Vaughan at that moment discovered and swiped away the snot in a way that suggested he was very used to finding the stuff just there, and equally used to dislodging it. Miss Rickerby herself, he went on, 'suffered from lazyitis' and was 'over-fond of port wine'.
'But the house is fairly well kept,' I said.
This, it appeared, was partly on account of the brother, who was a good worker in spite of being a half wit, and had no other interest in life besides cleaning and maintaining the house. He wasn't up to much as a cook and Vaughan believed that the hot supper we had in prospect would be nothing to write home about. But the lad had help every day in the season from a maid called Beth who was quite a peach in her own right apparently. And a Mrs Dawson came in year round. She was a great hand at all housework, and, being an older woman, was practically a mother to the two Rickerbys. In the off-sea- son, Vaughan said, she came in only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
'So I'll see her tomorrow?' I enquired, and at this Vaughan stopped and looked up at some clouds riding fast and ghostly through the black sky.
'Yes, Jim, you will,' he said, walking on. 'Sorry about that, I was just thinking about something else that's happening tomorrow.'
'I wouldn't have thought you could buy a house like Paradise on a miner's wages,' I said, 'even if you did save all your life.'
'I don't know about that, Jim,' said Vaughan.
'Where was the pit village exactly?' I asked, as we came up to a pub called the Two Mariners.
'Search me,' he said. 'Somewhere near coal! And he fell to thinking hard, and frowning. '… Somewhere up Durham way, I believe it was, Jim.' He pushed open the pub door, saying, 'I like it here of a Sunday. It's quiet and you can talk.'
Talk about what? I wondered, as we stepped into a wooden room with pictures of sea-going men all around the walls, both painted and photographed, but not a single live person of any description to be seen. Somebody must have been in the room lately though, for a good fire was burning in the grate and two oil lamps were doing the same on the bar top. There was a door open behind the bar, which was quite promising, and Vaughan was evidently confident that someone would turn up and serve us a drink because he placed the paper package on a table near the fire, took off his cape, and pitched it over a chair, removing a pipe and a tin of tobacco from one of the pockets in the process. He left his muffler about his neck, and this in combination with the pipe made him look like a university man, which perhaps he had been.
He walked over to the bar, and shouted, 'Rose!'
A woman came through the door behind the bar: she was small, brown and stout.
'How do, Mr Vaughan?' she said.
'Two pints of the Four X please, Rose,' he said, and only as the pints were being pulled did he call over to me, 'Four X all right for you, Jim?'
He turned back to the barmaid. 'Bit quiet… even for a Sunday.'
'All gone to bed,' she said. 'Most of our lot will be at sea come sunrise.'
'We've yet to have our supper,' he said.
'Well, that's Miss Amanda Rickerby for you,' said the barmaid.
Theo Vaughan brought over the pints, and placed the package between us. He then lit his pipe, which went out directly, and placed his feet up on a stool, so that he was quite relaxed, only I had the idea that it cost him more effort to keep his feet up on the stool than otherwise.
'Cheers, Jim,' he said, and we clashed glasses.
He was very forward indeed. From the way he acted you'd have thought he knew me of old, but that was quite all right by me.
'I'm bursting to see inside that package,' I said, and he picked it up with his yellowy fingers and took out a quantity of picture post cards. The top one showed trains unloading at a dockside.
'Old Fielding and I are connected through the railways,' said Vaughan. 'We ran a little business: post card publishing. Well, he did. The Fielding Picture Post Card Company – had a little office in Leeds. Armoury Road, I don't know if you know it, Jim. I had high hopes that it might one day become "The Fielding and Vaughan Picture Post Card Company", but as long as it went on, I was Fielding's employee. Commercial agent, do you know what that means?'
'Not really.'
'It means nothing, Jim. But it was all right. I mean, he is all right, old Fielding. Bit stuck-up, bit of an old maid, and a bit weird in some of his tastes, but decent enough to work for and he struck lucky with the business for a while. We'd done a few runs of cards for some of the big hotels up and down the coast, and to make a long story short some of these caught the eye of a bloke called Robinson, who's the publicity manager of your lot: the North Eastern Railway. I expect you know him pretty well?'
'You're wrong there, Theo,' I said.
'I'm pulling your leg, Jim,' he said, sucking on his dead pipe. 'Robinson gave Fielding the contract -1 should say one of the contracts – for stocking the automatic picture post card machines you see on the station platforms.'
'Oh,' I said.
He looked again at his pipe.
'You know, I think I prefer cigars, Jim. At least a fellow can get them lit!
'You smoke cigars, do you?'
'On occasion, yes.'
'Anyhow, that was me for a year, Jim: third class rail pass in my pocket, and I'd go about re-filling these machines with the cards we'd commissioned.'
I knew the machines. They were in most of the bigger stations. You put in a penny, and pulled out a little drawer that contained a card with ha'penny postage already on it. Some showed North Eastern Railway scenes: interesting spots in the system. Others might show Yorkshire views in general. Vaughan pushed the top-most card across to me.
'Is that Hull?' I said.
'Might be,' he said. 'It was one of the winter series.'
For all his build-up, he didn't seem very interested in it. The card was from a painting, and there was writing across the top of it: The Industrial Supremacy of North East England. The Secret of Success: Cheap Power, Labour Facilities and Raw Materials. Then, in smaller type: For information as to sites and special advantages apply to the commercial agent, North Eastern Railway, York. It was hard to imagine anyone wanting to receive it through the post. I looked at Vaughan. He seemed to want me to say something about it.
'That artist is coming it a bit,' I said.
'How's that?' asked Vaughan.
'Looks like a Class S, does that engine. But you'd never see one of those on dock duties – not in a million years.'
'Why not, Jim?' asked Vaughan, but I could tell he wasn't really bothered either way.
'Too big,' I said. 'They're hundred mile an hour jobs. The company's not going to waste 'em on loading fish.'
Vaughan nodded as though he was satisfied with this. He slid over another card.
'Summer Series,' he said.
This too was from a painting. It showed a sea cliff in twilight. 'The Yorkshire Coast' read the heading. Then: 'Railway stations within easy reach. For particulars write to the Chief Passenger Agent, Department 'A, North Eastern Railway, York.' Vaughan was eyeing me again. I felt minded to ask what he was playing at, but couldn't quite see my way to doing it. Another card was put down: a photograph of a signal gantry on what looked like a foggy day.
'Where's that?' I said.
'Search me,' said Vaughan.
'That one's crossed,' I said, pointing to one of the signals, which had a wooden cross nailed over the arm.'… Means it's out of commission.'
'That right, Jim?' said Vaughan. 'Interesting is that.'
But he wasn't interested in the least.
Out came another card. A station master and a couple of porters stood on a little country platform somewhere.
'That fellow's managed to get his dog into the picture,' said Vaughan, pointing, and then another card came from the packet and was put down. This showed a flat-bed wagon carrying a great boiler or some such outsized article that overhung the wagon by about six feet. A handful of railway officials stood about grinning foolishly.