Andrew Martin - The Somme Stations

I nodded. My own impression was confirmed. There had without question been grounds for a fight between Tinsley and Harvey on Spurn. As a battalion we were meant to be the-railway-in-the-army, but here was a case of the railway against the army.

‘Did you hear about his mother?’

The Chief nodded.

‘She married twice didn’t she?’ I said. ‘And it was the first husband that was William’s father?’

‘That’s it,’ said the Chief.

‘And he was the one who won the medal?’

‘You wouldn’t catch the second one in the bloody colours. He’s spent his whole life behind – or in front of – the bar in the Station Hotel.’

I had the dawning sense of having been a fool about something.

‘I thought that bloke, the barman, was William’s father.’

The Chief was scowling at me.

‘Who was his real father? I asked. ‘What did he do when he left the army?’

‘John Read?’ said the Chief. ‘He went in the Reserves for a while. For a job, he did nothing… No, that’s wrong, he’d been a carriage cleaner for a while… But could never find his way… Went a bit loony. The kid carried the second husband’s name.’

John Read… I knew the name.

‘Whoever did it,’ said the Chief, ‘you’ll bring him in.’

It was about the first compliment I’d had from him, and it wasn’t right.

‘You might look a bit gormless at times,’ the Chief ran on, ‘but you keep your eyes skinned.’

… But I was still thinking of John Read.

On the half-illuminated street corner, the Chief and I nodded at each other, shook hands, clapped each other on the back. About the only thing we didn’t do, in the awkwardness of our parting, was salute. The Chief turned about and walked away. I remained standing, watching his retreating figure, breathing deeply the cordite air of Albert and trying to work out how drunk I was. I tilted my face up, and a thousand stars swung into view, like a packet of stars that had been spilt. That had happened a little too quickly. I was on the way all right. Three blokes were approaching along the street, but on the other side. Glancing down, I saw that I held two remaining packets of the Virginians Select. I made to stuff them into my top pockets when I discovered the letter I’d written to the wife. I called to the Chief, who turned slowly.

‘Will you take a letter back home for me?’ I said, going up to him with envelope held out.

He spat hard.

‘Might as well,’ he said. ‘I look like a bloody postman.’ He peered at the address. ‘Why didn’t you put it through the army post?’

I grinned. ‘The contents are confidential,’ I said.

‘You dirty bugger,’ said the Chief, and I looked over the road to see Oliver Butler and his brothers. Butler was eyeing me. He’d seen the Chief, and the handover of the letter. He turned and called to his brothers like a man calling to his dogs, and they moved rapidly away. The Chief did not seem to have clocked them. He was moving away more slowly in the opposite direction, and I watched him go, thinking: if you’re in a lull at pushing seventy, you stay in a lull. Would he ever be back to commanding me at York station? The police office would never be the same, nothing ever would be. It annoyed me to think that the men who’d drawn up the notice announcing the formation of the battalion had not let on about that.

I turned into the street that Dawson and Tinsley had gone down. It was full of buried jollity, light leaking up from the basements, and the muffled sound of dozens of Tommies enjoying themselves. I came to a sign propped against railings. The moment I saw it, I said out loud to myself: ‘Oh Christ.’

It read, ‘COME IN FOR JOHN SMITH’S YORKSHIRE BITTER’. I read it over again, looking for some fault in the wording, some indication it wasn’t true, but the buggers had even spelt ‘Yorkshire’ correctly. I descended the steps, and pushed open the door. That Dawson would be in there was a surety. No doubt this was the place he’d been looking for all along. Someone must have tipped him the wink.

I expected to find him roaring, but when I caught sight of him – which I did immediately on entering – he was sitting at a table talking in a normal fashion. Tinsley was beside him, smiling, and looking very composed, all considered. But then Dawson had only a glass of wine in front of him. Perhaps he had missed seeing the sign. No… I couldn’t credit that.

Dawson was addressing a couple of RE blokes that I recognised from Burton Dump. Tinsley, seeing me come in, waved across the bar. This place was altogether more business-like than the other, and more fun too. The tablecloths were black and white squares, and the place was ram-packed with uniformed men. Was there a piano? I can’t now recall, but there was an undercurrent of musicality, a lot of shouting, a great heat rising from somewhere. Dotted about the bar were other examples of the owners’ good English: a sign reading ‘BOILED EGGS’, a second announcing ‘BREAKFAST AVAILABLE ALL DAY’, a third: ‘THE PROPRIETOR AND STAFF WELCOME OUR VALOROUS BRITISH ALLIES’. Well, the writer was just showing off with that last one.

I pushed my way over to the Dawson table, where Tinsley pushed a wine glass over to me , and slopped in some red stuff from a bottle in a basket. The kid was looking very chipper.

‘How are you going on, son?’ I said.

‘I feel a lot better since I was sick,’ he said.

‘What time was that?’

‘Eight twenty-five,’ he said. He was always exact as to time – it was the engine man in him. ‘Bernie here gave me a cigarette and that did me a power of good.’

Tinsley evidently had a weak stomach, but recovered fast. Had he chucked up on Spurn? Not to my knowledge . The drink had just made him a bit more forward, and a bit more lively too. He’d joined in my scuffle with Dawson after all.

One of the RE blokes was saying to Dawson, ‘But you’re a Londoner – how did you end up in York?’

Dawson took a belt of wine. He was popeyed, but in a jolly sort of way. He said, ‘The fact of the matter is that I just got on a train in London…’

‘King’s Cross,’ Tinsley put in. He had to fix a place by naming the railway station.

‘… And you had a ticket for York,’ said the RE bloke.

‘I had a ticket for nowhere,’ said Dawson. ‘I mean,’ he added slowly, ‘ that I had no ticket at all . And that’s why I got off at York.’

‘Eh?’ I said.

‘Oh, I missed that bit out,’ said Dawson. ‘The ticket inspector got on at York – ’

‘That would be old Jackson,’ said Tinsley with a grin.

‘ – So I got off,’ said Dawson.

‘And you’ve been here ever since,’ I said. ‘I mean there. I mean… no… ’

I must have put away a good deal more than I’d thought – that was always the danger of encountering the Chief anywhere near licensed premises. I was instantly sobered, however, by the loud French-accented cry that came from the man at the bar, ‘Mister Dawson, we have found the barrel of the John Smith’s beer!’

The RE man was saying to Dawson, ‘Hold on a minute, how did you get through the ticket barrier?’

But Dawson was making fast for the bar. He came back a moment later with an enamel jug full of the stuff.

‘Apparently, they found the barrel in the cellar,’ he said. ‘It’s odd that, because I mean, we’re in the cellar.’

He offered the beer around, and we all drank it from our wine glasses. Dawson did not talk as we did this. The talking fell to others. I watched him go back to the bar for another jugful after a matter of only a few minutes, and he did not offer this second one around. His face was changing as he drank, giving him the grubby, peeved look of the faces on the criminal record cards in the police office. The talk was going on merrily around me. A bloke was saying, ‘He was fucking kippered at High Wood. Boche flame-thrower. Below the fucking belt is that.’