One day as I was walking round the exercise yard a face floated by that I knew very well, and recognized as that of Stanley. ‘Oh,’ he said, when we talked later, ‘they brought me here from the Scrubs.’
‘So I see. If they want you to nark on me, I don’t know anything.’
His face was fatter, and two of his front teeth were missing. A smile made him appear sadder than when I’d last seen him. ‘I say,’ he sneered, ‘we have lost our good-natured trust, haven’t we?’
‘If you get like that with me, you’re going to perish while you’re here, make no mistake.’ This calmed him, so I cooled off as well. ‘They caught me at the airport, in case you didn’t know. I was trying to get the five bars to Geneva, but that bastard Moggerhanger had them waiting for me. And I suppose you were the one who told Moggerhanger to get your own back, because I know you blamed Cottapilly and Pindarry’s capture on me, not to mention Ramage, but how could that have been possible when I’d got nothing to gain by it, and in any case went out and got bodged straight away? I wanted to get that gold to Geneva for the good of the firm, and a lot of bloody good my great sense of duty did me. I even got there in time for the plane we had planned for. That’s why I ran out of the flat so suddenly. I’d seen that Moggerhanger was hit, so I was sure our side had the upper hand. And look where it got us. We’re all in the bloody iron lung now.’ I don’t know whose good books I expected this virtuous testimony to go into, so I laughed and ended it.
Over the days and weeks I got the rest of the story out of him, of how, as anyone ought to have known but me, Jack Leningrad wasn’t paralysed, and conducted operations from his iron lung to fool everybody. It was full of radio and electronic devices which, unfortunately, hadn’t warned him of Moggerhanger’s last great break-in. Maybe it had and he was too busy with me to notice it. The battle had gone on after I left, and Stanley made a fighting retreat with Jack Leningrad out of the building, leaving all the files and some stocks of gold in the hands of Moggerhanger, who must have been satisfied at the way the day finished up. The police arrived to find the flat empty, for Moggerhanger had two estate cars waiting outside into which he piled all the clues and every scrap of loot.
Stanley and Jack Leningrad found a hiding-place in Highgate, but the police surrounded it an hour later. Nevertheless, they escaped the net, and Stanley broke into a car. No sooner was it started than they were topped and tailed by the blue flashing light. Stanley was captured, but Jack Leningrad got away, and now, months later, nothing had been seen of him, and it was assumed he’d gone to Canada. For the man in the iron lung was agile and elusive once outside his trappings — though they had served him well for a long time. It looked as if he’d live to do more work in one guise or another.
The unluckiest person of all was Stanley, who got sent down for four years. I did my best to keep out of his way, but one day he came at me from behind and tried to stun me with his clenched fist. It was a hammer-thump, but it didn’t work, because I was able to turn and strike him back, not once, but too many times. I was disciplined for it, and lost my remission, which was why I had to serve every hour of eighteen months. This exploit made me more respected among the roughs of the place, for what that was worth, which wasn’t much.
I had several visits from Bridgitte, who said she was waiting for me, and who pressed a photograph of Smog against the grille so that I could see how tough and well he looked. I had no feeling for her at first because my two eyes were still full of Polly Moggerhanger. I burned for her, saw her as the one great love of my life whom I’d run to as soon as I got out of prison. The fact that she would in no way be waiting for me, that she would laugh at the idea of me even thinking about her, and that it was in other words clearly impossible for us to be together ever again, made her more real to me, brought her so close that at nights I woke up startled, thinking she was in the cell and about to put her hand on to my shoulder. It went on for a long time, till the emotional cost of keeping her in front of me began to wear me out, and she eventually faded with my absolute loss of spirit and energy. This landed me in a state of emptiness I would rather forget about, but when I came out of it, Bridgitte took her place, and never left it.
There were three men to a cell, sometimes four, and often in the middle of the night I’d feel that I wasn’t able to stretch myself out on the bed. What’s more, I clung to it, as if it were vertical and I was in danger of falling off into oblivion. In order to get the illusion of laying full length and finding more peace, I’d go down on the floor, and it gave me great comfort, even when it was bitterly cold, to press my limbs against the solid concrete, which was the nearest I could get to real earth in that madhouse. I would have given my right arm, and even taken another year of prison, to have been a coalminer for a few hours and gone a thousand feet under into the dark.
I got messages from William Hay that my station was being taken care of, and when I was released I found that he’d planted beans and potatoes in the garden, rose bushes and sunflowers along the borders and platforms. Bunting was hung across the station entrance saying: WELCOME HOME STATIONMASTER, when my taxi drew up from Huntingborough.
Wedding bells were ringing from the moon, because while I was inside, Almanack Jack, who stayed on at the station, got married to William Hay’s mother, who heard he was back from his adventure in the Lebanon, and came down to be with him. William lived in the booking office, while his mother and her new husband had taken over the waiting-room. The entrance hall that lay between was a sort of no-man’s-land in which they occasionally fought great fights over such insignificant items as a bucket of coal or a cup of sugar.
Almanack Jack became a man of many colours, for he smartened himself up at the station, though he still keeps a bushy spade-shaped beard. In an old cupboard he found and commandeered a railway guard’s uniform, which he makes Mrs Straw press and spruce up for him every week, so that with the hat, whistle, and small red flag, he strolls along the platform and on to the rusty railway line, anxiously looking at the fob watch of Clegg’s that I made him a present of. He keeps the business end of the station clean, makes his wife polish the brasses and lamps, sweep the platforms, and wash out the lavatories — though she does it swearing and grumbling. The palings have been reconstituted, and flowerbeds planted with pansies and jillivers. All it needs to make his life complete is to hear an engine whistle, and to see an old locomotive steaming down from the main line. But if ever it does (and it never will) he’d die of a heart attack, because we’ve known for a year or two that poor old Almanack Jack has a dicky ticker.
The travelling library van comes round once a week and brings him books on astrology, for he spends some of his spare time casting horoscopes for all of us. He says I’ll have a quiet life up to when I’m thirty-five, and then all hell will fly loose, sending me out on the wild again. I’ll believe it when it happens. Not that I have long to wait, because I’ll be at the gates of that age in a couple more years. Bridgitte isn’t pleased by such talk, but doesn’t otherwise mind, because Smog, who is fourteen now, has always been so fond of him.
Bridgitte and I got married soon after I came out of clink, as if I’d at some time promised faithfully to do just that. Both of us wanted it when it became possible because it seemed the only thing to do. She sold the house in Hampstead (which Dr Anderson, in spite of his addiction to kickshins, had taken care to leave her) for thirty thousand pounds, which, being well invested with her good Dutch sense that had surfaced at last, brings us enough money in to live on modestly. She’s got fuller now, redder in the face, and is no longer the glamorous and flighty au pair girl from the London days of old. But I’ve put weight on too, though not much, because I do plenty of work and walking around the place to keep me fit. She cooks haunches of meat and Dutch butter-dumplings for me and the kids, while Almanac Jack and his wife do their own catering. In summer they build an outdoor fire by the railway line, putting a pot on it like two old gipsies. That’s when they are happiest, and cause least trouble around the place. Bridgitte and I live in the house, which became big enough, since we had more children, only when William and I built two more rooms on the back of it.