Chapter Text
They were not railway children, to begin with. I don’t suppose they had ever thought about railways except as a means of getting to Maskelyne and Cook’s, the Pantomime, Zoological Gardens, and Madame Tussaud’s. They were just ordinary suburban children, and they lived with their father in an ordinary red-brick-fronted villa, with coloured glass in the front door, a tiled passage that was called a hall, a bathroom with hot and cold water, electric bells, French windows, and a good deal of white paint, and ‘every modern convenience’, as the house agents say.
There were four of them. Wilbur was the eldest. Of course, fathers never have favourites, but if their father had a favourite, it might have been Wilbur. Next came Technoblade, who wished to be a soldier when he grew up; then loud, spritely Tommy, and the youngest was Fundy, who always meant extremely well.
Phil did not spend all his time in paying dull calls to dull ladies, and sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to him. He was almost always there, ready to play with the children, and read to them, and help them to do their home lessons.
Besides this, Wilbur wrote stories for them while they were at school, and read them aloud after tea, and he always made up funny pieces of poetry for their birthdays and for other great occasions, such as the christening of the new kittens, or the refurnishing of the doll’s house, or the time when they were getting over the mumps.
These four lucky children always had everything they needed: pretty clothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys, and Mother Goose wallpaper. They had a kind and merry nursemaid, and a dog who was called Henry, and who was their very own. They also had a Phil who was just perfect - never cross, never unjust, and always ready for a game - at least, if at any time he was not ready, he always had an excellent reason for it, and explained the reason to the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt sure he couldn’t help himself.
You will think that they ought to have been very happy. And so they were, but they did not know how happy till the pretty life in the Red Villa was over and done with, and they had to live a very different life indeed.
The dreadful change came quite suddenly. Tommy had a birthday - his tenth. Among his other presents was a model engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The other presents were full of charm, but the engine was fuller of charm than any of the others were.
Its charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days. Then, owing either to Tommy’s inexperience or Fundy’s good intentions, which had been rather pressing, or to some other cause, the engine suddenly went off with a bang. Henry was so frightened that he ran out and did not come back all day.
All the Noah’s Ark people who were in the tender were broken to bits, but nothing else was hurt except the poor little engine and the feelings of Tommy. The others said he cried over it - but of course, boys of ten do not cry, however terrible the tragedies may be which darken their lot. He said that his eyes were red because he had a cold. This turned out to be true, though Tommy did not know it was when he said it, as the next day he had to go to bed and stay there. Phil began to be afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when suddenly he sat up in bed and said:
“I hate gruel, I hate barley water, I hate bread and milk. I want to get up and have something real to eat.”
“What would you like?” Phil asked.
“A pigeon-pie,” said Tommy, eagerly. “A large pigeon-pie! A very large one.”
So Phil asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was made. And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was cooked, Tommy ate some of it. After that his cold was better. Wilbur wrote a song to amuse him while the pie was being made. It began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Tommy was, then it went on:
“He had an engine that he loved
With all his heart and soul,
And if he had a wish on earth
It was to keep it whole.
One day - my friends, prepare your minds;
I’m coming to the worst -
Quite suddenly a screw went mad,
And then the boiler burst!
With gloomy face he picked it up
And took it to his brother,
Though even he could not suppose
That Wil could make another;
For those who perished on the line
He did not seem to care,
His engine being more to him
Than all the people there.
And now you see the reason why
Our Tommy has been ill:
He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie
His gnawing grief to kill.
He wraps himself in blankets warm
And sleeps in bed till late,
Determined thus to overcome
His miserable fate.
And if his eyes are rather red,
His cold must just excuse it:
Offer him pie; you may be sure
He never will refuse it.”
Phil had been away in the country for three or four days. All Tommy’s hopes for the curing of his afflicted engine were now fixed on his father, for Phil was most wonderfully clever with his fingers. He could mend all sorts of things. He had often acted as veterinary surgeon to the wooden rocking horse; once he had saved its life when all human aid was despaired of, and the poor creature was given up for lost, and even the carpenter said he didn’t see his way to do anything. And it was Phil who mended the doll’s cradle when no one else could; and with a little glue and some bits of wood and a pen-knife made all the Noah’s Ark beasts as strong on their pins as ever they were, if not stronger.
Tommy, with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about his engine till after Phil had had his dinner and his after-dinner cigar. The unselfishness was Technoblade’s idea - but it was Tommy who carried it out.
And needed a good deal of patience, too.
At last, Wilbur said to Phil: “Dad, if you’re quite comfy, we want to tell you about the great railway accident, and ask your advice.”
“All right,” said Phil. “Fire away!”
So then Tommy told the sad tale, and fetched what was left of the engine.
“Hum,” said Phil, when he had looked the engine over very carefully.
The boys held their breaths.
“Is there no hope?” said Tommy, in a low, unsteady voice.
“Hope? Tons of it,” said Phil, cheerfully. Bbut it’ll want something besides hope - a bit of brazing say, or some solder, and a new valve. I think we’d better keep it for a rainy day, mate. In other words, I’ll give up Saturday afternoon to it, and you shall all help me.”
“Can babies help to mend engines?” Tommy asked doubtfully. “I think Fundy’s too babyish.”
“Hey!” cried little Fundy.
“Of course they can,” said Technoblade. “Would you like to be an engine driver, Fundy?”
“My face would be always dirty, wouldn’t it?” said Fundy, in unenthusiastic tones.
“I’d love it,” said Tommy. “Do you think I could when I’m grown up, Phil? Or even a stoker?”
“You mean a fireman,” said Phil, pulling and twisting at the engine. “Well, if you still wish it, when you’re grown up, we’ll see about making you a fireman. I remember when I was a boy -”
Just then there was a knock at the front door.
“Who on earth!” said Phil. “An Englishman’s house is his castle, of course, but I do wish they built semi-detached villas with moats and drawbridges.”
Ruth - she was the parlour-maid - came in and said that two gentlemen wanted to see the master.
“I’ve shown them into the library, sir,” said she.
“I guess it’s the subscription to the Vicar’s testimonial,” said Wilbur, “or else it’s the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them quickly, Dad! It does break up an evening so, and it’s nearly Tommy and Fundy’s bedtime.”
But Phil did not seem to be able to get rid of the gentlemen at all quickly.
“I wish we had got a moat and drawbridge,” said Technoblade. “Then, when we didn’t want people, we could just pull up the drawbridge and no one else could get in. Phil will have forgotten about his childhood if they stay much longer.”
Wilbur tried to make the time pass by telling them a story about a Prince with green eyes, but it was difficult because they could hear the voices of Phil and the gentlemen in the library, and Phil’s voice sounded louder and different to the voice he generally used to people who came about testimonials and holiday funds.
Then the library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of relief.
“They’re going now,” said Technoblade. “He’s rung to have them shown out.”
But instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and she looked strange.
“Master Wilbur,” she said, “your father wants you, Master Techn’blade, to just step into the study. He looks like the dead; I think he’s had bad news, you know. You’d best prepare yourself for the worst, - p’raps it’s a death in the family or a bank busted or -”
“That’ll do, Ruth,” said Wilbur gently; “you can go.”
Then Wilbur and Technoblade went into the library. There was more talking. Then the bell rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. Tommy and Fundy heard boots go out and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the front door shut. Then Wilbur came in. His face was as white as his shirt collar, and his eyes looked very big and shining. His mouth looked like just a line of pale pink - his lips were thin and not their proper shape at all.
“It’s bedtime,” he said. “Ruth will put you to bed.”
“But you promised we could sit up late tonight because Phil’s come home,” said Tommy. “And what about Techno?”
“Dad’s been called away - on business,” said Wilbur and he made no mention of Technoblade. “Come on, go at once!”
Fundy lingered to give Wilbur an extra hug and to whisper: “It wasn’t bad news, Wilby, was it? Is anyone dead - or -”
“Nobody’s dead, no,” said Wilbur, and he almost seemed to push Fundy away. “I can’t tell you anything tonight, love. Go now.”
So Fundy went.
Ruth brushed the boys’ hair and put them to bed. When she had turned down the gas and made to leave, Tommy folded his arms.
“Ruth, what’s going on?” he asked stubbornly.
“Don’t ask me no questions and I won’t tell you no lies,” Ruth replied. “You’ll know soon enough.”
Late that night, Wilbur came up and stared at the boys as they lay asleep. But Tommy was the only one whom the staring woke, and he lay mousey-still and said nothing.
“If Wilbur doesn’t want us to know he’s been crying,” he said to himself as he heard through the dark the catching of his brother’s breath, “we won’t.”
When they came down to breakfast the next morning, Technoblade and Wilbur had already gone out.
“To London,” Ruth said, and left them to their breakfast.
“There’s something awful the matter,” said Tommy, breaking his egg. “Ruth told me last night we should know soon enough.”
“Did you really ask her?”
“Yes, I did!” said Tommy, angrily. “If you could go to bed without caring whether Wil was worried or not, I couldn’t. So there!”
“I don’t think we ought to ask the servants things Wilbur doesn’t tell us,” said Fundy nervously.
“That’s right, Mister Goody-goody,” said Tommy, “preach away.”
“I’m not goody,” said Fundy. “But I think I’m right this time!”
“Of course. You always are in your own opinion,” said Tommy.
“Oh, don’t!” cried Fundy, putting down his egg-spoon. “Don’t be mean to me! Don’t make it worse!”
“Well, who started it?” said Tommy.
Fundy made an effort, and answered: “I did, but -”
“Well, then,” said Tommy, triumphantly. But before he went to school he thumped his brother between the shoulders and told him to cheer up.
The children came home to one o’clock dinner, but neither Wilbur or Technoblade were there. And they were not there at tea-time either.
It was nearly seven before they came in, looking so ill and tired that the boys felt they could not ask them any questions. Wilbur sank into an armchair and Technoblade disappeared upstairs, quiet as usual.
When he had a cup of tea in his hands, Wilbur said: “Now, boys, I want to tell you something. Those men last night did bring very bad news, and Phil will...be away for some time. I want you all to help, and not to make things harder for us.”
“Of course!” said Fundy, holding Wilbur’s hand against his face.
“You can help me very much,” said Wilbur, “by being good and happy and not quarrelling when we’re away -“ Tommy and Fundy exchanged guilty glances, “- for Techno and I shall have to be away for a good deal.”
“We won’t quarrel!” said the boys. And meant it, too.
“Then,” Wilbur went on, “I want you not to ask me any questions about this trouble, and not to ask Technoblade any questions.”
Tommy cringed and shuffled his boots on the carpet.
“You’ll promise this, too, won’t you?”
“I did ask Ruth,” said Tommy, suddenly. “I’m very sorry, but I did.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said I would know soon enough.”
“It isn’t necessary for you to know anything about it,” said Wilbur; “it’s about business, and you never do understand business, do you?”
“No,” said Tommy; “is it something to do with government?” For Phil was a worker in a government office.
“Yes,” said Wilbur. “Now it’s bedtime, my boys. And don’t you worry, it’ll all come right in the end.”
“Then don’t you worry either, Wilby,” said Tommy, “and we’ll all be as good as gold.”
Wilbur sighed and hugged them.
“We’ll begin being good the first thing tomorrow morning,” said Tommy, as they went upstairs.
“Why not now?” said Fundy.
“There’s nothing to be good about now, stupid,” said Tommy.
“I’m not stupid!”
“Wait, I don’t mean what you think. Calling you silly is as if calling you Fundy. I mean it just a - what is it Phil calls it? A germ of endearment!”
The boys folded up their clothes - which was the only way of being good that they could think of.
“You know,” said Tommy, smoothing out his shirt, “you used to say it was so dull - nothing happening here, like in books. Now, something has happened.”
“I never wanted things to happen by making Wilbur and Techno unhappy,” said Fundy guiltily. “Everything’s awful.”
Everything continued to be awful for some weeks.
Wilbur was nearly always out. Technoblade barely left his room, not to be disturbed according to Ruth. Meals were dull and dirty. The between maid was sent away, and Miss Sally came on a visit. Miss Sally was slightly older than Wilbur but he went calling for her sometimes. She was going abroad to be a governess. She was very busy getting her clothes ready, and they were very ugly, dingy clothes, and she had them always littering about, and the sewing machine seemed to whir - on and on all day and most of the night. Miss Sally believed in keeping children in their proper places and they more than returned the compliment. Their idea of Miss Sally proper place was anywhere where they were not, so they saw very little of her.
They preferred the company of the servants, who were more amusing. Cook, if in a good temper, could sing comic songs, and the housemaid, if she happened not to be offended with you, could imitate a hen that has laid an egg, a bottle of champagne being opened, and could mew like two cats fighting. The servants never told the children what the bad news was that the gentlemen had brought to Phil. But they kept hinting that they could tell a great deal if they chose - and this was not fun.
One day when Tommy had made a booby trap over the bathroom door, and it had acted beautifully as Ruth passed through, but she caught him and boxed his ears.
“You’ll come to a bad end,” Ruth said furiously, “you nasty little runt, you! If you don’t mend your ways, you’ll go where your precious father’s gone, so I tell you!”
Tommy repeated this to Technoblade, and the next morning, Ruth was sent away.
Then came the time when Wilbur returned home and went to bed and stayed there two days and the doctor visited, and the children crept wretchedly about the house and wondered if the world was coming to an end.
Wilbur appeared one morning at breakfast, very pale and with lines on his face that ought to be on a sixteen-year-old young man. But he smiled, as well as he could, and said: “Now, boys, everything is settled. We’re going to leave this house, and go and live in the country! Such a sweet little white house. I know you’ll love it!”
A whirling week of packing followed - not just packing clothes, like when you go to the seaside, but packing chairs and tables, covering their tops with sacking and their legs with straw.
All sorts of things were packed that you don’t pack when you go to the seaside. Crockery, blankets, candlesticks, carpets, bedsteads, saucepans, and even fenders and fire-irons.
The house was like a furniture warehouse. I think the two younger boys enjoyed it very much. Wilbur was very busy, but not too busy now to talk to them, and read to them, and even to sing for Fundy to cheer him up when he fell down with a screwdriver and jabbed it into his hand.
“Aren’t you going to pack this, Wil?” Tommy asked, pointing to the beautiful cabinet inlaid with red turtle shell and brass.
“We can’t take everything,” said Wilbur.
“But we seem to be taking all the ugly things,” sulked Tommy.
“We’re taking the useful ones,” replied Wilbur, “we’ve got to play at being poor for a bit.”
And Technoblade said: “Play?”
When all the ugly useful things had been packed up and taken away in a van by men in green-baize aprons, all their beds had gone. A bed was made up for Tommy on the drawing-room sofa.
“I say, this is great!” He wriggled joyously as Wilbur tucked him up. “I do like moving! I wish we moved once a month.”
Wilbur laughed. “I don’t!” he said. “Good night, Toms.”
As he turned away Tommy saw his face. He’d never forget it. “Oh, Wilby,” he whispered all to himself as he got into bed. “Fancy being brave enough to laugh when you’re feeling like that!”
Next day boxes were filled, and boxes and more boxes; and then late in the afternoon a cab came to take them to the station.
Miss Sally saw them off. They felt that they were seeing her off, and they were glad of it. Wilbur gave her a sweet kiss and Technoblade covered little Fundy’s eyes.
“But, oh, those poor children that she’s going off to governess!” whispered Tommy. “I wouldn’t be them for anything!”
At first, they enjoyed looking out of the window, but when it grew dusk they grew sleepier and sleepier, and no one knew how long they had been in the train when they were roused by Technoblade shaking them gently and saying: “Wake up. We’re there.”
They woke up, cold and melancholy, and stood shivering on the draughty platform while the baggage was taken out of the train. Then the engine, puffing and blowing, set to work again, and dragged the train away. The four boys watched the tail-lights of the guard’s van disappear into the darkness.
This was the first train they saw on that railway which was in time to become so very dear to them. They did not guess then how they would grow to love the railway, and how soon it would become the centre of their new life, nor what wonders and changes it would bring to them.
They only shivered and sneezed and hoped the walk to the new house would not be long. Tommy’s nose was colder than he ever remembered it to have been before. Technoblade’s hat was crooked, and the elastic seemed tighter than usual. Fundy’s shoe-laces had come undone.
“Come,” said Techno, “we’ve got to walk. There aren’t any cabs here.”
The walk was dark and muddy. The children stumbled a little on the rough road, and once Fundy fell into a puddle and was picked up to be carried damp and unhappy. There were no gas lamps on the road, and the road was uphill. The cart went at a foot’s pace, and they followed the gritty crunch of its wheels. As their eyes got used to the darkness, they could see the mound of boxes swaying dimly in front of them.
A long gate had to be opened for the cart to pass through, and after that, the road seemed to go across fields - and now it went downhill.
Presently, a great dark lumpish thing showed over to the right.
“There’s the house,” said Wilbur. “I wonder why she’s shut the shutters.”
“Who’s she?” asked Tommy meanly.
“The lady I hired to clean the place, and put the furniture straight, and get supper.”
There was a low wall, and trees inside.
“That’s the garden,” said Technoblade. “It looks good for fencing.”
“It looks more like a pan full of cabbages,” cried Tommy and Fundy, who had fallen asleep on Technoblade’s back, woke up enough to laugh at his brother’s rudeness.
The cart went on along by the garden wall, and round to the back of the house, and here it clattered into a cobble-stoned yard and stopped at the back door.
There was no light in any of the windows.
Everyone hammered at the door, but no one came.
The man who drove the cart said he expected Mrs Puffy had gone home. “You see, your train was so late that she left.”
“But she’s got the key,” cried Wilbur. “Techno, what can we do?”
“Oh, she’ll have left that under the doorstep,” said the cart man. “Folks do that around here.” He took the lantern off his cart and stooped. “Ay, here it is, right enough.” He unlocked the door and went in and set his lantern on the table. “Got a candle?”
“I don’t know where anything is,” Wilbur spoke rather less cheerfully than usual.
The cart man struck a match. There was a candle on the table, and he lit it. By its thin little glimmer, the children saw a large bare kitchen with a stone floor. There were no curtains, no hearth-rug. The kitchen table from home stood in the middle of the room. The chairs were in one corner, and the pots, pans, brooms, and crockery in another. There was no fire, and the black grate showed cold, dead ashes.
As the cart man turned to go out after he had brought in the boxes, there was a rustling, scampering sound that seemed to come from inside the walls of the house.
“Oh, what’s that?” cried Fundy.
“It’s only the rats,” said the cart man. And he went away and shut the door, and the sudden draught of it blew out the candle.
“Damn,” said Tommy, “I wish we hadn’t come!” and he knocked a chair over.
“Only the rats!” whimpered Fundy, in the dark.