Night Train to Jamalpur(79)

‘It’s Dougie Poole, Jim,’ he said.

What had occurred was that the engine men had connected the generator to the station lights, and Poole now stood revealed beneath one of the platform lamps.

‘Clever,’ I said, indicating the lights.

‘What would be clever, Jim,’ he said, ‘is if they could light the train and the platform.’ And it was true: the little train was in darkness once again. The generator could illuminate either one or the other, but not both. Poole was for once not drunk, whereas I was groggy from the whisky.

‘You coming through for the supper?’ he said.

‘Hold on.’ I said. ‘Were you at the recreation ground in the town?’

‘Took a stroll that way, yes.’

‘I saw you.’

‘I never saw you, Jim.’

Had he been tailing me? Had he finally worked out that I knew of his interest in venomous snakes?

‘Where are you off to?’ I said.

‘Calcutta, of course.’

‘Where’s Margaret?’

‘Staying on in the hills,’ and he indicated the steep forest rising beyond the station.

‘So’s Lydia,’ I said, grimly.

‘There you are, then,’ said Poole. ‘No danger of the social round coming to an end. You all right, Jim?’

‘I’m half cut,’ I said, producing the silver flask. ‘Fancy a belt?’

Poole shook his head. ‘I’m off the drink,’ he said. ‘And for good.’

‘What’s brought that on?’ I said.

‘Come on, I’ll stand you the supper.’

The little dining room of the station looked like an English tea rooms, right down to tea cosies and chequered tablecloths. But the only food going was no-meat curry.

‘I’ve been given the chuck, Jim,’ said Poole.

‘Eh?’

‘Askwith – at the dance. He took me aside, said I ought to be considering my future.’

‘That’s not the same as giving you the chuck.’

‘Yes it is. Game’s up.’

‘Was it to do with the new system?’

‘Eh?’

‘Askwith told me he’s bringing in a new system of traffic control,’ I said.

‘He said that, did he? Well, it hardly matters. Point is, I was canned at the dance, and he said he’d seen me in a bad state too often. India was clearly doing me no good, and I’d be better off going home. I wouldn’t qualify for the full pension, but he’d see me right financially, and give me a good character. He said it wasn’t too late for me to start again in traffic – said he had connections in the London and North Eastern set-up.’

‘Decent of him, I suppose.’

‘I didn’t put up a fight, Jim. You know why? It was meant to happen. The snake had tipped me the wink, so to speak. An omen. Get out while you can. You know what the Hindus call fate? Karma. I was locked into it Jim, but now I’ve escaped, and that’s called moksha. Release, letting go. I’m letting go of India,’ he added, as a platform guard came in and announced we had five minutes to finish up before the train departed. There was no time for pudding. Poole picked up an orange in lieu of his.

‘So you were fated to escape your fate?’ I suggested, when we were back on board the little train. Poole had joined me in my carriage. We sat on opposite cane chairs, with the elderly parties reading once again in the background.

He nodded. ‘That’s very well put, is that, Jim.’ (But you never quite knew when Dougie Poole was joshing.) ‘Askwith’s right. I’m not cut out for India. Look at me: I’m halfway up a bloody mountain and I’m sweating like a pig. Can’t ride, can’t shoot . . . I’m not moaning about it, Jim. I mean there’s very few from Walthamstow who can ride and shoot. I’m generally not up to the mark as a sportsman, apart from the funny sports. You know . . . egg-and-spoon in the Company revels on the maidan . . .’

‘Good at egg-and-spoon racing, are you?’

‘Not particularly, no. But you’re meant to lose at that, aren’t you? Also, I’m not particularly clubbable . . .’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

I heard a rattling sound. It was the door leading to the veranda. Poole didn’t seem to hear it. He’d removed the orange from his pocket, and was cutting into it

‘And it’s all clubs here. You’re practically clubbed to death, Jim.’

A dark station floated past. Poole blew out his cheeks, and fell silent. His sad eyes glittered. I took a belt on the whisky in the flask. Interesting though Poole’s news was, I couldn’t stop thinking of Lydia and the infernal Khan. Were they conducting a liaison? It couldn’t possibly be. She wasn’t that sort. In all the time I’d known her . . . Well, there was Major Briggs in our home village . . . We often bumped into him on the riverbank with his numerous dogs. That was because he owned the riverbank, or a long stretch of it, and I believed that was half the reason Lydia like to walk there – on the off chance of meeting him, and she always blushed when he raised his hat to her. I took another pull on the whisky.