The Blackpool Highflyer

Chapter Thirty-one

The next day, the Friday of Wakes, the Hind's Mill lot came back from Blackpool, but it wasn't Clive and me that brought them in. Instead, we were running specials from Hebden Bridge into the Joint, which was no distance at all, and I felt sorry for those who'd only been able to get as far away as Hebden in their only week off during the year, pretty spot though it was. It was like a prison breakaway that had not come off.

That evening at seven I was coming back up from the Joint with my shadow stretched out before me as long as a railway carriage, but the heat of the day still at my back. I was quite done in, and the sun had gone from being a daily marvel to plain hard work.

My shadow reached and touched from time to time the boots of a tired man in black plodding up the hill under a black bowler. He stopped for a while at Sugden's ice-cream cart, but Sugden was not about, and there was no boy holding the pony. The fellow looked very agitated waiting there, and for a moment I thought he was going to try making enquiry of the white pony which was letting the man know, by certain sideways glances, that it would rather be left alone.

As I came up to the man, I saw that it was Bob the book- ing-office clerk. Or was it that other rather half-baked chap, Dick? Was it the one who had the same name as Arnold Dyson's dog, or was it the one that could write with both hands?

It was the second: Dick.

'If you want a penny lick,' I said, 'you'd best go in the Crown. That's where you'll find Sugden.'Dick seemed a bit embarrassed at being caught wanting an ice cream, and pulled at the ends of his stiff collar. 'Well, you know,' he said, 'anything for coolness.'

'How do you fancy a pint in the Evening Star?' I said.

I was in no hurry to get home, since the wife would be out again, I knew. She was taking Cicely Braithwaite to a meeting of the Co-operative Women's Guild. This had been fixed up and put off several times, on account (I guessed) of Cicely not being over-keen on going.

Dick was looking me up and down: rather nervous of the working man, in his holed clothes and with his stink of yellow soap. But he voted yes. 'You've talked me into it, old man,' he said.

We walked in past the red billiards table, which he looked at long and hard. 'It's a good make,' he said.

'Do you play?' I asked him.

'Not really. I can generally see when a shot's on, but I can't make it myself.' He laughed nervously.

'But you can write with two hands,' I said.

'Yes, I can that,' he replied, and he sounded a little more Yorkshire, and a little happier now. Maybe it was the sight of the pint of Ramsden's I was passing his way.

He took his first go at the beer and I let him talk cricket for a while, and then we took another glass each and I thought: Well, I'm sorry for you, mate, but now the bombardment must begin.

It was one facer after another, but he took it pretty well, and the airs and graces that go with ink-spilling work gradually fell away.

'Do you remember when I stepped into your office that time, and George spoke of some tickets going missing?'

He nodded. He was looking at the beer barrels behind the bar. 'There was a pretty solid row over that,' he said.

'Why?'

'Well,' he said. 'Tickets going missing… It's the next worse thing to money being taken.' 'So Knowles was down on you?'

'Like I don't know what,' said Dick. 'We all thought we'd be sacked. Sacked or reduced over it anyway.'

'And that would be because the tickets went from your office?'

'That's just it,' said Dick. 'Did they? The tickets always come in from Manchester. That's where they're all printed up. They come in by train with a lad riding along of them. Now the lad says he brought this particular load up. Some of them were third-class returns to Liverpool. Not so many of those. Maybe just one block of two hundred and fifty, and then there were a good many more of another sort.'

'What sort?'

'Blackpool singles,' he said.

'That's it,' I said, and he looked at me strangely.

'Firsts, seconds and thirds,' Dick went on. 'Hundreds of pounds' worth. I worked out the exact figure once, but I've forgotten it now. The lad who rode with them from Manchester says he brought them up and left them in the office. He admits it was a busy sort of time when he did it; we say we never had them. You know how it turned out, don't you?'

'No,' I said.

'In the end, we were the ones believed, and some poor fellow in the despatch office at Manchester was stood down, and they're talking about bringing a prosecution for theft against him.'

'What did he look like, that fellow?'

'What did he look like? I don't know. I've never clapped eyes on him. He'd been in bother with the coppers once before, though, so that was him out.'

'Will you take another Ramsden's?' I asked Dick.

He passed me his glass. 'I swear on a hundred bibles I never saw those tickets,' he said.

'What about anyone else in the booking office? What about Bob?'

Dick shook his head.

'Now,' I said, 'what about George?'

Dick shook his head again, and then, as I handed him his fresh pint, tried a laugh that didn't come off. 'He's a caution, isn't he? Old George. Lodges with you, I hear?'

'Just while he looks about for a mansion of his own,' I said.

'We can't all be born into the nobility,' said Dick, 'but old George… He don't seem to know that.'

'If you'd had those Blackpool tickets away,' I said, 'how could you sell them?'

Dick was on the point right away. He wanted this chat as much as I did myself. 'If you were a booking-office clerk,' he said, 'you could sell them through the window. You wouldn't record the sale, and you'd pocket the brass.'

'But those tickets might be inspected on the train, and they're bound to be collected the other end. Besides, everyone's going to be on the look out for the missing numbers.'

'That's why you'd have to be off your head to try it,' said Dick. 'I mean, you might hope to get pally with as many of the ticket-checking and -collecting fellows as you could, but it wouldn't half take some doing. Of course, you would have the brass to pay them off.'

'But anyone you tried to bring into it who cut up rough…'

Dick was nodding. 'They might split,' he said, 'then you'd be in dead lumber.'

And it was just then that I heard the last sound you'd ever expect in the Evening Star. I turned about, and the billiard balls were rolling, but the fellow who'd made the shot was already through the door and gone. I walked out into Horton Street and there was nobody to be seen. But there again, the Imperial was the next place along, and its door was forever open to those who felt themselves the right sort.

When I came home the wife was talking in low tones to Cicely Braithwaite. The two of them were sitting on the sofa and leaning forwards, holding hands. I knew what had happened: the wife had told Cicely that she was expecting.

I kissed the wife and nodded at Cicely. 'Is our lodger about?' I asked the wife.

'I've not seen him,' she said, and she didn't seem too happy about the subject being brought up.

'Lecture went off all right, did it?'

It was Cicely who answered. 'Oh it was such a lovely hall: green and white with electric light, and bright fustian curtains, ha'penny teas and buns…'

'And the talk that was given?' I said.

Cicely had begun to frown. 'It was ever so good,' she said, but she was well into her frown by now.

'What was the subject?'

'"The Municipal Duties of Co-operative Women",' said the wife, rather crossly. 'Mrs Duggan was not quite at her sparkling best.'

'Oh she wasn't, love, was she?' Cicely eagerly put in. 'Not that I've ever heard her before. You know, I was thinking all the while what a lovely place it would be for a dance.'

I left them to it, stepping through into the scullery for my usual scrub down at the boiler.

Through the closed door I could hear the wife saying: 'I just knew. You change, you know… here.'

'Well you did look peaky, love,' Cicely was saying, 'and to be honest, I did wonder…' The wife said something I couldn't catch, then Cicely said: 'Raspberry leaf tea – you must have it. And something else Lydia, dear: you must not raise your arms above your head too much.'

In the scullery, I laughed at that.

It must have been getting on for ten o'clock when Cicely quit the house, whereupon the wife and I went to bed. We had all the windows open, and it was as if there was no town at all outside.

I couldn't sleep, and at midnight I heard the chimes from the parish church, going on for ever and mingling with the clanging of the boots of George Ogden on the outside stairs. I heard him open his door and step into his bedroom. There was no sound at all for five minutes or so. Then he started moving about in his room, and I believed he was still doing so when the two o'clock chimes came, at about which hour I finally fell asleep.