The Blackpool Highflyer

Chapter Fifteen

In the Gentlemen's at Central, Clive was stooping over a sink. His shirtsleeves were taken up to the very tops of his arms, with perfect folds all the way. He'd lathered his face, ears, back of neck, and was looking in the glass at the results. My own wash and brush-up had been finished minutes since.

'There was no soap at Scarborough,' I said, just to see how he'd answer. But the words were lost under the great belch of water going down the plug in Clive's sink.

'What's that?' he said, but he was refilling the sink with rinsing water.

I now stepped outside, just in case he wanted to apply a touch of the Bancroft's.

When he'd done, we walked through the horse smell, cigar smoke and the greenish light of the station, and came out onto Central Drive, where the gulls were screaming. There were the morning gulls and the evening gulls, and the second sort made a sadder sound. It was an in-between time at Blackpool: cocktail time for the toffy sorts, as I supposed; some men and ladies far out in the sea, the more serious sorts of swimmers – swimming and thinking, working things out as they went along.

'I wonder why folk go bathing?' I said, thinking again of Clive in Scarborough.

'Well,' he replied, looking straight ahead. 'Why are some others continually fishing?'

We continued to look out to sea: all the little waves trooping off together in the same direction, which was sideways, not towards the shore but heading up the coast towards Fleetwood.

I thought of Margaret Dyson. This was what she'd never seen. If you saw the sea once and it was a certain way, you'd probably think it was always like that.

The bathing machines had been put in a straight line, sideways to the sea as if to say: that's your lot for today, fun's over. Clive was lighting a little cigar, and a sandwich man was walking towards us – seemed doolally, like most in that line, traipsing along, clearing his throat over and again. You wanted to box his ears and shout: 'Frame yourself, man!'

His board was advertising a music hall: 'monsieur Maurice,' I read, 'see the ventriloquial paragon'. It was the fellow I'd seen, and then stood beside, at the Palace Theatre in Halifax. According to the board, he was now giving his turn at a spot called the Seashell; topping the bill too, for underneath his name were the words 'also the following artistes…' I remembered about the Seashell. It was that weird little humpbacked music hall I'd seen on my first trip to Blackpool. Monsieur Maurice had been topping the bill then as well.

As the fellow shuffled up towards us, I pointed to his board and said, 'This place anything like?'

'It's the only thing,' he said, without stopping.

'Let's go there,' I said to Clive.

Clive turned around so that his back was to the sea. He looked at the sandwich man, who was walking away towards the North Pier.

'There's a ventriloquist on who's quite good… Well, he's not good,' I went on, 'he's shocking bad, in fact.'

'Righto,' said Clive, and put his cigar under his boot.

We went first over the road to an oyster room with a model ship in the window, where we put down a dozen oysters and a couple of bottles of Bass apiece. Then we pushed along the Prom to the Seashell.

It really was a rum show, built of bricks covered over with plaster and looking like something between a brick kiln and a funny kind of hat. Inside, it was like a sea cave: no sharp edges, with all the roofs low and sloping. The floor rolled up towards the box office, where we queued for our tickets, marvelling at the place, which was all painted browny red with pictures of the Prom and the Tower jutting out from the walls because of the way the walls curved.

When we'd bought our tickets we saw the word 'bar' written in yellow on a green wooden board clipped to red curtains. We walked through, but all the spots were taken by a lot of red-faced old brandy shunters who were stretched out with their drinks on red couches, looking like they were lying in a Turkish bath. But they did have such an everyday article as a barrel of Plain on the go, and it was only a penny a glass.

When the bell rang, we took our seats under a low, wavy roof, painted green, pink and gold. As soon as I sat down I felt sucked down almost into sleep, what with all the beer and the work and having been awake most of the night before.

The number '1' was carried across the stage by a boy, and there followed a cross-eyed banjo player, who you kept expecting to make jokes. But he somehow never did. Next were two women, 'Grace amp; Marie', dressed up as pixies and singing. They started in straight away with a song, but a good bit of it was lost in the cheers from the audience. This was on account of their dresses, which were tiny and made from leaves, or so you were meant to think. Afterwards they played a tune with hand bells, and the drums coming in towards the end, which made their bosoms shake in a way that had me feeling rather hot.

I looked across at Clive, and he was just nodding to himself.

There was some wrestling next, with no music but just the growling of the two big fellows. It was brought to an end by a voice saying out of nowhere a name, and then 'Mr Jefferson Byrne… Just him… and his shadow.' All went extra-dark at this. After what seemed a precious long time, one light came up, then another, and there was a man in white dancing with his shadow. After a while everybody started booing.

'I've never seen anything like this before,' I said sleepily to Clive.

'No,' he said, 'and never will again probably.'

As Jefferson Byrne was leaving the stage, Clive said, 'Now if he did one thing and the shadow did something else, he'd have something.'

In the quiet times between the turns, when the number was being walked across the stage, I would hear a noise, and I couldn't tell whether it was the sea just outside, or the breathing of everybody in the theatre. Then I started to think of the band as being the noise of the sea. Every time they struck up, it was waves coming in with a great rusty crashing, and then the waves ran back and a new person was left on the stage.

After the shadow dancer came an immobile comedian with a turkey head. Next was a ventriloquist – not Monsieur Maurice but one of the new kinds with a small doll placed on the knee. The turn announced itself. The man was Henry Clarke, the doll was called Young Leonard. Leonard had a boy's head, but wore a man's suit – and could move his eyes or smile.

The ventriloquist asked the boy: 'How old are you?'

'That depends.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I'm thirteen at home…'

The doll's eyes moved slowly away from the ventriloquist, and that was the thing that set you laughing – the eyes.

'… but under twelve when travelling on the railway.'

I liked that, and I wondered how it might go down with Martin Lowther, the narky ticket inspector.

'And speaking of figures,' said Henry Clarke to the doll, 'I believe you are a great hand at mathematics.'

'That is correct,' said the doll, who nodded away for a while, looking very pleased about it.

'Well, can you multiply?' asked Henry Clarke.

'I can multiply very rapidly,' said Leonard.

'Yes, they say that fools are multiplying very rapidly these days,' said Henry Clarke, and it wasn't the line that brought the house down, but the looks that went between the two afterwards: Clarke seeming to be rather embarrassed at his own crack, and the doll quite mortified.

Some clever stuff with numbers came next, then Leonard broke off, saying, 'I'm sweating badly.'

'That's rather vulgar,' said Henry Clarke; 'why don't you say "perspiring"?'

At this Leonard rolled his eyes and looked about the theatre with his amazement growing by the second. It was all pretty good, and the best thing of all was the end, when the doll smiled and moved its eyes at the same time.

Next was a man doing a boot dance, like Little Titch's, but not really up to snuff; then came a ballerina.

'They ought not to have dancers on one after the other,' I whispered to Clive.

'Yes,' he said, 'but get those legs.'

The whole audience felt the same; you could tell because it went quiet.

The Elasticated Man was next, followed by the star of the evening, Monsieur Maurice. As before at Halifax, the lights went up to show him standing at the side of the stage gasping for breath with the moon-headed Johnny hanging on his arm. When the two started the walk, the applause began, but there was not so much of it as there had been in Halifax. A Blackpool crowd had more than likely seen walking figures before, or Monsieur Maurice himself come to that, for, as I had noticed myself, he had been in Blackpool at the start of the season. The two staggered up and down a fair bit this time, with Monsieur Maurice calling out that they were 'taking a stroll' and 'promenading', and the figure was made to wave at the audience from time to time. The only good part came when Monsieur Maurice said, 'I believe we are being hailed from the pier', at which the two looked out at a far corner of the audience and a voice really did seem to be coming from there, so that a fellow sitting in that particular spot in the audience began shaking his head and grinning, as if to say: Look, it's not me that's calling out, you know.

The lights went down, and when they went up again the two of them were on a bench, supposedly looking out to sea.

I looked at Clive. He was asleep.

After some seagull noises (worked up in the orchestra), the ventriloquist said, 'Blackpool, famous for cold sea, warm beer, hot pies and scorching sun…'

As we all waited – those of us that were awake – the dummy turned its head to the ventriloquist; a crater on the moon opened, and the word 'Sometimes' came out in a deep croak. I knew it was being worked from behind, and thought it a swizz for a ventriloquist to have battalions of fellows helping out.

Afterwards there was some business where the dummy turned its head to watch a make-believe paddle steamer go hooting by. Meanwhile, the ventriloquist lit a cigar with both hands to prove he wasn't the one moving the head. You couldn't take your eyes away, partly because it was frightening.

At the last, there was a man whose hair went into funny shapes, and a man whose hair was normal. Funny Shape also went in for sad faces. He started singing a song called 'Home' and that's where everyone was going as he did so. The more they sang the more they walked out.

'I'm off,' said Clive, suddenly waking up, but I always sat through the chasers, owing to feeling sorry for them. It was selfish in a way, for I could never enjoy my after-show beer if I'd cut the chaser.

'I'll see you in the bar,' I said, and he went off, lighting a little cigar.

The trick was to get out of a music hall just between the finish of the chaser and the start of 'God Save the King'. But you had to move fast because they'd try and trap you with the national anthem, and when they'd got you standing to attention, they'd try to deafen you.

I timed my escape to a tee, though, and Clive was waiting for me with a glass of ale.

'I've made enquiries,' he said, 'and Grace and Marie will be next door in five minutes.'

'What's next door?'

'Supper rooms used by the turns.'

'What do you want to see that pair for?' I said.

Clive looked at me and frowned. 'You can spend the evening with the Elasticated Man if you want.'

I knew what was going forward, of course. Clive was after a bit of spooning with one of these two, but it was more than that. I was to be put to choosing whether I wanted to try my luck with the other. He was saying: look what can be yours for the taking on a night in Blackpool, but for the vows you have foolishly taken. He would never say so, but he was out to prove I was wrong to be married.

The supper rooms were over the road and along the Prom a little way, and we got a fair old blast as we stepped across to them. It was a warm wind, but strong, and the black sea was starting to get lively. The electric lights along the front were all lit, like a swaying pearl necklace.

The first thing I noticed was the Elasticated Man eating a chop. He wore thick trousers and no coat; white shirt with collar open at the neck. Clive saw him but paid him no attention. He was looking all about for Grace and Marie.

It was a long, low room with no curtains. The Promenade – and the occasional speeding hansom – could be seen through windows on one side, and the sea beyond. There were benches and tables running along beneath the sea window. In the middle of the room was a billiard table, like a peaceful green field. There wasn't much to say it catered to the show business: just one poster showing acrobatic cyclists.

When Grace and Marie walked in, they were no longer pixies, of course, but ladies of the world in quite good dresses, carrying straw hats. My first thought was: They are not as beautiful in life as they are on stage. But still they are beautiful.

Clive was ahead of me, talking to them, and then he was walking back with the two of them following. 'We came up here by train, yes,' he was saying. 'As a matter of fact, we were driving the train!'

'Get away!' said Grace or Marie. 'Both of you?'

Clive gave me an extra big grin – he was coming over all unnatural for the benefit of these doxies.

'It takes two, yes,' he said, 'but no need to go into the mechanical details. Would you take a drink?'

Two minutes later we were all sitting down on the sea side of the room. Grace and Marie had glasses of punch; they asked what we were drinking, and Clive said, 'This stuff is "Plain", which would never do for bonny lasses like yourselves.'

It made me quite ill to listen to this talk.

On stage Grace and Marie had been all eyes (and legs, of course), but now you got their noses too. Grace's was a long nose but a good one – a whole story with a beginning, a middle and an end. Marie's nose was sharp, and she had a face that was round and sharp, like a vole's. With her dark, mischievous eyes, she reminded me of the wife, and I liked her best. I wondered how it would sound for a man to say to his wife: 'I went off with the one that reminded me of you, dear.' I supposed it had been done, and said.

We had barely started on our drink when Marie said to Grace: 'There's your bill-topper.'

I looked up. 'Monsieur Maurice,' I said.

'Which one was he?' said Clive.

'He has the walking figure and the drinking figure,' said Grace.

'No,' said Marie, 'the drinking's out now.'

'Is it? He was giving them Champagne Charlie until last year.'

'Oh he's had them all,' said Marie, looking across at me; 'multi-dolls.' 'Wasn't he giving the eye test shena a while ago?' asked Grace.

'Read the writing on that wall!' Marie suddenly commanded.

'What wall?' said Grace, and they both laughed.

I guessed this was part of Monsieur Maurice's turn – the one that I had walked out of in Halifax. But Clive was looking cheesed-off at all this shop talk.

'It's a bit like the two of us,' he whispered to me, 'going on about steam pressure.'

'Why don't we do that?' I said, finishing my glass of Plain. Well, I was canned by now.

'The Boer War!' said Marie. 'What a blessing that was to us all.'

'How could a war help two singing pixies?' said Clive, a bit crossly.

'You could play all the service towns, you see,' said Grace, and I could see she was a little gone on Clive.

'Broken hearts being in favour, you see,' Grace continued.

'So the sad songs went,' said Marie.

'Went where?' said Clive.

'What kind of turn plays the Seashell?' I asked the two of them.

'You know Marie Lloyd?' she said.

'Yes,' I said.

'Well, she's never played here.'

They both laughed.

'Little Titch?' I said.

'Getaway,' said Marie. 'Little Titch is far too big for this place.'

The ventriloquist, Monsieur Maurice, walked across just then. 'I will not mince the fact, ladies -' he began, addressing Marie and Grace. Then he looked at Clive and myself and stopped. His beard rocked as his mouth came to a quite definite close. His beard was very sharp, the moustache was very wide – it was like a music-hall turn in itself. Marie said: 'These gentlemen are from the railways.'

At this, the ventriloquist looked all about him; as if he wanted to start a whole other conversation with a whole other lot of people. But with the drink in me, I was at him straight away.

'I liked the walking business' I said, 'how's it done?'

He looked away. 'Wouldn't do to say exactly how it's done' he muttered, looking over towards the bar. 'Champagne,' he said to himself, and he went off. With his over-theatrical face, he looked like one of his figures: a waxwork gone live.

'Will Monsieur Maurice be bringing a bottle over, do you think?' I asked Grace and Marie. I had never tasted Champagne, and meant to do so. It had been wanting at our little wedding down in London, in the supper room of the Waterloo pub, as Dad had more than once pointed out on the day.

'His real name is Morris Connell' said Marie, 'and, no, he will not be bringing a bottle over here if past history is anything to go by.'

'How long have you known him?' I asked.

'Since the first of the Seaside Surprises,' said Grace. She turned to Marie: 'When was the first of the season?'

'Oh, early,' said Marie. 'April-time wasn't it?'

'We've all been back here every two or three weeks for the one-week runs ever since,' added Grace.

'All the same turns?'

'Yes. That's how it works with the Seaside Surprises.'

'Nothing very surprising about it,' said Marie, 'when you come to think of it.'

So that was how Monsieur Maurice had come to be in Blackpool, then in Halifax, and now back in Blackpool. I looked over to the bar, and he was standing there eyeing me.

'The one-week runs that you have here… They always begin on Mondays, do they?' I asked Grace.

'Mondays' she said, 'that's it.'

'And does that fellow live here in Blackpool?' I said, nodding towards Monsieur Maurice.

'He has digs here' she said, 'but he has a lodge in Preston as well.'

I remembered that I'd also seen his name in Scarborough, and mentioned this.

'Yes' said Gracie, 'he's often at the Floral Hall there.'

Monsieur Maurice was walking back towards us carrying one glass of iced Champagne. As he sat down, he looked at me for a while longer, then he turned to Grace and continued his shop talk: 'Two whistles down the speaking tube to say you're on, and that's to the star room, so the question is: what's become of the call boy?' Shaking his head, he continued: 'I don't know… Half-pay for matinees, and my expenses going on just as usual.'

'What did you think of the two of us tonight?' Grace asked him, and I could tell that as long as he was at the table, all remarks would have to be addressed to him. You could tell he wasn't keen to think of Grace and Marie at all, but he seemed to put his mind to it for a second, after which he said: 'You two must decide if you are to be stars or specialities.'

'Well nobody wants to be a speciality,' said Grace.

'It's why we've brought in the new closer', said Marie, 'with the drumming.'

'That was the best bit of all,' Clive put in, 'the way you shook those… you know… bells.'

'I felt it suffered rather from a want of daintiness,' said Monsieur Maurice.

'It got a good hand,' said Grace.

'Especially from me,' said Clive.

Monsieur Maurice turned around just as a new man entered the room. 'People will always clap for decency's sake,' he said. 'Now there's somebody whose performance I must commend,' he went on, standing up and walking over to the new fellow.

'There's twenty vents on the sands,' said Grace, as Monsieur Maurice moved off, 'and they're all better than him.'

'Why does he top the bill then?' said Clive.

'There' said Grace, 'you are into the very crannies of a mystery.'

'Could be money' said Marie; 'thirteen consecutive fronts paid for in the Era don't hurt.'

'Special New Year's card to every manager in the country' added Grace.

'Sounds a good notion,' said Clive, trying to cut in again.

'No,' said Grace, 'we send telegrams.'

'Wire best offer!' Marie suddenly shouted. 'We're coming!' and she looked at us all with wide eyes. I did like her, but I had a feeling Clive would fare better alone.

I found a wobbly pair of legs and walked over to the bar. Monsieur Maurice was standing by the billiard table, shaking the new man's hand and saying: 'You were quite a favourite tonight.'

The new man – who was the ventriloquist that had been on first, Henry Clarke – was thanking him. Off stage, he looked an amiable sort: brown eyes and silky hair parted down the middle like a church roof.

'Let me stand you supper' Monsieur Maurice said to Henry Clarke. 'The fish pie's rather good here.'

'That's awfully kind,' said Henry Clarke. 'Only they will put cayenne pepper in, and I don't care for it.'

'Nothing easier in the world than getting a helping without' said Monsieur Maurice.

'Well, I did ask yesterday' said Clarke, 'but in the end I had to go for the mutton instead.'

'Oh I think we'll be able to manage,' said Monsieur Maurice.

I looked over to where Clive was sitting with Grace and Marie. More drinks had come from somewhere onto their table, but I wasn't keeping track of my own let alone anyone else's. Clive was laughing, looking only at the two women, especially Grace, so odds-on she was his favourite. You could watch Clive for ages in a room, and he would only ever look at the women, no matter what the men were up to.

I thought I might go back over to Marie later. It wouldn't hurt to talk a little longer.

Next to me at the bar, Monsieur Maurice was shouting at the serving girl: 'What do you mean by "It can't be taken out once in"? I insist on having a fish pie without cayenne pepper!'

The serving girl went away into the kitchen and came back, and something along the right lines was worked out, for Monsieur Maurice ordered Champagne in a friendly voice and not only paid for Henry Clarke's fish pie, but stood him a glass of beer into the bargain. So he wasn't such a tightwad after all.

I stood in the middle of the room for a while, thinking of ventriloquists, Blackpool, trains and the wife – a hundred things and nothing at all.

As I wandered across to the Gentlemen's a moment later, I could hear Monsieur Maurice saying to Henry Clarke: 'Do you know the words that frighten me most in all the world? "Wanted: for children's party, a ventriloquist".'

They didn't seem very frightening to me.

Henry Clarke was smiling in a shy way, eating and trying to be polite.

'Second only', Monsieur Maurice was saying, 'to "unexpectedly vacant all season".'

Henry Clarke smiled again.

I looked out through the window. The moon was there above the sea, the last entertainment of the evening laid on for the trippers. The room became like a boat in rough water as I started crossing it. Then I struck the billiard table, which I looked at long and hard: the long green gaslit field, against the storminess of the sea – telling the sea how to behave.

'He's a dear old pal of mine,' the Elasticated Man was saying to somebody while staring at his picked-over chop; 'helped me when I was down.' Looking again at the Elasticated Man, I could see that he was old himself – sixty or so. Yet still elasticated.

When I returned to the table where Clive and the two girls were sitting, I heard Grace saying:'… because I don't want to be a step girl, stuck down some warren with two kids, and expecting again.' She looked all about the room before adding with a sigh: 'This is a jungle sort of life though.' She turned back to Clive and sighed again. I had never seen Clive spooning at close quarters, and had little experience of the art myself, having married very young, but I somehow knew that with all this sighing, things were progressing for him.

Marie said to me, 'You look all-in.'

Clive was saying something in my ear that I couldn't catch. Now he was standing up, taking Grace by the hand, but my eyes were on Monsieur Maurice, who was sitting and watching Henry Clarke eat fish pie. Clarke looked pretty uncomfortable, as well he might, and the drunken thought came to me: if for whatever reason it was Monsieur Maurice who'd thrown the stone through my window, then the wife was sitting pretty at the present moment, for she was in Halifax, and he was here.

A little while later Marie was also standing up, saying to me, 'Will you stroll on the beach?'

There was a shivering mini-sea on the beach, left over from the tide going out. The electric lights on the North Pier were reflected in it. Two figures were walking under the North Pier: Clive and Grace. As I watched, they stopped and kissed. For all that Clive was due his medal, this was his true business: not driving engines but kissing. And the next lot.

'Well!' I said to Marie, who was very surprisingly nearby.

I turned and saw a tram coming along the Prom, all lit up like a theatre. Its lights took away from the moonlight. I watched it stop at the North Pier, then move on.

'You've missed that one,' said Marie, 'but you must get the next.'

'That's right,' I said, 'I certainly must.'

I gave a small wave, which was returned, and as I began walking, thinking of the wife in Back Hill Street reading her

Pitman's Shorthand manuals by the bad light of the gas mantel, plotting and planning for the two of us (and, as I sometimes thought, for the whole of the world) I felt glad to have said goodnight to Marie.

I hurried back along the Prom, for I knew it was close to midnight. The trams kept coming by, and they were noisier in the night. Or perhaps it was the Prom that was quieter, with just the odd lonely person looking out to sea. You'd get these lonely sea watchers even in Blackpool, but only ever late at night. The lights went along the Prom, up one side of the Tower, down the other, then continued along.

Central station, right under the Tower, was nearly but not quite dead. You can feel it when there's just one engine left in steam, but that locomotive was somewhere out of sight, and the stationmaster must have booked off, for the ticket collector had a bottle of Bass in his hand. How did he get on the railway, and once on, how did he stay on? He was very thin, and his hair was white and shaggy. He looked like a cornstalk but dangerous with it. His coat was too big for him, and there were egg stains down the front of it clear as day. He was talking to a fellow who had his back to me, and wore a tiny jacket, narrow-go-wide trousers, big shiny boots and a cap pushed right back – not a railway man. He had a big head but a little nose, tilted up like the cap. I put him down as one of those reverse swells, an underminer.

This big-headed kid was saying to Cornstalk: 'It's a job though, Don, and tha needs brass.'

'That's fair do's, Max, that is,' said Cornstalk. The voice was high, and it carried. It was Lancashire… Lancashire or Yorkshire, but light.

'Every ticket with its little triangle clipped out,' Cornstalk was saying, 'and after a while, you know, I get so I can't look at that triangle or any fucking triangle. It's wrong, like, I know, but I don't like fucking triangles any more, and when I see a bottle of this stuff with the fucking triangle on the label…' He stood back, and the bottle of Bass was in the air, and when it came down the pieces of brown glass raced to all parts of the empty station.

'Will you look out?' I said, as I came up to the two of them.

'Sorry about that, mate,' said Big Head, but Cornstalk himself said nothing, never looked at me either as I walked through the gates.

The last Preston train was on platform five. It was a clumsy, late-night sort of tank engine of the kind I didn't know; the kind of beast that wakes you up at midnight as it crashes through your town with its driver cursing at the controls.

I climbed up and took a seat in Third – it was a corridor carriage. The smashing of the Bass bottle had sobered me up, and I wished I had something to read. Two toffs came by fast along the corridor, one saying to the other, 'It's just this way, now, follow me,' very much at home, as though the train was his personal property. They were looking for first class, I supposed.

From the platform I heard the guard blow and give the right away, then there was an extra bit of business. The guard was calling to somebody. 'Hurry up now, sir,' and by the respectful tone of voice, I judged it to be another toff coming along at a clip, also making for First. I heard a carriage door slam and Monsieur Maurice, the ventriloquist, was walking along the corridor, breathing heavily. He turned into a compartment two or three along.

I sat under the flaring gas, looking at the Photochrome pictures over the seats opposite: they all showed Nelson's old flagship washed up on the beach at Blackpool. I waited until the gas works came up, which at night became lots of tiny blue lights spread out along the tracks. I stood up, moving along the corridor until I saw the ventriloquist. He was asleep with his head on his chest, the point of his beard going into his chest like a knife. Across his knees was a newspaper. There was a small cloth bag at his feet. He was more Morris Connell now than Monsieur Maurice.

I went back to my carriage and thought about Clive. Would he still be under the pier with Grace? More likely he'd be pegged out in the barracks – the engine men's lodging over the road from Central. He'd have to be on the milk train at four though, and back over the Pennines before first light, because the two of us had a seven o'clock go-on at Sowerby Bridge shed. How was he able to be so cool about the prospect of another smash? Maybe it was just his nature. Perhaps that was how a fellow of the right sort ought to be. Then again, perhaps he knew for a fact there wouldn't be another smash, the first one having been arranged by himself. But why would he do that? So that he could get his medal and come out the hero. But why would he want to come out the hero? He was not so determined to get on in his work, as far as I could see. He had never once mentioned that he was aiming for the top link or anything of that nature.

Ten minutes out of Blackpool, we started rattling wildly over the Fylde, like something being blown along. I looked out of the window for a while and saw the signal lamps coming up, shining green, green, green all the way.

I fell into a doze, and heard the bang of the starter signal going off at Halifax. The wife was aboard the train, and we rushed away and had a smash, but the wife was all right because she explained that it hadn't been a real train but only the echo of a train.

At Preston, I was woken by mailbags being thrown onto a barrow and the shouting that always goes along with that job. My connecting train for Halifax, which would be emptier still, was waiting on the opposite platform. I picked up my cap and walked along the corridor. The ventriloquist had left his carriage but his paper was still there. Thinking it could come in for the ride to Halifax, I picked it up. It was a paper for the show business, and running right down one side of the front page was a long thin drawing of a long thin comedy policeman. I picked it up, and saw that one item on the front page had been circled in pencil: 'Henry Clarke and Young Leonard: A Laughing and Applauding Hit in May at thePalace Theatre, Halifax. Re-engaged for the First Week of June. Too Strong for All Rivals.'

Clarke, the good ventriloquist of the evening just gone, must have been the one I'd meant to see at the Palace in Halifax but missed; I'd gone along later and got Monsieur Maurice instead. I looked again at the paper and for a second thought of ventriloquism as a job like any other, with one man put up against another in the fight for wealth and ease of living.

‹o›--

I returned to Halifax at getting on for two o'clock, and, hurrying along Horton Street, I looked on the old warehouse wall for the Socialist Mission poster. It was still there, speaking of the 'a meeting to discuss questions'. If they do go ahead with it, I thought, it would be them answering the questions, and the coppers doing the asking. Alongside it was a poster for the Halifax Building Society: 'as safe as houses' read the slogan, and that made me hurry along faster still towards Hill Street, where there was just one light burning – upstairs in our house.

I was through the front door and up the stairs in a trice. But quietly. The wife was asleep, having left the gas turned low for me. There was new glass in the window and I looked through it. When you have a new window, the bit of the world it shows looks clean and new as well, even if, as in this case, it should only be the gas lamps and sleeping houses of Hill Street.

As I looked at this scene, George Ogden walked slowly into it, coming from the direction of Back Hill Street. He had his hands in his pockets. Then he turned and looked up. When he saw me looking back, he grinned, and put up one fat paw to wave. He was signalling me to come down.

It was well past two by now, but I crept back down the stairs, out of the front door, and round to the side, where George was still beaming. 'Evening, old man,' he said. He was pulling his waistcoat down over his belly, so that I could see the assorted shapes of the little items in the pockets.

'Evening?' I said, 'It's getting on for dawn. Where've you been?'

'Supper at the Crown,' he said.' Anchovy cream of turbot, then veal kidneys with gin and juniper berries, turnips, asparagus a la creme and roast potatoes on the side, followed by pears a la cardinal with apricot syrup and brandy, cheese plate and biscuits, pot of coffee and liqueurs. But that's by the way.'

'Hardly,' I said.

'It seems to be the window-breaking season in this town,' he went on. 'Thinking it over, you're blaming the nutty dyna- mitists, I suppose.'

'You what?'

'The socialist-anarchists?' He was holding out a ten-bob note; he pushed it at me. 'They seem to have fixed on you as the fellow to blame for the hardships of all the working men in Halifax, which seems to go a bit hard, since you're a working man yourself and not taking home above, what, twenty-seven bob a week?' He pushed the note at me. 'I'm feeling rather flush just at the moment, so you'll oblige me by pocketing this forthwith, old bean.'

Well, I was so tired that I just took the money. 'Thanks, George,' I said, 'I'm much obliged to you.'

'But how did they ever get your address?' he called to me as I made for the front door.

'Turn in, George,' I said. 'It's late.'