his bottle to me, even though my own was in my hand. I put my own down, and took a drink from his. It was the same but different; and that went for the whole of France. Harbour, sea, night sky… the very rain that fell. There was a softness to the place… more of a womanly touch to it all.

Things really were more free and easy on this side of the water. As Sampson put away the last of his wine I had the freedom to move a little way from him towards the sign, and the door marked 'Bureau des Postes et Telegraphes'. I could see through the window. Electric light. Bank-like inside, with men in starched collars behind polished brass grills… All this going off at midnight, or near enough.

There were half a dozen windows: 'Postes', 'Telegraphes' and 'Bureau de Change'. I had about me the twenty quid that Sampson had paid me. I could change it, and use some of it to telegraph the Police Office at York station, or, failing that, the Stationmaster. 'Tell wife all well'. That would be my opener. I set down the wine bottle I was holding… and one of the telegraph clerks was eyeing me through the window. The thing about the bloody French… all the buggers were hoity-toity, not just the toffs. Just then, Miles Hopkins walked out through the door, and I saw an extra word amid all the signs inside: 'Telephones'.

Seeing me at large, unguarded on the platform, he immediately said: 'Where's Sam?'

And at that very moment, I could not have said.

But a second later Valentine Sampson came into view with more supplies of wine, saying, casual as you like:

'Train's due off in five minutes.'

The three of us walked towards a book stall, where Hopkins picked up an English paper. The crowd was thickening about us now as train time drew near – all French voices.

'Are we in it, mate?' asked Sampson, putting wine bottles into his pockets.

'It's today's paper' said Miles, 'which means it carries news of what happened yesterday.'

He was looking at Sampson in a strange way. Nothing would get Hopkins out of his groove. He was scheming at all times.

Alongside the cabinet from which Hopkins had plucked the paper was a bookshelf – a little library in the rain. I picked up a small red volume called Paris and its Environs, with Thirteen Maps and Thirty-Eight Plans. A proper language! And I straightaway saw instructions for telegraphing and telephoning from France. Hopkins was watching me as I said: 'Reckon this might come in useful. It's only marked down as a bob 'n' all… Oh no, bugger that. It must be one franc.'

Another shout came from the platform guard, and Sampson just lifted the book and put it into my hand, saying, 'For Christ's sake, little Allan, get a shift on.'

The carriage had open seating, no compartments. After a great amount of shouting, the train left the platform at walking pace. To avoid the gaze of Hopkins, I looked down at the first page of my book: 'For those who wish to derive instruction as well as pleasure from a visit to Paris, the most attractive treasury of art and industry in the world, some acquaintance with French is indispensable.'

Hopkins and Sampson were speaking in low voices over the mighty sounds of the engine pulling away. Hopkins had been speaking over the telephone – he made no bones about that. Had he telephoned York? It must have been a pretty fast connection, if so.

I turned to the pages for Paris, and 'Post, Telegraph and Telephone Offices'. The chief telephone offices, I read, were in the Rue du Louvre and at the Bourse. There was a late telegraph office at the Gare du Nord. But telephone was the quickest.

On a later page, I discovered that it was the same time in France as in Britain; Germany and Switzerland had different times. In the section at the back marked 'Language', selected words and phrases were given in English and French, and these were boiled down to the closest necessities such as 'How fond some people are of taking an immense lot of luggage'. Sampson was at his racing paper again. 'Of course, most multiple bets are just guesses' he was saying to Hopkins, who wasn't listening, but continuing to eyeball me.

Some French words, I saw from the book, were the same as English. 'Omnibus' was 'omnibus'. 'Police' was 'police'. I then looked at some railway speaks: 'Nous allons bien vite.' We are going very fast. 'A quelle heure part le premier train?' At what time does the first train leave?

Having set down his paper, Sampson was saying, in connection with something or other: 'It's always supposed that the big ones are put up.'

Beyond the window, things were floating back fast in the darkness. 'What did your old man do for a living, Allan?' he asked me.

'Butcher,' I said, instantly. 'Yours?'

'Time' he answered.

'He was a felon?' I asked, and Sampson's eyes went steely again.

I looked through the windows. The French houses were wrong, with the wrong roofs – like a man with a bad hat. We went at a lick through a station: its name began with 'B', and there was sea here too, or a lighthouse at any rate. We were next hurled over a great junction, and Sampson was looking at the other passengers in the carriage.

'Wouldn't mind giving her a shot,' he was saying.

Silence for a space, then Sampson said:

'That French cunt's staring at me.'

I looked up. He might have meant one of twenty. Not that they were all cunts, but they were all French. A woman sitting behind Hopkins was holding a baby, and the sight knocked me. I thought: one of those will be in my way before long, and the second thought came: will I ever see it? The baby was pounding as hard as it could on the shoulder of the woman but that wasn't at all hard. I looked out of the window: nothing; blackness. I was in the same position as that kid.

By now, I could only tell by my ears when we were in a tunnel. I looked to my left, and Sampson was asleep, an empty wine bottle rolling between his boots. Well, he'd had a long day of it. In slumber, his face lost none of its shape.

'How is it you're so well up on railways?' said Hopkins.

'I did some turns in the goods yard over at Leeds, as I told you.'

Was it Leeds that I'd said? I couldn't recall. Come to that… Had I spoken of being employed in the goods yards at all?

'In addition, I used to take the Railway Magazine,' I added.

'Take it from others at railway stations, you mean?'

I'd made another bloomer. Hopkins was playing one of his finger games, smiling at me over his hands. I finished off what was left of my own wine, saying, 'I had a hobby in that direction, you know.'

Hopkins leant forwards, and settled himself with his elbows on his knees, giving up his finger exercises. It was a wild night outside, but the carriage was too close and dusty. I wanted to open the window but did not know how, or how to ask one of the Frenchers. I looked down at the book in my hands. The answer lay in there somewhere.

Hopkins raised one of his hands, and pointed at me. I thought this would be the start of a speech, but instead the long pointing finger moved towards me, towards my face, towards my spectacles, and through my spectacles to my eyelash, which he touched, causing me to do the most ridiculous thing. I coloured up; I then tried to laugh.

Hopkins was sitting back, smiling.

'How much did they set you back then, mate?' he asked. 'I would hope they come cheaper than the sort with lenses. See… I watched the fellow on the boat with glasses just like yours, and what with the rain and the flying spray they were all misted up.' 'It's a disguise, if you take my meaning,' I said. 'I didn't want to look like I did before because of… something… something that occurred.' Hopkins, still smiling, said: 'Who are you, mate?' And that was the nerve-cracking moment, for I had no answer.