The Collected Short Fiction.

Robert Aickman.

The Trains (1951).

On the moors, as early as this, the air no longer clung about her, impeding her movements, absorbing her energies. Now a warm breeze seemed to lift her up and bear her on: the absorption process was reversed; her bloodstream drew impulsion from the zephyrs. Her thoughts raced from her in all directions, unproductive but joyful. She remembered the railway posters. Was this ozone?

Not that she had at all disliked the big industrial city they had just left; unlike Mimi, who had loathed it. Mimi had wanted their walking tour to be each day from one Youth Hostel to another; but that was the one proposal Margaret had successfully resisted. Their itinerary lay in the Pennines, and Margaret had urged the case for sleeping in farm-houses and, on occasion, in conventional hotels. Mimi had suggested that the former were undependable and the latter both dreary and expensive; but suddenly her advocacy of Youth Hostels had filled her with shame, and she had capitulated. 'But hotels look down on hikers,' she had added. Margaret had not until then regarded them as hikers.

Apart from the controversy about the city, all had so far gone fairly well, particularly with the weather, as their progress entered its second week. The city Margaret had found new, interesting, unexpectedly beautiful and romantic: its well-proportioned stone mills and uncountable volcanic chimneys appeared perfectly to consort with the high free mountains always in the background. To Mimi the place was all that she went on holiday to avoid. If you had to have towns, she would choose the blurred amalgam of the Midlands and South, where town does not contrast with country but merges into it, neither town nor country being at any time so distinct as in the North. To Margaret this, to her, new way of life (of which she saw only the very topmost surface), seemed considerably less dreadful than she had expected. Mimi, to whom also it was new, saw it as the existence from which very probably her great-grandfather had fought and climbed, a degradation she was appalled to find still in existence and able to devour her. If there had to be industry, let the facts be swaddled in suburbs. The Free Trade Hotel (RAC and AA) had found single rooms for them; and Mimi had missed someone to talk to in bed.

They had descended to the town quite suddenly from the wildest moors, as one does in the North. Now equally suddenly it was as if there were no towns, but only small, long-toothed Neanderthals crouched behind rocks waiting to tear the two of them to pieces. Air roared past in incalculable bulk under the lucent sky, deeply blue but traversed by well s.p.a.ced ma.s.ses of sharply edged white cloud, like the floats in a Mediterranean pageant. The misty, smoky, reeking air of the city had enchanted Margaret with its perpetually changing atmospheric effects, a meteorological drama unavailable in any other environment; but up here the air was certainly like itself. The path was hard to find across the heather, the only landmarks being contours and neither of them expert with a map; but they advanced in happy silence, all barriers between them blown down, even Margaret's heavy rucksack far from her mind. (Mimi took her own even heavier rucksack for granted at all times.) 'Surely that's a train?' said Margaret, when they had walked for two or three hours.

'Oh G.o.d,' said Mimi, the escapist.

'The point is it'll give us our bearing.' The vague rumbling was now lost in the noisy wind. 'Let's look.'

Mimi unstrapped the back pocket on Margaret's rucksack and took out the map. They stood holding it between them. Their orientation being governed by the wind, and beyond their power to correct mentally, they then laid the map on the ground, the top more or less to the north, and a grey stone on each corner.

'There's the line,' said Margaret, following it across the map with her finger. 'We must be somewhere about here.'

'How do you know we're not above the tunnel?' inquired Mimi. 'It's about four miles long.'

'I don't think we're high enough. 'The tunnel's further on.'

'Couldn't we strike this road?'

'Which way do you suggest?'

'Over the brow of the next hill, if you were right about that being a train. The road goes quite near the railway and the sound came from over there.' Mimi pointed, the web of her rucksack, as she lay twisted on the ground, dragging uncomfortably in the shoulder strap of her shirt.

'I wish we had a canvas map. The wind's tearing this one to pieces.'

Mimi replied amiably. 'It's a bore, isn't it?' It was she who had been responsible for the map.

'I'm almost sure you're right,' said Margaret, with all the confidence of the lost.

'Let's go,' said Mimi. With difficulty they folded up the map, and Mimi returned it to Margaret's rucksack. The four grey stones continued to mark the corners of a now mysterious rectangle.

As it chanced, Mimi was right. When they had descended to the valley before them, and toiled to the next ridge, a double line of railway and a stone-walled road climbed the valley beyond. While they watched, a train began slowly to chug upwards from far to the left.

'The other one must have been going downhill,' said Mimi.

They began the descent to the road. It was some time since there had been even a sheep path. The distance to the road was negligible as the crow flies, but it took them thirty-five minutes by Mimi's wrist-watch, and the crawling train pa.s.sed before them almost as soon as they started.

'I wish we were crows,' Mimi exclaimed.

Margaret said, 'Yes,' and smiled.

They noticed no traffic on the road, which, when reached, proved to be surfaced with hard, irregular granite chips, somewhat in need of re-laying and the attentions of a steamroller.

'Pretty grim,' said Mimi after a quarter of an hour. 'But I'm through with that heather.' Both sides of the valley were packed with it.

'Hadn't we better try to find out exactly where we are?' suggested Margaret.

'Does it really matter?'

'There's lunch.'

'That doesn't depend on where we are. So long as we're in the country it's all one, don't you think?'

'I think we'd better make sure.'

'OK.'.

Mimi again got out the map. As they were anchoring it by the roadside, a train roared into being and swept down the gradient.

'What are you doing?' asked Margaret, struggling with a rather unsuitable stone.

'Waving, of course.'

'Did anyone wave back?'

'Haven't you ever waved to the driver?'

'No. I don't think I have. I didn't know it was the driver you waved to. I thought it was the pa.s.sengers.' The map now seemed secure.

'Them too sometimes. But drivers always wave to girls.'

'Only to girls?'

'Only to girls.' Mimi couldn't remember when she hadn't known that. 'Where are we?' They stared at the map, trying to drag out its mystery. Even now that they were on the road, with the railway plain before them crossing contour after contour, the problem seemed little simpler.

'I wish there was an instrument which said how high we were,' remarked Mimi.

'Something else to carry.'

Soon they were reduced to staring about them.

'Isn't that a house?' Mimi was again pointing the initiative.

'If it is, I think it must be "Inn".' Margaret indicated it. 'There's no other building on the map this side of the railway tunnel, unless we're much lower down the valley than we think.'

'Maps don't show every small building.'

'They seem to in country districts. I've been noticing. Each farm has a little dot. Even the cottage by the reservoir yesterday had its dot.'

'Oh well, if it's a pub, we can eat in the bar. OK by me.'

Again they left behind them four grey stones at the corners of nothing.

'Incidentally, the map only shows one house between the other end of the tunnel and Pudsley. A good eight miles, I should say.'

'Let's hope it's one of your farms. I won't face a night in Pudsley. We're supposed to be on holiday. Remember?'

'I expect they'll put us up.'

The building ahead of them proved long deserted. Or possibly not so long; it is difficult to tell with simple stone buildings in a wet climate. The windows were planked up; slates from the roof littered the weedy garden; the front door had been stove in.

'Trust the Army,' said Mimi. 'Hope tonight's quarters are more weatherproof. We'd better eat. It's a quarter past two.'

'I don't think it's the Army. More like the agricultural depression.' Margaret had learnt on her father's estate the significance of deserted farmhouses and neglected holdings.

'Look! There's the tunnel.'

Margaret advanced a few steps up the road to join her. From the black portal the tunnel bored straight into the rock, with the road winding steeply above it.

'There's another building,' said Margaret, following the discouraging ascent with her eyes. 'What's more, I can see a sign outside it. I believe the map's wrong. Come on.'

'Oh well,' said Mimi.

Just as they were over the tunnel entrance another train sped downwards. They looked from above at the blind black roofs of the coaches, like the caterpillar at the fair with the cover down.

It was hard to say whether the map was wrong or not. The house above the tunnel, though apparently not shown, was certainly not an inn. It was almost the exact opposite: an unlicensed Guest House.

'Good for a cup of tea,' said Mimi. 'But we'd better eat outside.'

A little further up the road was a small hillock. They ascended it, cast off their heavy rucksacks, loosened their belts a hole or two, and began to eat corned beef sandwiches. The Guest House lay below them, occupied to all appearances, but with no one visible.

'Not much traffic,' said Margaret, dangling a squashed tomato.

'They all go by train.'

The distant crowing of an engine whistle seemed to confirm her words.

The sharp-edged clouds, now slightly larger, were still being pushed across the sky; but by now the breeze seemed to have dropped and it was exceedingly hot. The two women were covered with sweat, and Mimi undid another b.u.t.ton of her shirt.'

Aren't you glad I made you wear shorts?"

Margaret had to admit to herself she was glad. There had been some dissension between the two of them upon this point; Margaret, who had never worn shorts in her life before, feeling intensely embarra.s.sed by Mimi's proposal, and Mimi unexpectedly announcing that she wouldn't come at all unless Margaret 'dressed like everybody else'. Margaret now realised that for once 'everybody' was right. The freedom was delightful; and without it the weight of the rucksack would have been unendurable. Moreover, her entire present outfit had cost less than a guinea; and it mattered little what happened to it. That, she perceived, was the real freedom. Still she was pleased that none of her family could see her.

'Very glad indeed,' she replied. 'I really am.'

Mimi smiled warmly, too nice to triumph, although the matter was one about which Margaret's original att.i.tude had roused strong feelings in her.

'Not the ideal food for this heat,' said Margaret. 'We'll come out in spots.'

'Lucky to get corned beef. Another girl and I hiked from end to end of the Pilgrim's Way on plain bread and marge. It was Bank Holiday and we'd forgotten to lay anything in.' Then, springing to her feet with her mouth full, she picked up her rucksack. 'Let's try for a drink.' She was off down the road before Margaret could rise or even speak. She was given to acting on such sudden small impulses, Margaret had noticed.

By the time Margaret had finished her final sandwich, Mimi had rung the Guest House bell and had been inside for some time. Before following, Margaret wiped the sweat from her face on to one of the large handkerchiefs Mimi had prudently enjoined; then from one of the breast pockets of her shirt produced a comb and mirror, rearranged her hair so far as was allowed by sweat and the small tight bun into which, with a view to efficiency on this holiday, she had woven it, and returned the articles to her shirt pocket, b.u.t.toning down the flap, but avoiding contact as far as possible with her sticky body. She approached the front door slowly, endeavouring to beget no further heat.

The bell, though provided with a modern pseudo-Italian pull, was of the authentic country house pattern, operated by a wire. The door was almost immediately opened by a plain woman in a Marks and Spencer overall.

'Yes?'

'Could I possibly have something to drink? My friend's inside already.'

'Come in. Tea or coffee? We're out of minerals.'

'Could I have some coffee?'

'Coffee.' The word was repeated in a short blank tone. One would have supposed she had to deal with sixty orders an hour. She disappeared.

'Well, shut the door and keep the heat out.'

The speaker, a middle-aged man wearing dirty tennis shoes, was seated the other side of a round wooden table from Mimi, who was stirring a cup of tea. There was no one else in the room, which was congested with depressing cafe furniture, and decorated with cigarette advertis.e.m.e.nts hanging askew on the walls.

'You know what they say in New York?' He had the accent of a north country businessman. His eyes never left Mimi's large b.r.e.a.s.t.s distending her damp khaki shirt. 'I used to live in New York. Ten years altogether.'

Mimi said nothing. It was her habit to let the men do the talking. Margaret sat down beside her, laying her rucksack on the floor.

'Hullo.' His tone was cheekier than his intention.

'Hullo,' said Margaret neutrally.

'Are you two friends?'

'Yes.'

His gaze returned to the buxomer, nakeder Mimi.

'I was just telling your friend. You know what they say in New York?'

'No,' said Margaret. 'I don't think so. What do they say?'

'It isn't the heat. It's the humidity.'

He seemed still to be addressing Margaret, while staring at Mimi. Giving them a moment to follow what he evidently regarded as a difficult and penetrating observation, he continued, 'The damp, you know. The moisture in the atmosphere. The atmosphere's picking up moisture all the time. Sucking it out of the earth.' He licked his lower lip. 'This is nothing. Nothing to New York. I lived there for ten years. Beggars can't be choosers, you know.'

A door opened from behind and the taciturn woman brought Margaret's coffee. The cup was discoloured round the edge, and the saucer, for some reason, bore a crimson smear.

'One shilling.'