Chapter 9
‘Right, folks, this is what’s happening,’ said a snow-encrusted Vincent as soon as he’d got back onto the dark, cold, crummy South Riding Trains car.
‘We’re all getting onto the front part of the train.
It’s warm, it’s certainly more comfortable than here and seeing as we have no idea how long it’s going to be before we set off again, I think Mr Ingleton is just going to have to like it and lump it that he and his friends aren’t the first people to check out the amenities. ’
‘It’s not a long walk, though it might feel like it, but every step you take is one nearer to a much more comfortable situation,’ Frank added, brushing the snow from his head with his meaty paw. ‘Come on, everybody.’
‘We can’t do that, Frank,’ said Grace.
‘Yes, we can and we are, love, so up you get. Leave the cases, ladies, we’ll come back for those. Just get yourselves out of here and into civilisation before you catch hypothermia.’
When Grace stood, she realised how stiff her limbs were from the cold that had already settled in them.
Even if she felt uncomfortable about the decision to trespass onto someone else’s property, she’d do as he asked, for the old lady’s sake if not hers because she shouldn’t have to put up with this.
‘Let me help you,’ she said to Jane, taking her handbag for her.
She and Elizabeth aided Jane down the steps and they all linked arms as they walked towards the unlocked second Belle carriage as directed.
The wind seemed insistent on blowing them back and, just as Frank said, the journey seemed much longer than it actually was.
The relief was sweet when they finally climbed aboard, breathless from the effort of fighting with the elements, their faces smarting from the snow that had stung their skin like small icy insects.
Jane flopped down onto a plush wine-coloured couch and then immediately stood up again, looking for a cloth or throw to put underneath her so she didn’t dampen the beautiful brocade.
‘It’ll dry out in no time,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I wouldn’t worry.’ She looked around. What a difference between this carriage and the one they had just vacated. Not only in comfort, for it felt as if they had crossed a timeline, been transported back to an art deco world of decades ago.
Vincent hefted two suitcases through the snow, delivered them to the bar and then returned for more. Frank was on his second trip and Tim was doing a check around the unlit end carriage to make sure they had everything.
‘I hope we aren’t expected to bring it all back in five minutes because I shall flatly refuse,’ Tim said.
‘I think we all will,’ agreed Vincent.
The three men trudged forward with the remainder of the luggage and when Vincent, the last man on, closed the Belle’s train door, the warmth of the carriage felt like an embrace.
They stood in the vestibule to shake the snow off their coats before joining the others.
The fat upholstered seats in the bar were a million miles kinder on the bottom than the hard ones in the South Riding Trains car.
‘Just look at that,’ said Jane, marvelling at the weather outside, which seemed to have grown worse in mere minutes. The snowflakes were diving chaotically, being whipped up again by the wind before they had the chance to rest upon the ground.
‘Was this even forecast?’ asked Grace.
‘Rain turning to sleet when I checked,’ replied Vincent.
‘It’s just like what happened a few years ago, isn’t it?
’ said Elizabeth. She remembered it well.
At the time, her father had a stomach bug and she’d moved back into the family home from her flat above the company offices to look after him over Christmas.
They’d been trapped together and he’d been more bad-tempered and ungrateful than ever before, and it was quite a feat to better his best at being hard to please.
‘I suppose we should make some intros, seeing as we are going to be spending a little time with each other,’ said Vincent, starting the ball rolling. ‘Vincent – or Vince, I answer to either.’
‘Ruby,’ said the woman in the pink coat with the badger flash in her hair. ‘Though I prefer Roo.’
‘Frank,’ said the strong, square-shouldered man who looked as if he must have done some boxing in his time. ‘And this is my wife, Grace.’
The old lady next. ‘Jane.’
‘Tim,’ said the tall man with the surfeit of white hair. He said his name as if he had given part of his soul away at the same time.
And finally, the woman in the camel coat, golden hair pinned in a perfect French plait: ‘Elizabeth.’
They all wondered collectively how much time they’d be spending with each other. How often they’d need to use their names.
‘I could murder a coffee,’ said Grace.
‘I think a round of warm drinks would do us all good,’ added Roo.
‘Or something stronger, perhaps.’ Frank tipped his head towards the brass and burr walnut bar in the far corner.
‘Absolutely not,’ said Grace to that. ‘What if the guard comes back? He’ll throw us off.’
‘I’d like to see him try.’ Jane chuckled. ‘I’m willing to take my chances.’
‘So am I.’ Vincent nodded and so did Elizabeth.
‘Count me in too.’
Grace threw up her arms in a small surrender; it seemed like she was outvoted.
‘Allow me.’ Frank stood up and walked over to the bar.
He lifted up a flap to get behind it. The newness shouted at him, everything pristine and ready for a very rich family’s use.
His eyes took in the many bottles on display – there was nothing they didn’t have.
He opened up various cupboards under the counter which were stocked to capacity.
‘Well, what would everyone like? They have your favourite here, Grace: Grand Marnier.’
Grace opened her mouth to say that she wasn’t sure but her husband was already pouring it.
‘My husband Clifford used to love that,’ said Jane, unwrapping the scarf from around her neck. ‘He always used to say that it was Christmas in a glass. But as for me, I’d like a brandy, please.’
‘Courvoisier? Calvados? Armagnac…?’
‘Ooh, a calvados sounds wonderful,’ trilled Jane. ‘Apples, one of my five a day.’
Frank picked up the bottle and read the label: Adrien Camut.
Prestigious at that. His eyebrows rose involuntarily.
He knew how much this aged bottle would cost. He should have felt guilty about being the first to break into it, but he really didn’t.
So many things had gone wrong on this journey, a little respite was needed.
And if Ingleton was rich enough to buy a train, a measure from a three – maybe four – hundred pound bottle of apple brandy wouldn’t break him.
He only hoped Mr Ingleton wasn’t some sort of gangster who took violently against anyone christening his virgin train supplies.
Too late; his hand twisted – the seal was broken, the damage was done.
He lifted one of the crystal brandy balloons from the holders above his head and tilted the bottle over it.
Roo left her seat and approached the counter. ‘I’ll be your waitress for the day.’ She smiled.
‘Thank you,’ said Frank, slipping easily into his role of bartender. Home from home, of course, but this was a few notches above his little place by the sea.
Roo delivered the weighty crystal glasses to Grace and Jane. Drinks always tasted more delicious in this sort of receptacle, she thought, although her dad would have been equally blissed out by drinking Bacardi from a tea-stained mug.
Jane put her nose inside the balloon and inhaled the fruity, warm aroma.
It reminded her of sweet pastries being sold in a sunny Normandy market; her first holiday of many there with her beloved Clifford.
She let herself savour the little bubble of happiness the memory brought – the glimmer – before she let her lips touch the dark, rich liquid.
Grace coughed as the orange fumes of her Grand Marnier hit the back of her throat.
Frank remembered the first time she’d tried it – at his parents’ house one Christmas.
She’d coughed just like that, and Frank’s dad had said, let me get you something else instead, love, and went to take it away from her and she’d snatched it out of his reach and said, don’t you dare, Mr O’Carroll.
She’d made him laugh. She made him laugh so much in the years that followed too, until it had all ground to a halt. Until their lives had ground to a halt.
Elizabeth had a Courvoisier, Vincent a Jack Daniels. Then Frank poured an Irish whiskey for Tim, Roo and himself.
There was a shiny silver ice-bucket on the counter, the name of the train etched in fine scroll on the side.
Its insulating qualities must have been second to none because it was full to the top with ice and none of it had melted.
All in preparation for the rich Mr Ingleton, no doubt, when he boarded and someone poured him a welcoming snifter so he could toast his colossal, expensive, iron toy.
Frank joined the others sitting around one of the wooden tables, inlaid with the same marquetry as that on the walls.
Someone had distributed square leather coasters, half off-white, half dark blue with the Yorkshire Belle name in gold, just like the outside of the train.
Mr Ingleton was a man who liked his merchandise copious and tastefully branded, it seemed.
The carriage seemed extra snug for the crazed weather view from the windows. They could have all been in a snow globe that a giant had just shaken.
‘I hope the guard and the driver aren’t lying out there somewhere,’ said Roo, unfastening her pink furry coat now that she was finally warm enough to do so.
‘Me too, but it would be downright stupid to go out there and try to look for them,’ said Grace. ‘We just have to hope they knew where they were going and got there safely.’
‘Shhh, everyone,’ said Jane, holding up her hand. ‘I can hear someone.’