Night Train to Jamalpur(57)

Ten minutes later, we were lying on our bunks again, and I had my Beck’s on the go. I didn’t like the look of the meat paste in my tiffin basket; I believed it had curdled in the incredible heat. Fisher was addressing me from the top bunk; he was speaking of ‘the last lot’: the war. I knew nothing of Fisher’s own war, save that he had been in France, then on the North-West Frontier of India. I believed he had served in both the Royal Engineers and the Military Police, but when asked he’d only say, ‘That’s all ancient history, isn’t it?’

He said, ‘You were on the little trains. In France.’

‘Two-foot gauge.’

‘But it’s not quite two foot, is it?’

‘One foot eleven and five eighths, if we’re splitting hairs.’

‘But the mountain railway – the one we’ll be taking to Darjeeling. That really is two foot, isn’t it?’

‘Dead on,’ I said. What the hell was he driving at?

I heard Fisher lighting a cigar.

‘You were running arms to the forward lines. Petrol-electrics, I suppose?’

‘Steam. Baldwins. Made in America.’

‘Up to the job, were they?’

‘Not bad. The boilers were set rather high.’

‘So they were unstable?’

‘That’s it.’

Paddy fields beyond the window slats. We had left the city behind.

‘Blow over in a breath of wind?’ Fisher suggested.

‘Breath of wind from a nine-pound crump, yes.’

‘But you came through all right?’

‘I’m sitting here talking to you, aren’t I? Lying here, I mean.’

I had half a hundredweight of iron in my left thigh but I didn’t go into that. Nor did I mention the bad blood within my own unit that had arisen from one capital crime and resulted in another.

‘You didn’t pick up a medal, then?’

I shook my head, forgetting that Fisher couldn’t see me. I had received some private congratulations for sorting out the bad business, but only after I’d nearly swung for it myself.

It had also earned me a posting to Mesopotamia, and the privilege of keeping tabs on the lieutenant colonel of dubious morals.

‘But you got your commission?’ Fisher said.

It was as though Fisher was trying to work out how much of a loss to the world it would be if he shot me dead.

‘For what it’s worth,’ I said, taking up my copy of The Statesman again.

On the top bunk Fisher had control of the light switch. He now turned it out. In the rattling darkness, I paid my own visit to the washroom. As I emerged from it, we ran through a station, and an arc of electric light swung through compartment, illuminating the side of Fisher’s face. He was silent, but not asleep. Before regaining my berth, I peered through the window slats at the endless paddy plains of North Bengal. Here and there were the beautiful silhouettes of palm trees – they looked better in silhouette – and of wooden contraptions used for irrigation. The mysterious orange sparks from the engine held my gaze. I closed the slats, and retreated to my bunk. Eventually I dropped asleep, in spite of my best intentions. Some time later, I was aware of a voice: it said, ‘Someone’s coming.’ It was Fisher’s voice. For a while, nothing happened, and I half believed I had dreamed it

I was awakened by the compartment door being pulled open. The train was moving slowly. Some light spilling from the corridor illuminated two faces: an Indian railway official and a European. The train began to gain speed. We must have made a stop, where this European had boarded. The official entered the carriage and began making up the opposite bunk, creating a good deal of din in the process.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Fisher muttered, after enduring a minute of the din, and then the European was about installed. The official quit the carriage, pulling the door to behind him. The European settled himself quickly, but then he got up and went into the washroom. He was in there for a good while. He came out to the accompaniment of the roaring flush of the thunderbox, then he went over to the window and opened the slats. All was darkness beyond, but he continued to peer through.

‘Get to fucking bed,’ said Fisher, and the man turned his head somewhat in the direction of Fisher. The man did not stir himself unduly, but he did close the slats a few seconds later, and climbed into his bunk. Half an hour later, I could still not be sure he was asleep, but I was pretty certain on another point: whatever Fisher’s plan might be, he could not shoot me now.


II

The European did not appear to speak or understand English. I put him down as Italian or Spanish or something, going by his responses to the bearer who came in with tea and toast at half after five in the morning. I opened the window slats: more paddy fields, now with pale orange sunlight burning the mist away. As I moved back from the window, the track began to curve, and I immediately looked again. What I had taken for a great bank of cloud was in fact a great bank of mountains, and it appeared that we were approaching the very perimeter wall of India.