Magnus Mills - A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

‘Yes,’ Whimbrel agreed, ‘it’s too late now.’

Greylag was lost from view. We watched as the train rolled slowly out of the station, carrying him off to the City of Scoffers.

‘Might just make it!’ cried a blur that came hurtling past us.

It was Sanderling. He was running as fast as his legs would carry him, clutching a valise in one hand and a railway ticket in the other. His dandy coat was all unbuttoned, so that it flapped wildly around him as he rushed along. Some of the train’s sliding doors remained open, and Sanderling clearly thought he had a chance of catching it. Unfortunately, such was his haste that his hat came off his head and he failed even to notice. It went bowling along the platform behind him; quickly I dashed after it, picked it up and set off in pursuit. By now he had drawn level with the last carriage and managed to swing his bag through the doorway. At the same instant a pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and helped him inside. Summoning a final spurt, I caught up with the train and tossed his hat into the carriage. Then a second pair of hands grabbed me and pulled me aboard, so that I landed in a heap next to Sanderling. I looked up and saw Gadwall gazing down at me.

‘Glad you decided to join us,’ he said.

The train was now gathering speed. I took a few seconds to get my breath back, then went to the door and peered out. In the distance I could see the diminishing figure of Whimbrel, still standing on the platform.

‘I suppose the train can’t be stopped?’ I enquired.

‘Correct,’ answered Gadwall. He leant over and slid the door closed. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ he added.

Sanderling looked at me and shrugged.

‘Apologies for that,’ he said. ‘Thanks for saving my hat though.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ I replied.

There were about twenty of us in the carriage, including Greylag and perhaps fifteen other musicians. The interior was bare, with no seats apart from a folding one at the far end. This had already been taken by one of the ‘guards’, so the rest of us made ourselves as comfortable as we could along the rough wooden walls. After a while Gadwall came and sat down beside me and Sanderling.

The train rattled on towards the east.

We’d been sitting there for thirty minutes when Sanderling broke the silence.

‘Why aren’t there any windows?’ he asked.

‘Nothing to see,’ said Gadwall.

‘I notice there aren’t any lights either,’ Sanderling continued, ‘only those ventilation slits. What happens when it gets dark?’

‘We can all go to sleep.’

Gadwall’s blunt rejoinder more or less put paid to any further discussion. He was far from unfriendly, however, and in due course he took a bar of chocolate from his pocket. This he passed around the carriage, inviting everyone to partake. When it ran out, one of his companions produced a similar bar. This, too, was shared amongst all and sundry, including the members of the orchestra. Evidently some of them had never tasted chocolate before, and the perceived act of kindness was enough to create a friendly atmosphere for the next few hours.

At some stage I must have drifted off to sleep. When I awoke night had fallen and I realised the train had come to a halt. Inside the carriage all was quiet, but I could hear faint voices outside; also some occasional footsteps. Light dappled momentarily through the ventilation slit, as if a lamp was being swung in the darkness. A minute passed and then there was a loud clunk and the train juddered: presumably some additional carriages were being attached. The sudden movement roused Sanderling briefly. He opened his eyes, rubbed them and asked where we were. When I told him I didn’t know he grunted and went straight back to sleep. There were some more voices nearby; then the lamplight gradually receded. After another delay a whistle was blown and the train began moving again, quite slowly. We trundled along at a steady pace for what felt like an hour before gathering speed once more. I had no idea how many miles we’d travelled, or how many more there were to go. I just sat there staring up at a narrow strip of fathomless sky until eventually I, too, went back to sleep.

When next I surfaced I heard a bell clanging and a voice crying out ‘City of Scoffers!’ It was rather cold. The pale light of dawn crept into the carriage as we emerged, one by one, from our slumbers. Somebody opened the sliding door from the outside; Sanderling was fully awake in an instant.

‘Ah good,’ he said, standing up and fastening his dandy coat. ‘We’re here.’

The train had drawn into a large station with at least a dozen platforms. There was frantic activity everywhere: carriages being loaded and unloaded, and passengers disembarking. Another train was waiting at the far side of our own platform: it was facing in the opposite direction and obviously preparing to leave. This was a most welcome sight. It meant I simply had to cross over, hop aboard and I’d soon be on my way back to Fallowfields.

First, though, I considered it only proper to bid farewell to my travelling companions. Greylag and the rest of the orchestra were already being ‘rounded up’ by some of Gadwall’s assistants. They got down from the train and assembled in a large group while a headcount was carried out. I was about to go and speak to Greylag when I spotted Sanderling stalking off down the platform.

‘Sanderling!’ I called, but he didn’t seem to hear. ‘Sanderling!’ I repeated.

He had a very single-minded look about him, and I thought I had a good idea what he was going in search of. I made an attempt to follow, but he was moving through the crowd so rapidly that I soon lost sight of him. By now the orchestra had formed into two files and was beginning to march away. Greylag was in the lead.

‘Goodbye, Greylag!’ I called, as he passed me by, but he didn’t hear me either.

Gadwall himself had hurried off the minute the carriage door opened, which meant I was now alone. With everybody gone about their business, I decided I might as well take my leave at once.

When I tried to board the other train, however, a uniformed man appeared and asked me for my ticket. When I told him I hadn’t got one he politely directed me to the ticket hall. There were a number of small windows with men sitting behind them. I chose one at random and spoke through the opening.

‘A ticket for Fallowfields, please.’

I placed my solitary anvil on the counter.

‘Travel permit?’ said the booking clerk.

‘I haven’t got one,’ I replied.

‘Outbound journeys require a travel permit.’

‘Where do I get one of those?’

‘Passes and permits.’

He pointed towards the far end of the hall. I thanked him and he smiled politely before closing his window and turning away. I glanced across towards my train: doors were being closed and whistles were being blown.

‘Damn!’ I thought to myself. ‘I’m going to miss it!’

All the same, I realised I had no alternative but to go and find out about a travel permit. Doubtless another train would be leaving in an hour or so, so I retrieved my coin and wandered along the ticket hall. Now that I had a little more time on my hands I was able to take in my surroundings properly. On first impressions it was all extremely well organised. The vast interior had countless windows, timetables and notices displaying departures and arrivals; there was also a left luggage office, a lost property office, a parcels dispatch office, a waiting room and a booth selling platform tickets. In a far corner I found the department I was seeking: PASSES AND PERMITS. I approached the window and rang a bell.

Presently a man appeared. ‘Can I help?’