Shepherd said, ‘Oh, I assure you, it has even reached as far as the cavalry barracks.’ He was indicating one individual (a cavalryman, I supposed) in amongst a group of new arrivals, but I couldn’t see which one. In fact, a general bustle of standing up, saluting and making of introductions was proceeding at the other end of the table, which sent the cat scampering from the room – into which confusion was added the return of the waiter, with more food and drink. Shepherd now turned his gracious attention to one of the younger officers, a Royal Engineer, who’d just passed him a paper-wrapped package – a framed painting, as it turned out. ‘Ah now,’ said Shepherd. ‘The halt in the desert . . . and the locomotive. I believe it’s one of the big Krausses.’
The young officer was embarrassed. ‘It’s a 2-8-0 anyhow.’
‘It is,’ said Shepherd, ‘and it’s a Krauss to the life. I believe you’ve worked from the engineering drawings, Harry.’
We all clustered around the painting. It showed an encampment in the desert: soldiers illuminated by pinkish fire glow, palms behind them, and mountains, ghostly in moonlight beyond. Emerging from a mountain pass was a locomotive, and its smoke, rising up and over the mountains, spelt out the words ‘Baghdad Railway Club’, with the small moon as the dot of the ‘i’.
‘We’ll hang it for next time,’ said Shepherd.
‘Very good painting,’ murmured the brigadier general, who’d wandered back over from the window.
I heard one of the R.E. men saying to Shepherd, ‘I gather you’re having a run up to Samarrah, sir.’ I could not hear Shepherd’s reply. The R.E. man said, ‘On The Elephant, I gather? But where did you turn up the side rods, sir?’ He was talking about the giant engine at Baghdad station, but Shepherd did not answer. Instead, he called, ‘Gentlemen, take your seats please!’
Shepherd put the brigadier general at the head. I presumed that he took pride of place by seniority rather than knowledge of railways, unless he owned a railway or two. To his right sat Shepherd, chief mover of the Club. Opposite to Shepherd sat a man I’d not seen enter the room: a handsome and sunburned major with swept-back blond hair. I heard him saying to his neighbour, ‘Well now, isn’t this jolly?’ Then, a moment later, ‘Railways aren’t really my thing. Interesting though.’ Aside from myself, Stevens and Ferry, there was also a collection of amiable-looking officers from the Royal Engineers. One was the amateur painter. Apparently a free chair at my end was being kept free for a ‘special guest’ who would be appearing in due course, and whose identity was a mystery to me. The actual dinner was being laid out on the other table. It would be taken as a buffet meal after the talks were concluded.
I turned to Ferry and whispered, ‘Who’s the guest of honour, Captain Ferry?’
He began‚ ‘I have an idea that—’
But the proceedings were starting. Shepherd was saying, ‘Captain Stevens will be entertaining us with a talk on “Some Memories of the Liskeard–Looe Line”.’
Stevens was tensing and untensing his shoulders in a vexing sort of way.
‘That’s in Cornwall by the way,’ added Shepherd, blushing. ‘But we begin with some local railway news.’
This was evidently the custom of the Club. The building of the line running north from Basrah was proceeding satisfactorily. It was two miles short of Nasiriyah. ‘And there is now a signal box on the line,’ said Shepherd, at which there were polite cheers, and raised glasses. ‘There are not, as yet, any signals, however.’
The brigadier said in his whispering tones, ‘Poor show,’ and smiled directly at me, for some reason.
The line from Kut to Baghdad was coming along more slowly.
‘The wooden sleepers’, said Shepherd, ‘are found to warp in the heat. The trouble is, they are made for the cooler climes of . . . Bombay.’ He gave his shy grin at this. ‘And now,’ he concluded, ‘Captain Stevens will take us to Cornwall.’
With a horrible scraping of his chair, Stevens rose.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. From beyond the window, the call to prayer was starting up. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘there they go again.’ While fiddling with his tunic sleeves, as though trying to perform some delicate operation with his cuff buttons that his thick fingers were not quite equal to, he said, ‘I could talk about how I won the silver cup in Bulmer’s Boxing Academy at the Penzance Fair in 1910. I knocked out Dan Patterson who went on to become the West Britain Light Heavyweight Champion, but I was only a kid then. That’s why I was only a light heavyweight, but it’s not really anything to do with railways, is it? No. So I thought I’d talk about something that . . . Well, there’s nothing to it really, nothing to it at all . . .’