Chapter 10
The end carriage, the one that was locked when they’d tried to gain access to it from outside, had a polished plaque next to its door: Maria Gloriosa.
It was a lounge with very light wood on the walls and all the upholstery and carpets were in pale tan.
There were shelves dotted around full of old bound books, most with gilt lettering on their spines, probably chosen for their vintage look rather than their readability, Frank surmised, noticing some of the titles: The New Book of American Politics, The Curious Beetle of Jung, Great Bells of the World.
The windows looked larger in here than the ones in the bar and the back of the carriage was almost entirely glass.
That the sofas were mostly positioned facing the windows was a pretty clear indication of the purpose of this room: an observation coach, a quiet coach for reading and contemplation, sitting and just ‘being’. What a luxury.
They doubled back, telling the ladies what they’d seen and then headed forward.
Vincent noticed that the area in which they’d set up base was called ‘Lutine’; there was a brass plate at the side of the door they’d missed when they first walked in.
The next carriage, according to the signage, also had a name: ‘Old Tom’.
‘Bet that’s Ingleton’s cat,’ said Vincent.
The first part of it obviously served as a dining area as there were two central tables, one shorter than the other and spread with a blue cover and place mats with the name of the train printed on them, waiting in readiness for the first diners.
They discovered a galley took up the rest of the coach.
They entered to find an immaculate working space, ovens, gas hobs, cupboards everywhere crammed with crockery, cutlery, pans and cooking utensils, and though this might have seemed the obvious place to find food, the fridge was empty.
Vincent silently hoped that it wasn’t all getting picked up with the crew en route or they were going to be surviving on a very potent liquid diet until they were rescued.
‘Liberty’ was next; another lounge, the décor very dark wood and muted blue and gold upholstery.
At the far end was a black iron fireplace with a ridiculously ornate cream surround.
Two detailed classical figures were carved into the marble, differing only in their countenances – four of them, for each had two heads facing in opposite directions.
In the corner was a Christmas tree, a real one with thick dark-green branches – not yet decorated – its top nudging against a hand-painted ceiling that made the one in the Sistine chapel look like an amateur attempt.
They forged on. At the front ends of each carriage were compact toilet rooms with sinks, but at both ends of the strangely named ‘Uglich’, there were bigger washrooms with showers.
This carriage was comprised of four bedroom cabins.
They were all more or less identical, give or take the colour scheme as two were sage with creamy birch wood, two gold with a rich mahogany contrast. There were twin single beds in each, made up ready for weary guests.
The bedding was whiter than the snow outside the windows, the pillows fat as clouds.
Tim could have just sunk into one of those beds.
The next car, ‘Sigismund’ only had two rooms, both doors to them locked.
Maybe these were the luxury cabins, the suites, Mr Dwight J.
Ingleton’s hangout and space for himself and his most important guests.
‘Mingun’ had seven cabins, obviously smaller; maybe rooms for the staff, they had to surmise because these were locked too.
Another bathroom introduced the next car with the intriguing name of ‘Yongle’ which was made up of another two smallish cabins, again locked, and beyond them floor to ceiling cupboards full of linen, towels, toiletries, cleaning equipment, all sorts of odds and sods, sacks and sacks of wooden logs…
and – bingo – three enormous fridges packed to the gills with food.
‘There is a God,’ said Tim on a long outward breath of relief.
‘Gentlemen, we are not going to starve,’ said Vincent, with equivalent sentiment.
There was a pantry on the other side, the shelves laden with jars and bottles of everything from mustards to jams, honey, spices and seasonings, flour, sugar, bread, eggs… every grocery component one could think of, and at the bottom a store of all manner of fruits and vegetables.
The penultimate carriage, ‘Pummerin’, was a bit of a hotchpotch car; it housed two desks, tables and less opulent furnishings leading them to believe this might be the staff mess.
They couldn’t go on as the door to ‘Dhammazedi’ was locked, but they could see through the glass that it housed a considerable amount of equipment, possibly the generator that powered everything – and they hoped kept powering it.
They’d found what they needed to and walked back to tell the others.
‘It’s getting worse out there,’ said Jane, worry gripping her insides, squeezing them.
‘I don’t know where it’s come from.’ She didn’t say it for fear of coming across like a doom-monger, but it’s what she imagined the end of the world would look like.
She was hardier than she appeared, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a little frightened by the ferocity of the weather.
It wouldn’t be easy for her to walk in the footsteps of the guard and the driver if they had to and this amount of snow wasn’t going to melt overnight.
So it was with some relief that, when the three men returned, they were all smiling.
Vincent clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘Well, the good news is, ladies… we ain’t gonna starve.’
‘And the bad news?’ asked Jane, because his phrasing suggested there might be some.
‘The bad news is that we might starve if we’re here for longer than a month.’ Frank grinned.
Jane felt that worry loosen its hold a tad. Clifford’s voice whispered in her ear: ‘Don’t you start doubting me now. I said I’d always look after you, and I will.’
If only.
‘I am going to rustle us up something to eat. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,’ said Frank.
Elizabeth was not the only one who presumed Frank’s wife might have stood up at this point and offered to help him, but she didn’t. So she volunteered herself.
‘Would you like a hand?’
She noticed Frank steal the briefest glance at Grace before he answered.
‘If… you… feel as if you would like to help me locate a kettle, then yes please.’
‘I can do that.’ Elizabeth got up.
‘Anyone got any food allergies or things they can’t eat?’ Frank asked.
There were mutterings and shakings of heads by way of answer.
‘Good, that makes it easy. Come on then, Elizabeth.’
They made their way to the next carriage.
Elizabeth paused by the brass sign and wondered who ‘Old Tom’ was.
She took in the tables and the plush velvet chairs and thought how wonderful it would be to dine in this coach as it traversed the countryside.
She loved trains, though Gregory didn’t do public transport if he could help it.
He wouldn’t go on a plane if it meant he had to turn right.
She gave a small gasp as she walked into the galley. ‘My goodness, how pristine. I’d like to bet that no one has so much as chopped an onion in here.’ She opened a cupboard and peered inside. Then another.
‘The food storage is right at the front of the train. I’ll go and bring some things down and put them in the fridge.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Four hands will be better than two.’
She followed Frank through the various carriages, marvelling at the sheer opulence, the painted ceilings, the sumptuous soft furnishings, no corners cut, everything top-notch, everything created, fitted and painted by the best craftsmen.
In the pantry Elizabeth found a large basket which she filled with various items to put in the galley fridge.
Frank piled foodstuff into a fruit box including a ham, a large pie, cheese, bread and a huge cooked chicken.
They took them down to ‘Old Tom’, almost giddy that a proper meal was soon to be had.
In the galley, while Frank was assembling sandwiches, Elizabeth was pulling plates out of the cupboard; beautiful blue and gold plates with the name of the train in fancy scroll across the middle.
‘Damn, I forgot the salt and pepper,’ he said. ‘I’ll go back.’
He made his way through the carriages, and as he entered ‘Yongle’ it was the oddest thing because he could have sworn he heard a door ahead shut.
He called out, ‘Hello. Anyone there?’ It wasn’t a surprise that no one answered, but still, his skull started prickling with a low thrum of unease, and he wasn’t a man for such fancies.
He didn’t linger. He took the large silver salt and pepper pots and a jar of mustard for good measure, and headed back to the galley.
Elizabeth had found a kettle by the time he returned.
It was a large-bellied steel one that sat on a stovetop and heralded its boiling with a celebratory whistle.
Frank knew that because his mum used to have one just like it when he was growing up, although hers was smaller and bashed and buckled with age and use.
She used to tell him that there was an old bird that she’d rescued from the cold and he liked nothing better than to be snug and warm inside the kettle and that was his song of happiness when it boiled.
She was full of such stories, every one of which made him smile.
Occasionally, as now, something unexpected – like a gift – would drag a memory connected to her out of the store cupboard and he’d smile again.
God, he’d been lucky with his parents. He’d been luckier than Grace had with hers who were frozen to the core, not an ounce of fun in them, not a single chuckle.
‘Blimey, you don’t hang around, do you?’ said Frank. Elizabeth not only had the plates ready, but she’d set trays with elegant china cups, saucers and cutlery ready to take through.
‘I think hunger is galvanising me,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t eaten at all today. I was supposed to be having a six-course supper tonight and so I kept my stomach empty.’
Frank pulled in air through his lips. ‘You should always have breakfast, you know. Most important meal of the day. My breakfasts are the stuff of legend. People might be finding that out in the morning if things stay as they are.’ He stole a glance at the window, the snowflakes lashing at the glass as if they wanted immediate entry.
He’d like to bet he would be playing breakfast chef come daylight.
He turned on the tap and washed his hands.
‘You’re a cook? Chef, Frank?’
‘Self-taught, but yes,’ Frank said. ‘I grew up in a pub. Always knew I’d have my own one day and now I have. I like to be hands-on, so you’ll find me behind the bar and doing the breakfasts for any guests, not dictating orders to staff. I find it easier to do than delegate.’
‘And what’s your place called and where is it?’
‘You won’t have heard of it, little seaside village in Norfolk called Seapoint. Beautiful it is. Inn’s called The Salty Cockle.’
Elizabeth chuckled. ‘Sounds lovely. Although that’s not a Norfolk accent you have.’
‘No, I’m a Chatham boy and my wife is a Gillingham girl.’ Frank began to carve the ham into thin slices. The knife was a beauty and slipped through the meat like butter.
‘That’s close to where Vincent is from too,’ said Elizabeth. She’d found out that he was from Kent when they’d been chatting in the car.
‘I thought as much. Recognised the Estuary.’
‘How come you ended up in Norfolk then?’
A beat – a telling one. ‘Oh, we just… fancied a change of scenery. A quieter pace of life,’ he replied, a perfectly feasible answer but that initial pause made Elizabeth feel there was something more to his story.
‘My Grace knows that the kitchen is my territory. That’s why she didn’t volunteer to help me.’ He dropped a small laugh. ‘In case you were wondering.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t at all,’ Elizabeth fibbed, thinking that he sounded too keen to answer a question that hadn’t been asked.
‘I do all the cooking. It helps me get my head straight.’
‘I like to walk,’ said Elizabeth. ‘That does it for me.’
There was something about walking that freed up her brain, but sometimes it asked her too many awkward questions in the attempt to sort her out.
The kettle started to flex its lungs and Frank thought again of the small contented bird preening its feathers and preparing to sing through the spout.
Who would have known then when he was a happy little boy, as warm and content as that bird, just how much coldness and unhappiness there was waiting up life’s road for him?