Gerald Durrell: The Talking Parcel

When they reached the village, they made their way through the silent streets until they came to the small railway station. There, sitting in all her glory on a sort of small stage with two pieces of rail for her to perch on, was Madame Hortense, looking more like a very large toy than a real engine.

“Yes, that’s she,” said Parrot. “Looks as though she’s put on a bit of rust since I last saw her. Or maybe it’s just the moonlight.”

“I’m sure she hasn’t,” said Penelope. “She was beautifully oiled and looked after when I saw her; she was in a wonderful state of preservation.”

“Well,” said Parrot, “I’ll go and wake the old girl up.”

So saying, he flew ahead of the children and landed on one of Madame Hortense’s bumpers.

“ Alors, Hortense, my little cabbage, come along,” cried Par­rot. “Open those big eyes of yours and let’s be off.”

Woken as she was out of a deep sleep, Madame Hortense ut­tered a short, sharp scream, which made Parrot almost fall off the bumper with astonishment.

“ ’Elp! ’Elp!” shouted .Madame Hortense. “My assassins is ’ere again.”

“Here,” said Parrot, “give over. You’ll have the whole village awake.”

uMon Dieu! Oh, it's you,” said Madame in a husky voice with a strong French accent. “Mon Dieu, ’ow you ’ave frightened zee life from me, creeping about like zat in zee night.”

“Who did you think it was?” asked Parrot. “Stephenson’s Rocket, come to pay you a visit?”

“Ah, mon Perroquet,” said Madame Hortense, "always you joke. You know perfectly well zat a good-looking engine in such perfect condition as me attracts a lot of attention, n'est-ce pas? Only zee ozer night I ’ad to call for ’elp. Zere were two men from zee Science Museum in London, trying to—’ow you zay?—kidnapping me. So I ’ootled and ’ootled, and zee villagers saved me. I tell you, a train of my sort does not give up easily. I am not one of zese stupid diesels.”

“Of course not,” said Parrot. “Why, you are without doubt the prettiest little train I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been around quite a bit, you know.”

“Ah, Perroquet," sighed Madame Hortense, “you always zay zee right zing to a lady. You’re so gallant, so sympathique, mon brave Perroquet. ”

“Here,” said Parrot. “Let me introduce my friends: Peter, Simon, and Penelope.”

Madame Hortense surveyed them.

“Zee boys are ’andsome,” she said at last, “especially zee dark one; ’e reminds me of zee first driver I ’ad. But zee girl? . . . hm, very dull, and what a lot of rust on its head, poor zing.”

“That’s my hair, and it’s supposed to be that color,” said Penelope indignantly.

“Now, now, we didn’t come here to start a beauty contest,” said Parrot soothingly. “We came here to ask you a favor, Hor­tense, my darling.”

“For you, mon brave Perroquet , I will be anyzing,” said Madame Hortense.

“Good,” said Parrot. “Drive us to Mythologia, then.”

“What?” screeched Madame Hortense. “Get out of my nice, warm siding and go up zee valley? Me, ’oo’s retired? Me, at my age, getting up zee steam? Non! non! non! nevaire! I zay, zut alors, zis you cannot ask.”

The argument went on for a long time. Parrot flattered and wheedled the little train, and the children told her how beautiful she was, how brave she was, and how important to Mythologia she was—which was quite true.

“Well,” said Madame Hortense at last, “I would do zis zing, but I cannot get down from zis comfortable rail siding built special for me.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Peter. “Two planks of wood, and with your agility and skill we’ll have you down in a jiffy.”

“Mon Dieu , ’e flatters like you, Perroquet ,” said Madame Hortense. “Ah well, if it is zee fate, it is zee fate. Bring your pieces of wood and let us commence.”

Quickly the two boys got some planks of wood and made a sort of slide down from the rails on which Madame Hortense stood to the ground below. Then they all got behind her and started to push. “Sacree couchette! ” cried Madame Hortense. “ ’Arder, ’arder, you must propel. Alors , once again.”

At last her small wheels got a purchase, and, creaking and gasping, she slid down the wooden ramp and squatted, panting, at the bottom.

“Wonderful,” said Peter. “Now only a few more yards, Madame, and you’ll be on the nice, comfortable railway lines.”

“ Zut , alors ” said Madame Hortense in between gasps. “Zee zings I do for zat Perroquet. ”

While Peter and Simon coaxed Madame Hortense onto the lines, Penelope and Parrot searched the sidings for fuel that would make the little engine function. There was no coal, but they eventually found a pile of olive wood logs. Penelope col­lected armfuls of these and put them into Madame Hortense’s coal bunker.

“Careful, careful, do not bump zee paintwork,” panted Madame Hortense. “She was only painted nearly afresh zee ozer day.”

At last the bunker was full enough of wood. They filled up Madame Hortense’s boiler from the station’s tap and were ready to start. It was only when the children went aboard that they realized how tiny Madame Hortense really was, for once Parrot and his cage were put into the engine’s cab, there was only just enough room left over for the three children to squeeze in with their belongings.

“Are you aboard?” asked Madame Hortense. “Zen, will you, Peter, have zee goodness to light wiz a light my boiler?”

“It will be a pleasure, Madame,” said Peter. Indeed, both he and Simon were railway enthusiasts, and so to be allowed just to travel in Madame Hortense would have been a thrill. To be allowed to drive her was an honor. Carefully, they lit a piece of paper and then piled chips of olive wood and shreds of bark over it, coaxing it into a core of fire. Then they piled on the olive logs and soon the fire was roaring away in the furnace.

“Ah, nom de wagon-lit! ” said Madame Hortense, drawing in great lungfuls of smoke and blowing them through her funnel. “Zere eez nozzing like a good smoke when one’s nerves is all en­tanglement.” Presently they got the boiler hot, and soon Mad­ame Hortense uttered a triumphant “ Whoosh sh sh sh sssss. ” “Excellent,” said Parrot admiringly. “You’re in excellent voice, my dear Hortense.”

“Flatterer,” said Madame Hortense. “ Whooshshshsh .”

“Now, Peter,” said Parrot, “just ease off the brake there a bit, and, Simon, you give Madame a little more steam.”

Very slowly at first, then with ever-increasing speed, the wheels started to turn.

“More of zee chuff-chuff ‘ chuff-chuff , chuff-chuff , steam,” cried Madame Hortense. “Remove chuff-chuff ‘ chuff ’ chuff-a-chuff chuff chuff chuff, zee brake chuff-chuffs more of zee steam chuff-a-chuff chuff-a-chuff , chuff-a-chuff , chuff-a-chuff chuff. Alors , mes braves , we ’ave started. Vive la France! Chuff-a-chuff a chuff a , chuffa-chuffa chuff a, chuffa-chuffa chuff a ...”

“Wonderful,” shouted Simon. “Vive Madame Hortense.” “Hear, hear,” shouted Parrot.

“Have you taken your pill?” yelled Dulcibelle to Parrot. “You know you’re always trainsick.”

The little train gathered speed, clanking, rattling, and clink­ing along the rails, enveloped in clouds of steam, her boiler glowing like a ruby as Peter and Simon plied it with fresh olive wood logs, heading toward the range of mountains that lay purple and black in the moonlight.