ANOTHER WRONG TRAINTwo familiar figures crouch in the scrub beside a railway line. One, specifically the blonder of the two, sports a distinctly proddy frown. The other, by process of elimination the more dimpled edition, is in full flow.
“You see the train won’t gather speed ‘til it passes this bend…”
“I know. I have done this before, y’know.”
“We stay in these bushes until the passenger cars are almost past…”
“I know.”
“We run alongside the first freight car…”
“Which part of ‘done this before’ are you havin’ trouble with…?”
“You leap on the running board, get the door open…”
“I what?”
“I thought you said you’d done it before?”
“Yup. Last time. And the time before. How come it’s me doin’ first jump again?”
“Well, Kid. It’d be foolish not to allocate jobs according to experience. Here it comes.”
A brown and a battered black hat bob alongside the train. The brown hat is clamped to dusty curls by a gloved hand. The Kid gathers speed and… There it is! The leap. The freight door is wrested open. He kneels, leans down and holds out a hand to his now sprinting partner. Heyes is heaved up.
“Y’know what?” pants Heyes. “You really
have done this before.”
A reluctant grin from the Kid.
Two ex-outlaws straighten, brush the dust from their knees, turn and…
Brown eyes meet blue in a mute – astonished – conversation. They are not in a freight car. They are in a passenger carriage with overstuffed seats upholstered in worn, shabby velveteen. Moreover, they are not alone.
“Forgive me?” begs a distinguished looking gentleman, clad in a drab overcoat. He gazes into the yearning eyes of his companion, her sweet face aching in misery, her peaked cap a study in sepia.
“Forgive you for what?”
The romantic strains of piano concerto No. 2 by Sergei Rachmaninoff swell and fill the carriage. The two ex-outlaws react, looking around for the source of the music. The doomed lovers are oblivious.
“Forgive me for everything. For meeting you, in the first place. For taking the piece of grit out of your eye. For loving you. For bringing you so much misery.”
“I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me.”
Heyes and Curry touch their hats politely. “Excuse us, ma’am.”
The couple break hands to allow the dusty pair to edge past to the empty corner seats. Hands are re-joined. And eyes…
“Do you know,” breathes the immaculate received pronunciation of the lady, “I believe we should all behave quite differently if we lived in a warm, sunny climate all the time. We shouldn't be so withdrawn and shy and difficult.”
“I think you have something there, ma’am,” remarks Heyes. “My partner and me – we try and raise a little stake, head south for the winter each year…”
He is ignored.
“It's awfully easy to lie when you know that you're trusted implicitly,” says the lady.
“That is the best way,” agrees Heyes.
“So very easy…”
“Lotta truth in there, ma’am.”
“…And so very degrading.”
The brown eyes blink, “I find that soon wears off.”
He is met with two basilisk stares. He pipes down.
“I love you, Laura,” remarks the gentleman, “I shall love you always until the end of my life. I can't look at you now because I know something. I know that this is the beginning of the end. Not the end of my loving you but the end of our being together. But not quite yet, darling. Please. Not quite yet.”
The music swells.
“D’you folks hear that?” asks the Kid.
“Nothing lasts really,” sighs Laura, “Neither happiness nor despair. There'll come a time in the future when I shan't mind about this anymore, when I can look back and say quite peacefully and cheerfully how silly I was. No, no, I don't want that time to come ever. I want to remember every minute, always, always to the end of my days.”
“If it’s remembering you want, have you considered keeping a journal?” suggests Heyes. “I read Mark Twain writes up his journal every…”
Soulful sepia eyes rest, balefully, on Heyes. Laura does not speak, but her cut-glass voice-over is heard above the violins.
“I wish you’d stop talking. I wish you’d stop prying and trying to find things out. I wish you were dead – no, I don’t mean that. It was silly and unkind, and I shouldn’t have said it. But I do wish you’d stop talking.”Heyes turns to the Kid, “Did she just say that without moving her lips?”
“Dunno, Heyes. It coulda been me. It’s ain’t far from what I was thinkin’.” Curry stands up, “I reckon we’ll find us another carriage, ma’am.”
---oooOOOooo---
In medium shot we see the two ex-outlaws stride over a rattling coupling from one car to the next. Heyes and Curry open a door and… A surprised start. Make that two surprised starts. They are upfront with the engine driver.
The driver’s eye drops to the Kid’s tied down gun.
“We’re not wantin’ to cause no trouble,” says Curry.
“Who are you?”
“Thaddeus Jones… An’ this is …”
“Hey, I’m Jones too. Casey Jones.”
“Lotta folks called Smith and Jones. I guess we’re three of …”
“I’m Casey Jones – see me mounted to my cabin,”
“Er, yeah…”
“Casey Jones - with my orders in my hand.”
A glance is exchanged, and a shrug.
“I’m Casey Jones, mounted in my cabin. An’ I’m eight hours late by that Western Mail!”
“Uh huh?” grunts Heyes. He looks ahead. This is a pretty steep hill for Kansas. Practically a mountain.”
“Oooh, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” says Casey.
“This engine…” Kid Curry is studying his rusty dilapidated surroundings. “Isn’t it just a switcher? Surely it’s too small for the job?”
“She – not it. Her name’s Tilly.”
Another mute conversation.
“She’s not our regular engine. We broke down at the bottom of the mountain.”
“When? We haven’t stopped.”
“First I flagged down a shiny yellow passenger engine…”
“Flagged it down where? We haven’t passed a single train.”
“It refused to help. Then I flagged down a big black freight engine. It refused to help…”
“You talk to trains?” asks Heyes.
“Don’t you talk to your horses?”
“Sure,” says Kid Curry. “The difference is, we don’t hear ‘em talk back.”
“Then this little blue engine, Tilly arrived. Although she is simply a switcher and has never been over the mountain, she agreed to help pull the train…”
“Uh huh? And you believed her?”
“Just listen…”
Heyes and Curry do listen. The chugging resolves into a rhythmic, “"
I—think—I—can, I—think—I—can."
The top is reached. Over we go and…”I
thought I could, I thought I could."
The faces of the two ex-outlaws express a faint nausea at this moral lesson.
“We’d better get back inside,” says Heyes.
---oooOOOooo---
The boys encounter a youthful railway employee in the corridor. Heyes touches him on the shoulder.
“Pardon me boy, is this the train for Porterville?
“No, sir. This is the Chattanooga Choo Choo. We left track twenty nine. Now, can I give you a shine?”
“Can you give him a
what?” blinks the Kid. Then, sotto voice, as he pulls open the door to another carriage. “Heyes, we are definitely on the wrong train.”
---oooOOOooo---
“On the wrong train?” repeats a confident looking thirteen year old, with bushy hair and slightly prominent teeth. “Surely not? You must have got on with the rest of us at Platform Nine and Three Quarters.”
“Nine and…” Kid Curry gives it up.
“Are you new teachers?” asks a shy looking boy, clutching a toad.
“If you are, the standard is really slipping,” sneers a platinum blond, just possibly, depending on the fanfic, extremely attractive in a bad boy style, and wearing leather. “Look at the state of their hats.”
“There’s no need to be rude,” says the girl. She holds out her hand. “I’m Hermione Granger. This is Neville Longbottom, and that’s Draco Malfoy.”
“Joshua Smith, Thaddeus Jones.”
“Smith and Jones,” scoffs Draco. “How common.”
“Ignore him,” says Hermione. “One of you must be our new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“Whenever a mysterious stranger appears on the train at the start of term – it’s always the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher.”
“Not one ever lasts the year,” says Neville.
“Something always goes horribly wrong,” gloats Draco (possibly in Leather Pants.)
“I hafta say,” admits Kid Curry, “That does sound like our kind of job.”
“Will you show us some magic?” asks Neville.
“I could show you a card trick,” offers Heyes. He eyes Draco. “Have you any money?”
“Have I any… I’m rich! Look!” A fistful of gold is pulled out.
“What would you say the odds are I can deal twenty-five cards and make five pat poker hands?”
“I’d say they are…” A youthful forehead puckers. “About 98% in your favour.”
Heyes looks at Hermione with reluctant admiration. “You’re a pretty smart gal.”
“There’s a formula for everything.”
Kid Curry turns away to hide his grin.
---oooOOOooo---
The boys are back in the corridor. “Next time,” says Heyes, “we choose a car with – y’know – normal folk in it.”
“If you can find one, sure.”
The pair look through one window after another.
A sinister Russian lady, spikes on her toes, outwitting a suave secret agent. Nope.
A seemingly scatty old lady in possession of state secrets, noticing that a German nun is wearing high heels, and so is, almost certainly, a Nazi. Nope.
An anthropomorphic stork delivering a baby elephant with huge ears to a delighted and heart-tuggingly tuneful Mrs. Jumbo. Nope.
A benevolent old gentleman in a frock coat, reading his newspaper and sipping a cup of tea. Perfect.
---oooOOOooo---
“Are these seats free?”
The benevolent old gentleman, his face wreathed in smiles, looks up.
“Indeed they are. Please sit down. May I offer you some tea?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
It is poured. Proper English tea. Sugar and milk. Ahhh… Two thirsty ex-outlaws might have preferred a cold beer. But, all the same. Ahhh…
“I take this journey every day.”
“Every day? Why?”
“I have an unspecified but extremely senior job with the railway. Possibly I own it.”
“Uh huh? But, even so… Every day?”
“And the highlight is, just around this bend… Watch.”
Brown and blue eyes gaze out of the window at the pastures green, clouded hills and – in the far distance – dark satanic mills.
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Kid.”
“Didn’t Casey already do that line?”
The benevolent gentleman is waving his newspaper. Two pinafored girls and their young brother, all seated on a fence, wave back, white handkerchiefs fluttering gaily.
“Charming, charming.”
“It was pretty,” agrees Kid Curry.
“We’ll see them again in a few minutes,” says the old gentleman. Pause. “When they stop the train.”
“Stop the… What for?”
“You don’t mean they’re going to rob it?”
“Rob it? Why on earth would you leap to that conclusion? Does a robbery usually follow a train being stopped in your experience?”
A glance is exchanged.
“Er… We mighta read about that kind of thing happening,” says Heyes.
There is a squealing of brakes, a hissing of steam, and the motivational chugging of the Little Engine That Could has a faint undertone of ‘
I’d better stop, I’d better stop…”
A dark and a curly blond head lean out of the window to see multiple scarlet flags on sticks and slow motion waving by a fainting adolescent heroine.
“They strip off their red flannel petticoats to make the flags,” explains the old gentleman. “It works every time.”
Surreptitiously, Curry, pulls at his waistband and checks out the colour of his long-johns. Bright red. A mute message is sent to Heyes.
Heyes nods. “Worth bearing in mind, Kid.”
---oooOOOooo---
Once more unto the corridor, dear friends, once more.
“This time,” says Heyes, “We definitely keep looking until we see normal folks.”
“Nah, on this train, I think that ship’s sailed.” Kid Curry sniffs the air. “I smell somethin’ good cookin’. This time we head for the dinin’ car.”
---oooOOOooo---
The boys are seated at a snowy-clothed table, wrapping themselves around a delicious looking ragout.
Kid Curry dabs his mouth with a damask napkin. He gestures at the gleaming silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses.
“Pretty fine dinin’, huh?”
“I’m guessing the bill will be pretty fine, too. How are you planning on paying?”
“I’m not plannin’. I leave that to you. That’s our arrangement, huh?”
“Messieurs,” the uniformed Frenchman waiting on the ex-outlaws, pours a little more wine as he speaks. “I cannot ‘elp but over’ear. Do not concern yourselves with ze bill. Ever since we ‘ave been trapped in zis snow-drift, M’sieur Bouc, as a director of ze line, ees meeting all ze bills.”
“That’s very kind of… Trapped in a
what?”
“Ze snow-drift m’sieur.”
Heyes stares out of the window. Indeed, it is a white, wintery world out there. “We’re not moving,” he deducts.
“
I guess she couldn’t, I guess she couldn’t…” grins the Kid. “Relax, at least the scenery is good.”
“You like snow? News to me after that winter playing Red Dog.”
“I meant the scenery inside.” Kid Curry nods at a stunningly beautiful woman.
“Be careful, m’sieur. Zat is ze Countess Andrenyi. ‘Er ‘usband is an ‘ot blooded ‘Ungarian. ‘E will sleet your throat if you so much as look at ‘is wife.”
“Uh huh?” Obligingly, Kid Curry moves his gaze to a handsome redhead.
“Zat ees Mees Debenham. I regret M’sieur she is secretly in love with ze soldierly man – Colonel Arbuthnot.”
“Well,” the Kid remains philosophical, “you win some, you lose some. Who’s the other French fella – the one doin’ all the talkin’?”
“He’s been holding the floor for nearly a quarter of an hour,” says Heyes. “Don’t he pause for breath?”
“Pots an’ kettles, Heyes.”
“’E ees not French, m’sieur. Zat is ze world famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot.”
Two ex-outlaw faces freeze.
“Detective?”
“Indeed, M’sieur. No one with anything to ‘ide is safe from ze great Hercule Poirot.” Under his breath, he adds, “Which ees most unfortunate for myself, Pierre Michel, and my twelve co-conspirators.”
“Who’s that he’s talking to – or, talking at – now?”
“Zat is Cyrus ‘Ardman, a most talented Pinkerton Detective.
Two sets of eyes exchange a – careful – mute conversation
“A Pinkerton?” checks Kid Curry.
Pierre Michel nods.
“A talented Pinkerton, and a world famous Detective?” double-checks Heyes.
“Bien sur. M’sieur Poirot is uncovering ze fact that ‘Ardman was in love wiz my daughter, Susanne, and ‘ad a motive – as we all do – for ze murder of an ‘eartless killer.”
Pierre turns back to the table. He blinks in surprise. His customers have deserted him.
“…And so, my little grey cells, tell me that all the passengers aboard the Orient Express participated in stabbing Cassetti to death.”
“But, Poirot,” protests Monsieur Bouc. “We have the uniform of the mysterious Wagon Lit conductor. Surely some stranger – a rival Mafiosi – could have done the murder?”
“You forget, mon ami, there were no footprints in the snow. How did this mysterious stranger leave the train?”
“No footprints? But…” Twelve fingers point. “Look!”
Two unmistakable trails of boot prints head away from the train.
Poirot gives a Gallic shrug. “Maybe I am on the wrong train? My solution will be perfect for the return journey on the Polar Express.”
---oooOOOooo---
THE END
Not that anyone will need it, but our references are;
Brief Encounter
Casey Jones
The Little Engine that Could
The Wizard of Oz
The Chattanooga Choo Choo.
Harry Potter (various)
From Russia With Love
The Lady Vanishes
Dumbo
The Railway Children
Murder on the Orient Express
Sat Aug 01, 2020 9:27 am
