Lost baggage porter

Chapter Twenty-nine

Rain blew softly at the windows as the train rocked on. The Cathedral of Peterborough came; the red brick of Retford, red brick of Doncaster; the normal world returning by degrees.

And York was still there. We passed under Holgate Bridge, where the mass of points made the train thunder until the right line was found, and then all was peacefulness, rain, the gliding of the train as steam was shut off… and Platform Fourteen. I was down long before the train had come to rest, and it was still moving as I pounded over the footbridge. I was the only man running in York station, and I felt foolish – heavy-booted and red-faced like some oaf of a boy, but still I kept on, past the ticket barrier, shouting something about a warrant card, in answer to which I fancied I heard from within the box a low muttering.

I thought: I ought to go back directly to the Police Office, and ask after the Chief. Instead, I ran through the ticket hall, and beyond where there were new posters on either side: 'Spring: Conducted Rambles in Yorkshire'. The Humber – that loyal article – remained at the bicycle stand hung with a thousand raindrops. I yanked it free, leapt on the saddle.

The last two miles of distance…

There had been no developments in the gardens of Thor- pe-on-Ouse Road. All those householders lived in happy ignorance of the low hotels surrounding the Gare du Nord, the underwater greenness of that Sunday's last bar, the fearful black canyon in which lay the Gare Saint-Lazare. I left the city lamps behind, and on the dark road that ran past the race course, my worst imaginings immediately doubled. The clean sweep was what I had to prevent; the killing of two for the price of one. It could not happen. By picturing the event in my mind's eye I was seeking to make sure of that, because it is known that we are not able to predict the future. What is predicted does not occur.

I stood on the pedals to increase speed, and towards Thor- pe-on-Ouse the darkness deepened. A man stood in shadow beneath the clock on the gatehouse of the Archbishop's Palace. He stood quite still as I rattled towards him on the Humber. He wore a bowler with a curled brim; did not look a religious type. I thought of the man I had seen outside the bootmakers, standing in between Scott and William Johnson. Had he been sent to keep a watch? I was now bringing all possibilities across the circle of my imagination. I turned into the main street, and there were two men in the road, standing as far apart in the darkness as if they were about to fight a duel. I rode between them knowing that something would happen, and it did: one of the two shouted something and began to give chase. I had gone from the beginnings of hope to desperation in a minute. The men were coming fast, I knew as I dropped the Humber at the gate of 16A. The door was ajar and the lights blazing. I stopped for a moment, and waited for the next thing. A scream. It was my worst imaginings and it was fact. Another scream. Bootsteps on the ground beyond the gate; another shout from that direction, another scream from inside the house. I burst through the door, and the question and answer came at once: the typewriter stood on the strong table, but the report copies were not by its side. The room was empty. One loud bang from upstairs, and the wife screaming again as I set foot on the stairs. There may have come a disturbance from the kitchen, but I ignored it, climbing the stairs towards the scream.

I opened the bedroom door and a woman was saying, 'Now I want his shoulder, love, so when I tell you, scream for your life.'

But the wife's scream had come long before the midwife had finished… and the room was full of candles. The wife, the midwife, Lillian Backhouse… all at their different positions (Lillian holding the wife's right hand), like participants in a religious ceremony as they brought a life into the world.

Hold on a minute: his shoulder!

The midwife moved aside, and I saw him come tumbling out of the wife, looking for revenge it seemed to me, as though somebody had played a low trick on him by keeping him cooped up for so long in those cramped quarters.

Lillian Backhouse, who had been holding the wife's hand, was staring at me, and Lydia was looking – not staring – across the top of the baby, which was being brought up towards her.

'Jim,' she said, and it was the shortest utterance I ever heard her make.

'The father's here,' said Lillian Backhouse to the midwife, who spun around, looked at me, and turned back towards the baby; she was wiping him down with white towelling. He had a lot of hair at the side, and it seemed to have been combed. I went to the wife, and Lillian Backhouse, indicating me to the midwife with a nod of the head, said, 'We've not seen this one since Sunday.'

As the baby was cleaned and turned, I saw him full-face for a moment, and I thought: good; I like him. 'I've been in France' I said. 'Jesus Christ,' said Lillian Backhouse. The baby was lying quiet on top of the wife now; they seemed to have been acquainted for years. 'The Chief Inspector came,' said the wife. 'He said not to worry – that you were haring about York after those burglars.' 'You can't hare about a little place like York' I said. 'Well,' said the wife, 'you can.' 'So you weren't too worried… Did he mention any shooting?' 'What shooting?' 'Just any.' 'I'm sure he didn't… How do things stand now? Are you clear of these men?' 'That's just it. I don't believe so. We must all remove, right this minute, to Lillian's house.' I looked at Lillian Backhouse. 'Fine' she said instantly, no doubt having quickly rejected a lot of other possible remarks. The midwife was staring at me, but the situation cracked when I clapped my hands. A relay was created on the staircase, with Peter Backhouse and Bill Dixon, keeper of the Fortune (they'd been the two blokes out in the road) at the end of the chain. They went off through the rain with the crib, layette, blankets, shawls and other baby goods; Lillian Backhouse went next carrying the baby in any number of shawls, and I walked the wife around to the Backhouses' place, which was next to the church. On the way, she said, 'I think we'll call him Harrison.' 'That's Dad's name,' I said. 'I'm quite well aware of that,' she replied. Half an hour later, with the wife settled at the Backhouse place, I was standing with Peter Backhouse before 16A, to which I had returned for no very good reason beyond feeling I ought not to abandon my house for anything. Over the road, the Fortune of War glowed softly, and Peter Backhouse was anxious to be in there. He said: 'You ought to fetch Turnbull; he has a gun, you know.' But I didn't want the complication of a toff about the place, and having to speak mannerly when I didn't much feel like doing so. 'Are you coming in for one?' he said, nodding towards the pub. 'You ought to by rights, today of all days.' 'Don't know' I said. 'Reckon I ought to guard the house.' 'But you're running away from it, en't you?' 'It's all a bit of a tangle,' I said. 'I don't know what's for best.' Silence for a space. 'Bonny kid, any road,' said Backhouse. 'Bit of all right, he is.' 'Did you see him coming out?' said Backhouse. I nodded, and Backhouse pulled a face. I looked along the length of the dark garden. The door of the house had been left ajar, I noticed. 'I think I'll go in for a tick,' I said. 'I might take a pint later on.' 'Just as you like,' said Backhouse, but he was delaying crossing the road. 'I saw a bloke earlier on' he said,'… hanging about near the gateway to the Archbishop's house.' 'OK,' I said, presently. 'Lot of workmen come and go from there' said Backhouse, '… dozens of the buggers, some days.' I gave him 'Good evening', and he walked over the road.