The Somme Stations Read Online Free Page B

brewing up with Germany,’ said the Chief.
    ‘But nobody did know, did they sir?’ as we found two chairs near the dusty fireplace.
    ‘Course they knew,’ said the Chief, lighting a cigar, ‘ I knew, so I’m bloody sure the War Office did.’
    ‘ How did you know war was coming?’ I enquired, at which the Chief fell silent for a space. He was eyeing Dawson, who was after another pint of John Smith’s Best Bitter.
    ‘You’ve put three away in the last two minutes,’ Don Wolstenholmes, who ran the Bootham, was saying to Dawson. ‘I think you’ve had enough.’
    ‘I’ve had enough of you, ’ said Dawson, and he was loud enough to make the pub go quiet for a moment.
    Wolstenholmes did pour another pint for Dawson, and the Chief directed his gaze at the sandwich in his hand. He folded it like a piece of paper and put it into his mouth. Then, while eating, he said, ‘I knew from 1910.’
    ‘What happened then?’
    The Chief folded another sandwich and put it in.
    ‘The Entente fucking Cordiale, with the fucking French,’ he said, with crumbs and fish paste flying. ‘We wouldn’t be palling up to those buggers if we didn’t know a scrap was coming with the Germans.’
    The Chief then took a draw on his cigar. He would always smoke while eating, and while doing most other things. Oliver had come over from the bar, and was standing at the Chief’s shoulder.
    ‘I don’t blame you police chaps for staying out of it,’ he said, indicating Dawson. ‘He was born drunk, he was. Best thing to do is steer clear.’
    The Chief began turning about, with the dazed look on his face, having been rudely diverted, so to speak, from international diplomacy. But Oliver had gone by the time the Chief’s manoeuvre was completed, which left him staring directly at the drunken porter, Dawson.
    And now the clockwork machine, having been wound up to the fullest, began to work.
    ‘Who the fuck are you?’ said Dawson, just as though the Chief’s gold-braided tunic and police insignia wouldn’t have told him; just as if every man on the Company strength didn’t know Chief Inspector Weatherill.
    The Chief looked at me, as if expecting me to supply the answer on his behalf, which I did.
    ‘He’s the head of police at York railway station, as you know very well.’
    ‘Right enough,’ said Dawson, ‘and otherwise what ?’
    He was drunker than I thought, and had become meaningless. How had he managed it in that short interval of time since leaving the station?
    ‘This gentleman’, I said, ‘is second only to the Chief Officer, Fairclough, up at Newcastle, and you would be very well advised –’
    I broke off, for I’d noticed that the Chief had put his cigar out even though it was only halfway through. The Chief never put a cigar out when it was only halfway through.
    ‘Fairclough?’ Dawson was saying. ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’
    ‘I’ve just told you who he is.’
    The Chief had not only put his cigar out, he was also hitching up the sleeves of his tunic.
    ‘And who are you ,’ Dawson was asking me, as the Chief rose from his chair, ‘that you go round sticking up for him?’
    ‘Would you stop asking everybody who they are?’ said the Chief, in a voice that didn’t sound like him. It sounded like the Chief very far away. ‘You’re a disgrace to your uniform,’ he said, facing Dawson.
    The pub was quite silent once again.
    ‘You can talk,’ said Dawson, for as well as gold braid there was a quantity of fish paste and cigarette ash on the Chief’s tunic. The Chief pushed closer towards him.
    ‘Eh?’ said the Chief. ‘What do you mean?’
    He wanted Dawson to lay a finger on him. Mere abuse did not justify blows. The Railway Police Manual said as much.
    Dawson raised his hands, and pointed at the smudge on the Chief’s chest: ‘You’re clarted in bloody …’
    He touched the Chief, who frowned at him – not angry but puzzled rather. I was eyeing Dawson’s nose, which was of a good size,