somewhere …’ Clovis glanced about, as if to catch them lurking in the shadows. ‘We didn’t expect any more.’
‘Do you have a telephone? Have the Railway contacted you at all?’
‘Yes, there,’ Clovis indicated the device. ‘We haven’t heard a thing. I’m so sorry, you must think me a terrible turnip, do come in. I—’ He broke off, glancing about him and wondering suddenly what Emerald and his mother would have him do with the stranger, so as not to interfere with their precious dinner arrangements. ‘I wonder where old Mrs Trieves can have got to …’ He lit upon an idea. ‘I say, I suppose I ought to introduce you to the other survivors.’
‘I suppose you ought. Thanks,’ said the displaced person, and the two of them went off towards the morning room, leaving Smudge alone once more.
Tremendously relieved. She contemplated the empty hall for some seconds before recalling her original timetable. She must not be distracted from her plan. She shrugged, shook herself and scampered off towards the back of the house.
Clovis led the new arrival briskly down the corridor and opened the door to the morning room to find the guests – the survivors , that is – hunched around the fire as if they were trying to discover something in the hearth. On his entrance they turned, in attitudes of outrage and distress, and several voices burst out:
‘There’s no more coal!’
‘No more fuel!’
‘No more fuel at all!’
Clovis was taken aback. All of them – there appeared to be twenty or more – were surging towards him, crossly, and the complaints piling upon one another were almost a chant: ‘We’re cold!’ ‘We’re hungry!’
To make matters worse, the new arrival, Charlie Treverish-Beacon or Haversham-Trevor – Clovis was dashed if he could remember his name – turned to him in some astonishment and cried accusingly, ‘D’you mean to say these poor blighters have all been crowded in here like this ever since the accident?’ And with this startling shift in attitude, he stepped away and into the body of passengers, glowering.
Clovis was amazed and knew not what to say. Traversham-Beechers faced him down. He wore a red waistcoat, of a very rich colour, somewhere between plum and wine; a ruby portcoloured waistcoat, and yet, alarmingly no tie, the absence lending a wildness to his appearance.
‘There are women and children here; d’you want them fainting?’ he demanded.
Having gained a champion and spokesperson, the little crowd had fallen quiet again, and watched the two men calmly to see what the outcome would be.
‘Haven’t they had tea?’ queried a nervous Clovis, at last glancing about the pallid faces. They consented, grudgingly, that they had and there was an unspoken acquiescence in admitting it; nobody who’s been given tea has truly any cause for serious complaint.
The gentleman stepped towards him, neatly, and leaned closer. ‘May I have a word?’ Clovis, wrong-footed again, restrained himself from backing off. This was all too disconcerting. But the stranger smiled keenly.
‘Could we step out for a moment?’
‘Of course.’ Clovis could think of nothing he’d rather do than get out of that room, which had acquired the fug of a railway station waiting room, of sweating coats and slippery oil-skin, the wet-dog smell of damp wool and old carpet. He would rather have shut the door on the changeable Mr Whoever-he-was along with the rest of them, but hadn’t the nerve to do it and feared they’d all come after him if he tried.
‘This way,’ he said, in a pale voice.
Watched suspiciously by the disgruntled passengers, the young man and the visitor stepped out into the cool air of the corridor, but to Clovis’s surprise, once the door was closed behind them, the gentleman let out a big, infectious laugh.
Clovis found himself smiling along with him as he waited to be enlightened as to the joke, and Trevorish-Charlson obliged.
‘Let them think somebody’s
‘Do you have a telephone? Have the Railway contacted you at all?’
‘Yes, there,’ Clovis indicated the device. ‘We haven’t heard a thing. I’m so sorry, you must think me a terrible turnip, do come in. I—’ He broke off, glancing about him and wondering suddenly what Emerald and his mother would have him do with the stranger, so as not to interfere with their precious dinner arrangements. ‘I wonder where old Mrs Trieves can have got to …’ He lit upon an idea. ‘I say, I suppose I ought to introduce you to the other survivors.’
‘I suppose you ought. Thanks,’ said the displaced person, and the two of them went off towards the morning room, leaving Smudge alone once more.
Tremendously relieved. She contemplated the empty hall for some seconds before recalling her original timetable. She must not be distracted from her plan. She shrugged, shook herself and scampered off towards the back of the house.
Clovis led the new arrival briskly down the corridor and opened the door to the morning room to find the guests – the survivors , that is – hunched around the fire as if they were trying to discover something in the hearth. On his entrance they turned, in attitudes of outrage and distress, and several voices burst out:
‘There’s no more coal!’
‘No more fuel!’
‘No more fuel at all!’
Clovis was taken aback. All of them – there appeared to be twenty or more – were surging towards him, crossly, and the complaints piling upon one another were almost a chant: ‘We’re cold!’ ‘We’re hungry!’
To make matters worse, the new arrival, Charlie Treverish-Beacon or Haversham-Trevor – Clovis was dashed if he could remember his name – turned to him in some astonishment and cried accusingly, ‘D’you mean to say these poor blighters have all been crowded in here like this ever since the accident?’ And with this startling shift in attitude, he stepped away and into the body of passengers, glowering.
Clovis was amazed and knew not what to say. Traversham-Beechers faced him down. He wore a red waistcoat, of a very rich colour, somewhere between plum and wine; a ruby portcoloured waistcoat, and yet, alarmingly no tie, the absence lending a wildness to his appearance.
‘There are women and children here; d’you want them fainting?’ he demanded.
Having gained a champion and spokesperson, the little crowd had fallen quiet again, and watched the two men calmly to see what the outcome would be.
‘Haven’t they had tea?’ queried a nervous Clovis, at last glancing about the pallid faces. They consented, grudgingly, that they had and there was an unspoken acquiescence in admitting it; nobody who’s been given tea has truly any cause for serious complaint.
The gentleman stepped towards him, neatly, and leaned closer. ‘May I have a word?’ Clovis, wrong-footed again, restrained himself from backing off. This was all too disconcerting. But the stranger smiled keenly.
‘Could we step out for a moment?’
‘Of course.’ Clovis could think of nothing he’d rather do than get out of that room, which had acquired the fug of a railway station waiting room, of sweating coats and slippery oil-skin, the wet-dog smell of damp wool and old carpet. He would rather have shut the door on the changeable Mr Whoever-he-was along with the rest of them, but hadn’t the nerve to do it and feared they’d all come after him if he tried.
‘This way,’ he said, in a pale voice.
Watched suspiciously by the disgruntled passengers, the young man and the visitor stepped out into the cool air of the corridor, but to Clovis’s surprise, once the door was closed behind them, the gentleman let out a big, infectious laugh.
Clovis found himself smiling along with him as he waited to be enlightened as to the joke, and Trevorish-Charlson obliged.
‘Let them think somebody’s
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