We were at a station. There were train tracks. There were signs painted against the wall saying WELCOME TO BAY LEAF HOUSE STATION and there was an arrow pointing one way which said TO GREATER LONDON and another that said TO IREMONGER PARK. The train was already there and stoked up too, steam pouring out, I was hurried along the platform past many men in dark suits and toppers looking nowhere in particular. There was a goods van at the back with baskets of things and boxes and supplies. I was pushed up inside by Cusper Iremonger; I was the only one there, only me and a lot of things.

‘Sit on a basket, someone will fetch you when the train arrives. Behave yourself.’

And then he slid the door closed and a bit later I found that it was locked. I sat there a good half hour, then I saw through the wire mesh window – there was no glass – a very tall, old man, all dressed up in top hat and long black overcoat with fur collar, marching forwards, and other smaller people rushing and bowing behind him, what a size this old man was, what a grim determined look he had about him as he got on the train. I think the train must have been waiting for him because almost immediately a man in a cap came running along the platform, waving a flag, blowing a whistle, and off we shunted. I looked out of the mesh but soon enough there was nothing to see but black and more black and only black. And smells and fogs came into the goods van which wasn’t sealed and as the train sped on I was dripped upon a good deal, spray coming through the mesh window, and the smell of it wasn’t good. At last the train slowed down and stopped with a screeching whistle which deafened me for a while, and I looked out but could see very little until a while later, when the goods door was slid open and a woman, tall and thin in a plain dress, was saying to me, ‘You’re to come this way and to hurry yourself.’

That was the beginning of it. I had arrived.

3

A MEDAL (MARKED ‘FOR VALOUR’)

Clod Iremonger’s narrative continued

My Cousin Tummis (and Moorcus)

Before I had quite reached the schoolrooms I was met by the approaching noise:

‘Hilary Evelyn Ward-Jackson.’

That was the particular cry of the birth object of my cousin Tummis, and indeed he rounded the corner a second later.

‘Clod, dear man,’ he panted, ‘so glad to have intercepted you.’

‘Good morrow, old Tummis, you look fair puffed out.’