THE Metropolitan thunders headlong through the tunnel, spewing smoke and churning up
dust. Roaring towards King’s Cross, it passes a series of peculiar alcoves lit
by solitary yellow lamps, the haunt of subterranean railway-men who loiter in
their man-made hollows. They are waiting for the last train, these slouching
shadows with flashing white eyes, waiting until they can begin their nightly
work upon the tracks.
‘Almost
on time, Bill?’ remarks one to another.
The
Metropolitan hurtles onwards, station to station, burrowing beneath the New
Road, undermining the trade of the humble hackney carriage and omnibus, quite
oblivious to the slow and weary tread of pedestrians who tramp the street above.
For some of them, the price of a return ticket is simply unattainable; for
others, the Underground Railway retains a daemonic aspect, and many swear that
they would rather brave the worst of London’s winter than descend into a
man-made pit. No matter, says the Railway-man at work below their feet. He never pays no heed to such ignorance from the surface-dwellers,
though he readily admits the train goes like the devil, vomiting smoke from the
throat of its funnel, spewing burning ash that rises like bile and sparks
against smoke-blackened bricks. At least, he says, the Railway pays good wages,
and it keeps you warm and dry, and goes d- quick to where it must go
. In point of fact, he says, the Metropolitan goes as fast as a man
may safely travel, without endangering his health. True, he finds that no-one
nowadays is much impressed by the facts or figures. And new lines are being
planned to here, there, and everywhere: he readily admits it. But this line will
remain the oldest and, therefore, the most famous by far. This is the
Metropolitan Line. And this is the last train of the day.
Who takes the last train? Let us take a look at the rear compartment,
designated second-class. Scattered upon cloth-covered benches (a thin,
uncompromising layer of cloth, mind you) sit half a dozen private persons, whose
means, or inclination, do not encourage them to pay a sixpence for the
well-padded privileges of first. In one corner there is a young girl, a
pretty but rather shabby creature, with red hair tied up clumsily with a single
ribbon; she lies slumped asleep, her head against the wall. In truth she is
rather too shabby, her shawl too threadbare and frayed, even for second.
All the same, some of her fellow passengers quite envy her. At the very least,
she need not affect to read the advertisements that have been pasted to the
walls of the carriage, whereas, for most railway travellers, there is a positive
obligation to cultivate such distractions. On the other side of the aisle, for
instance, a fresh-faced maid-servant finds herself obliged to make a point of
straightening her sleeves, and ignoring the gaze of the handsome Guardsman who
sits opposite, smoking his pipe and absent-mindedly stroking his whiskers.
Admittedly, the Guardsman is not in uniform, but she would know a soldier
anywhere; she is quite familiar with that breed of men, and does not wish
to fall in love with another. In any case, sitting next to the maid-servant is
her mistress, which, fortunately, prevents any unhappy dalliance. Indeed, the
good lady needs constant attention; she is a poor traveller, given to raising
her eyes heavenwards (or, at least, up to the ground) with every chance
reverberation that rattles the compartment, her hands firmly clasped together in
silent prayer. So great, in fact, is her anxiety that her unfashionably large
crinoline seems to tremble quite of its own accord. She, too, affects to take no
notice of her fellow passengers, but she cannot resist the occasional glance. In
fact, she is particuarly struck by a peculiar young man, who is seated opposite
the sleeping girl; he wears a grubby winter great-coat, and pencils notes in a
little leather-bound book as the train rolls along. But then he looks up at her,
and nods a polite acknowledgement, thus deflecting her interest back to the
heavens. When a decent space of time has elapsed,
she looks back in his general direction. She observes the sleeping girl,
who lolls this way and that, her face half-hidden by her shawl; the girl, she
realises, smells of gin.
Tut tut, she mutters, raising her eyebrows and silently encouraging her
maid into making similar expressions of heartfelt opprobium; she willingly
obliges.
But, stop! A roar of steam and the brakes do their work, as the train
approaches Baker Street, as the track splits, past the glimpse of another train,
another tunnel, then juddering to a stop, amongst what seems like a thousand
gas-lamps. And here is the gloomy
face of a booking-office boy in his navy uniform, deputised to stand duty upon
the platform and to check the contents of each compartment. He begins, once the
train is quite stopped, by opening the doors, one by one, regardless of whether
there are passengers inside the carriage.
‘Terminating here, Ladies and Gents, as there is works at Paddington.
This way, Ladies and Gentlemen, if you please.’
‘Disgraceful!’ says one. ‘Short-changed!’ says another. Muted
complaints all round. The booking-office clerk looks sheepish, and shrugs his
shoulders. ‘A letter,’ he says, ‘a letter to the station-master is best,
if you are dissatisfied.’ He say it once, twice, half a dozen times. And, in
the end, it proves sufficient. Gradually, the train is emptied of passengers:
top-hatted, lop-sided clerks, drunk and sober, merry and miserable; a troup of
fine ladies, fresh from the Temperance Hall; theatre-goers; music-hallers; men,
women and children, first class, second class, all mixed together. In short,
anyone who has paid their fare.
But what is this? It seems that the rear compartment takes a little
longer to empty than the rest. True, the Guardsman departs briskly enough.
Indeed, he is too quick for the liking of the young maid-servant, who promptly
decides she did not like him at all. And then comes her be-crinolined mistress,
a perfect pantomime of confusion as her circumference is squeezed through the
passenger door, pushed by the maid, pulled by the guard. But, even then, two
remain: the drunken woman and bookish young man.
‘Sir, end of the line, if you please? Last train terminates at Baker
Street tonight. There’s works at Paddington.’
‘Oh, I am sorry, I lost track of myself.’
He looks around, as if woken from a dream. The young woman, with the
ribbon in her hair, lies fast asleep.
‘Shall I wake my, ah, fellow traveller here?’ he offers.
‘If you wouldn’t mind, Sir, much appreciated.’
‘Of course.’
The young man puts away his note-book in his great coat, and leans over
to the slumbering girl, tugging gently at her sleeve. She makes no movement, and
so he smiles apologetically at the booking-hall clerk, and he tugs a little
harder. She leans a little forward, then topples to the side, falling down from
her seat, landing head-first onto the dusty wooden floor of the carriage. There
she lies, without a murmur, her neck askew, her features quite lifeless and
dead, staring blankly at the man who pushed her over.
‘Lor!’ exclaims the clerk, unsure to get inside the carriage or stay
well clear. In the end, he adopts the latter position.
‘Lor! You’ve killed her.’
The young man, meanwhile, shakes his head, though it is impossible to
tell whether in denial or simple disbelief. He kneels down and touches her face.
Cold.
‘Murder!’ cries the clerk. And the cry goes out, along the platform,
echoing down the mouths of dark and dingy tunnels; but, by now, there is hardly
a soul to hear him. A couple of the last passengers turn and look, but hurry on
up the steps to finish their journey home. The young man in the carriage,
meanwhile, stands for a moment, quite frozen. Then he darts forward, his note-book
falling from his pocket as he does so. He runs, through the open carriage door,
pushing past the boy, who dares to offer no resistance, and up the steps that
lead to the ticket-hall.
The clerk stares at the lifeless body.
‘Murder!’ he
exclaims, rather weakly, his voice giving way.
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