‘So may I ask what is your business on the railway?’
‘None, really. I thought, well, you only live once, and when I was a little girl my mother said I was always following carts to see where they were going and now that my husband Archibald has passed on I thought that this should be the time to go and see the world … you know, faraway places with strange-sounding names … like Twoshirts and Effing Forest and Scrote. One imagines all manner of exotic occurrences must take place somewhere with a name like Twoshirts. So many places I’ve never been to … I have a whole world to experience before it’s too late, and I’m keeping a journal of it all as I go, so I’ll be able to enjoy the world all over again when I get back.’
Something struck in Moist’s head, causing him to say, ‘May I ask, Mrs Bradshaw, if your handwriting is good?’
She looked down her nose at him and said, ‘Indeed yes, Mister Lipwig. I used to write a beautiful cursive script for my dear late husband. He was a lawyer and they expect excellence in the writing and use of the language. Mister Slant was always very … particular about that, and no one appreciates the judicious use of Latatian better than dear Archibald did.
‘And, may I add, I was schooled at the Quirm College for Young Ladies, where they are very solid on the teaching of foreign tongues, even though Morporkian rather seems to have become the lingua quirma of late.’ Mrs Bradshaw sniffed. ‘And in working for my husband I learned a lot about people and the human condition.’
‘Mrs Bradshaw, if you were to go everywhere where the trains go and write about all those places, perhaps you could send me a copy of your notes? They could be useful to other intrepid passengers … People would know what to expect from the Effing Forest or Twoshirts before they’d even paid a penny for their ticket. Already so many people from Ankh are travelling to Quirm just for the sunshine. It’s become our heaviest service! And some of them go just for the day! I’m sure they’d think about going on other trips too if they saw all the little details of every place you visit, and perhaps you could include notes on accommodation as well as other places of interest en route?’ he added, on fire with his own imagination. ‘All the things that you would like to see and would be interested in. Wherever your travels take you, you can address your manuscript to Moist von Lipwig and give it to the nearest station master, and they’ll see to it that it gets passed on to me.’
Moist thought about the amount of gold accruing in the coffers of Harry King’s accounts and added, ‘And I’m sure we could arrange some remuneration …’
As Mrs Bradshaw settled into the journey and looked out of the window Moist took out his notebook and scribbled a memo to Harry King: ‘Please allow Mrs Georgina Bradshaw to travel anywhere she wants, even those little branch lines we haven’t fully opened yet. She went to one of the best girls’ schools I know of and understands language, and she is writing notes on all our destinations which may come in very useful. My instincts say that she will do us proud. I have an inkling that she will be either meticulous or humorous or, hopefully, both. And a widow who wears the kind of gold and diamond ring that she is wearing to travel through Ankh-Morpork and is still wearing it when she leaves is not going to be a fool. She speaks as well as Lady Sybil; that’s Quirm College for you. Up School! Isn’t this what we’re after? We want people to widen their horizons on the train, of course, but why not day trips? You know what, there are people in Ankh-Morpork who haven’t even got as far as Sto Lat yet. Travel broadens the mind, and also railway revenue.’
A sample of the great work arrived on scented paper one week later.
High Mouldering, on the Sto Plains, boasts wonderful salt-water baths from a pleasantly warm spring, and the owner and his wife give hygienic massages to those who would like to enjoy the benefit. Ladies and gentlemen separately, of course; there is nothing here that could be considered insalubrious or that would shock the most delicate of sensibilities.
Near by, the Hotel Continental offers accommodation for trolls, humans, dwarfs and goblins; fifty rooms are available at present. People wishing to tour the area may be interested in the Sacred Glade of Shock Knee, which deserves to be noticed for its amazing echoes. A short distance away is a shrine to Anoia, patron goddess for people who have difficulty with things stuck in their drawers.
A welcome break for the tired at weekends, with excellent meals. Highly recommended.
Moist made a note to see Mr Thomas Goatberger when he could next get back to Ankh-Morpork. If he was any judge, the publisher would be ready to bite his hand off to get a share of the railway magic.
When Moist did next return to the city, the matter of the railway to Uberwald had to take priority. Pacing up and down in the big room where Harry and Dick Simnel presided over their charts and reports and blueprints, Harry was still clearly worried.
‘Now then, Moist, between ourselves and these four walls I’ve got the heebie-jeebies. We’ve taken gangs off the other lines, we’re putting in more and more work on the long haul to Uberwald. This is a hell of an undertaking. I’m more at home knee-deep in shit, which is what we’re going to be in here in this office if this doesn’t work, believe you me.’
‘Yes,’ said Moist, ‘but what you have to remember is that getting to Uberwald will mean getting to a whole load of other places on the way, and all of them’ll want the railway and that will help cover costs right there. It’s the tunnels and bridges that are a problem, but the best of it is that they’re old technologies. There are plenty of masons who can build good bridges for us, and as for tunnels, the trolls are just begging to do them if they can dig out a home near by.’
Harry’s only response was a grunt.
‘And the nice thing about the trolls,’ Moist added, ‘is that they bring the whole family with them, even their kids. It’s their way. If you don’t know your rocks, you’re no good as a troll. They just love changing the landscape. One of them asked me the other day if he could be a surveyor and I was just opening my mouth to say no when I thought, why not? He seemed like a bright lad, slow, yes, but quite bright. So I’ve told the boys to give him a bit of tuition, on the job, as it were.’
‘Are you going to give him one of Simnel’s special sliding slabs?’ said Harry, smiling.
Moist laughed and said, ‘Why not, Harry? I might just do that! No reason why a surveyor shouldn’t be strong enough to lift up a mountain to see what’s underneath!’
He took advantage of the lightened atmosphere to steer Sir Harry towards happier subjects, asking to be brought up to date on all the latest developments.
Every morning now the desk of Harry King was inundated by letters from people wanting no trains, some trains, or seriously wishing to have trains available right now. And then there were all the other helpful comments and suggestions: a Mr Snori Snorisson had written to say so many other people had arranged to meet under the station clock that his friend had taken four hours to find him … Shouldn’t the railway provide stepladders for the use of shorter citizens …? Help was requested for passengers with heavy luggage, and for the elderly or undead … With all the dangerous machinery involved, shouldn’t there
be guards – not the City Watch, of course, but somebody with some sense – to act as guardian of the train and its passengers? And that meant uniforms, hats, flags, whistles and other exciting accoutrements.
And this excitement was presumably why the editor of the Ankh-Morpork Times had decided to employ a railway correspondent, Mr Raymond Shuttle, who was an unashamed and self-confessed train spotter. The glint in his eyes was unmistakable.
Alongside the main business of the railway, Harry confessed himself delighted to see the enthusiasts spending their dollars on railway souvenirs such as the little clockwork models that were even now being created under licence by those deviously cunning artificers who were making a small fortune from railway memorabilia.fn59 And the cannier artificers, always on the lookout for moneymaking opportunities, were constantly making additions to these playthings for children: a little shed and four tiny figures to wait for the train. A signal box with a waving goblin. And yes, a miniature turning table just like the one in the compound, and so it went on. A lad with a doting parent could get his own tiny Iron Girder and oval track with straights and curves; and even miniature railway workers including a miniature Harry King.fn60
And once again, Moist marvelled at the power of the dream.
And then it was out into the grease-filled world of the compound to see the latest engines the lads were testing, and find out what the ingenious Mr Simnel had been up to since Moist had seen him last.
One thing he was sure of: even though Dick Simnel was forever coming up with blueprints for the next locomotive, every day would have seen him still hard at work on Iron Girder, which was probably why on every visit she continued to look a little different: a different boiler here, different wheels there, different paintwork and quite probably a host of integral things that Moist couldn’t see. She was Dick’s pride and joy, his first locomotive love, thought Moist, taking care not to say it aloud, the first test bed for every new innovation. No locomotive shone as brightly as Iron Girder. No locomotive got the next big improvement before Iron Girder. She was, indeed, the iron stalking horse for the railway and Simnel her willing slave.
Just as Moist was debating where first to look for Simnel, Emily King, in a very fine white cotton dress, came jauntily skipping through the compound towards the sacred engine shed as if completely unaware of the attendant muck and grease. But after all, he thought, she must have grown up with her uncle’s other business, against which the railway was a fragrant pleasure garden. And here she was, bouncing along cheerfully, and here was Iron Girder, and suddenly Moist’s spine went cold, every sinew twanging, and he was near to biting his nails as the girl continued towards the locomotive in her pristine white cotton dress.
Moist moved like lightning across the compound as Emily skipped on and reached Iron Girder. He looked at Simnel, whose face had gone curiously grey even under the grease and grime, and he was ready for anything as Emily patted the engine and said, ‘Hello, Iron Girder, how are we today, you lovely girl?’ And while Moist was still gawping, Emily took out her handkerchief and buffed Iron Girder’s brass nameplate industriously until it sparkled to the heavens. And as Emily was talking to Iron Girder about how good she was looking today, Simnel turned to Moist and said, very quietly, ‘She wouldn’t have, you know, not Iron Girder.’