The Collected Short Stories Read online

  The porter looked down at the fourteen bags. “All right,” he said reluctantly.

  Henry and Victoria stood patiently in the cold as the porter loaded the bags onto his trolley and trundled them off along the platform.

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” said Henry. “A cup of Lapsang Souchong tea and some smoked salmon sandwiches and you’ll feel a new girl.”

  “I’m just fine,” said Victoria, smiling, though not quite as bewitchingly as normal, as she put her arm through her husband’s. They strolled along together to the end carriage.

  “Can I check your tickets, sir?” said the conductor, blocking the entrance to the last carriage.

  “My what?” said Henry, his accent sounding unusually pronounced.

  “Your tic-kets,” said the conductor, conscious he was addressing a foreigner.

  “In the past I have always made the arrangements on the train, my good man.”

  “Not nowadays you don’t, sir. You’ll have to go to the booking office and buy your tickets like everyone else, and you’d better be quick about it, because the train is due to leave in a few minutes.”

  Henry stared at the conductor in disbelief. “I assume my wife may rest on the train while I go and purchase the tickets,” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry, sir. No one is allowed to board the train unless they are in possession of a valid ticket.”

  “Remain here, my dear,” said Henry, “and I will deal with this little problem immediately. Kindly direct me to the ticket office, porter.”

  “End of Platform Four, governor,” said the conductor, slamming the train door, annoyed at being described as a porter.

  That wasn’t quite what Henry had meant by “direct me.” Nevertheless, he left his bride with the fourteen bags and somewhat reluctantly headed back toward the ticket office at the end of Platform Four, where he went to the front of a long line.

  “There’s a queue, you know, mate,” someone shouted.

  Henry didn’t know. “I’m in a frightful hurry,” he said.

  “And so am I,” came the reply, “so get to the back.”

  Henry had been told that the British were good at standing in lines, but as he had never had to join one before that moment, he was quite unable to confirm or deny the rumor. He reluctantly walked to the back of the line. It took some time before he reached the front.

  “I would like to take the last carriage to Dover.”

  “You would like what?”

  “The last carriage,” repeated Henry a little more loudly.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but every first-class seat is sold.”

  “I don’t want a seat,” said Henry. “I require the carriage.”

  “There are no carriages available nowadays, sir, and as I said, all the seats in first class are sold. I can still fix you up in third class.”

  “I don’t mind what it costs,” said Henry. “I must travel first class”

  “I don’t have a first-class seat, sir. It wouldn’t matter if you could afford the whole train.”

  “I can,” said Henry.

  “I still don’t have a seat left in first class,” said the clerk unhelpfully.

  Henry would have persisted, but several people in the line behind him were pointing out that there were only two minutes before the train was due to leave, and that they wanted to catch it even if he didn’t.

  “Two seats then,” said Henry, unable to make himself utter the words “third class.”

  Two green tickets marked “Dover” were handed through the little grille. Henry took them and started to walk away.

  “That will be seventeen and sixpence, please, sir.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Henry apologetically. He fumbled in his pocket–and unfolded one of the three large white five-pound notes he always carried on him.

  “Don’t you have anything smaller?”

  “No, I do not,” said Henry, who found the idea of carrying money vulgar enough, without it having to be in small denominations.

  The clerk handed back four pounds and a half-crown. Henry did not pick up the half-crown.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the startled man. It was more than his Saturday bonus.

  Henry put the tickets in his pocket and quickly returned to Victoria, who was smiling defiantly against the cold wind; it was not quite the smile that had originally captivated him. Their porter had long ago disappeared, and Henry couldn’t see another in sight. The conductor took his tickets and clipped them.

  “All aboard,” he shouted, waved a green flag, and blew his whistle.

  Henry quickly threw all fourteen bags through the open door and pushed Victoria onto the moving train before leaping on himself. Once he had caught his breath he walked down the corridor, staring into the third-class carriages. He had never seen one before. The seats were nothing more than thin worn-out cushions, and as he looked into one half-full carriage, a young couple jumped in and took the last two adjacent seats. Henry searched frantically for a free carriage, but he was unable even to find one with two seats together. Victoria took a single seat in a packed compartment without complaint, while Henry sat forlornly on one of the suitcases in the corridor.

  “It will be different once we’re in Dover,” he said, without his usual self-confidence.

  “I am sure it will be, Henry,” she replied, smiling kindly at him.

  The two-hour journey seemed interminable. Passengers of all shapes and sizes squeezed past Henry in the corridor, treading on his Lobb’s handmade leather shoes with the words:

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry, guv.”

  “Sorry, mate.”

  Henry put the blame firmly on the shoulders of Clement Attlee and his ridiculous campaign for social equality, and waited for the train to reach Dover Priory Station. The moment the engine pulled in, Henry leaped out of the carriage first, not last, and called for Albert at the top of his voice. Nothing happened, except that a stampede of people rushed past him on their way to the ship. Eventually Henry spotted a porter and rushed over to him, only to find he was already loading up his trolley with someone else’s luggage. Henry sprinted to a second man, and then on to a third, and waved a pound note at a fourth, who came immediately and unloaded the fourteen bags.

  “Where to, guv?” asked the porter amicably.

  “The ship,” said Henry, and returned to claim his bride. He helped Victoria down from the train, and they both ran through the rain until, breathless, they reached the gangplank of the ship.

  “Tickets, sir,” said a young officer in a dark blue uniform at the bottom of the gangplank.

  “I always have Cabin Number Three,” said Henry between breaths.

  “Of course, sir,” said the young man, and looked at his clipboard. Henry smiled confidently at Victoria.

  “Mr. and Mrs. William West.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Henry.

  “You must be Mr. William West.”

  “I certainly am not. I am the grand pasha of Cairo.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, sir, Cabin Number Three is booked in the name of a Mr. William West and family.”

  “I have never been treated by Captain Rogers in this cavalier fashion before,” said Henry, his accent now even more pronounced. “Send for him immediately.”

  “Captain Rogers was killed in the war, sir. Captain Jenkins is now in command of this ship, and he never leaves the bridge thirty minutes before sailing.”

  Henry’s exasperation was turning to panic. “Do you have a free cabin?”

  The young officer looked down his list. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. The last one was taken a few minutes ago.”

  “May I have two tickets?” asked Henry.

  “Yes, sir,” said the young officer. “But you’ll have to buy them from the booking office on the quayside.”

  Henry decided that any further argument would be only time consuming, so he turned on his heel without another word, leaving his wife with the laden porter. He strode to the booking offi