Short Stories Inspired
by the
OVERGROUND LINE
Edited by
Overground - Introduction - Cherry Potts
Highbury - Inspector Bucket Takes the Train - Peter Cooper
Islington - Morning, Sunshine - Louise Swingler
Canonbury - All Change at Canonbury - Paula Read
Dalston Junction - Moving Mike - Wendy Gill
Haggerston - Platform Zero - Michael Trimmer
Hoxton - Bloody Marys and a Bowl of Pho - Caroline Hardman
Shoreditch High Street - The Horror, the Horror - Katy Darby
Whitechapel - Lenny Bolton Changes Trains - Rob Walton
Shadwell - Rich and Strange - Bartle Sawbridge
Wapping - The Beetle - Ellie Stewart
Rotherhithe - A Place of Departures - Cherry Potts
Canada Water - No Prob at Canada Water - Anna Fodorova
Surrey Quays - Three Things to do in Surrey Quays - Adrian Gantlope
New Cross - New Cross Nocturne - David Bausor
New Cross Gate - Yellow Tulips - Rob Walton
Brockley - How to Grow Old in Brockley - Rosalind Stopps
Honor Oak - Carrot Cake - Paula Read
Forest Hill - Mr Forest Hill Station - Peter Morgan
Sydenham - Actress - Andrew Blackman
Crystal Palace - She Didn’t Believe in Ghosts - Jacqueline Downs
Penge West - Penge Tigers - Adrian Gantlope
Anerley - Birdland - Joan Taylor-Rowan
Norwood Junction - Recipes for a Successful Working Life - Rosalind Stopps
West Croydon - All Roads Lead to West Croydon - Max Hawker
About the Authors
About Arachne Press
Introduction
The Overground runs at the bottom of my garden and my local station is a three minute walk away. Before there was the Overground, there was only Southern, but trains went to London Bridge, Victoria and Charing Cross. With the advent of the Overground, the Charing Cross trains were lost, and with them, the possibility of an easy last train home from many of my favourite central London venues. There was lamenting, there were protests, there was a coffin carried on the very last train. It was epic.
Then there was the disruption: the endless sleepless nights while the track was relaid and the station lengthened and the trees on either side of the cutting massacred. (More protests). There were the huffy, what use is it? conversations on rush-hour platforms, the disbelieving sneer when told the value of my home would increase, followed by the overcrowding, the noise… and then there was the eating of words.
Because the Overground is wonderful. It cut ten minutes off my journey to work, it halved the time to get to all sorts of North London places I had given up going to: the King’s Head, the Union Chapel and the Estorick Collection. It made getting to the Geffrye museum simple. It expanded my horizons. I ate my words.
Mentioning this in passing at a writing group meeting (spitting distance from an Overground station, average door to door journey eight minutes), as we settled for a twenty-minute writing exercise, Rosalind said: we should write about the Overground. So we did.
From that twenty minutes blossomed the idea for an entire book, with a story for every station on ‘our’ section of the line: Highbury & Islington to New Cross, Crystal Palace and West Croydon. Advertisements were placed, notice boards plastered, emails sent, and gradually over six months, the stories started coming in. The relevance of the trains themselves has faded into the storytelling a little, but the Overground remains the raison d’être of the book. So: thank you, Overground.
We didn’t know when we started this collection that the London Underground would be celebrating 150 years of existance just after publication, nor that the Overground would complete its circuit of London only a week after we published. Perhaps we should have known, but anyway, we were happy to have more reasons to celebrate the line.
Inspector Bucket Takes the Train
It was a rare thing for Inspector Bucket to take the train, old fashioned as he was about travel and much preferring the jogging of a hackney cab or omnibus to the snorting of a steam train. He complained that the railway only showed him the backsides of warehouses and factories and what he wanted, he said, was the courts, alleyways and streets of London, for it was there that the pickpockets and thieves of London Town would ply or plan their trade.
Indeed, despite the unpleasantly windy weather, we had travelled all the way from Vauxhall to Highbury & Islington Railway Station in a hackney cab rather than risk the train. The Inspector had been asked to attend a meeting there, he said. Yet here we were: him at his advanced age and me his long-term amanuensis, due, after all, to catch an evening train from North London Railway’s newest station.
It must be said that the station was a fine gothic building with an impressive forecourt, although its architecture was, frankly, more convivial than its railway staff! The clerk in the booking hall eyed us up as if he assumed we were only there with the intention of pinching the railway stock.
Mind you, I must confess I was embarrassed by Inspector Bucket talking loudly about an expensive gold necklace he said he had previously wrapped up in a handkerchief. He had been passing it from pocket to pocket rather obsessively. There was a niece of his in Kew who had been promised the jewellery as part of her wedding equipage, it seemed, but I saw no need for Inspector Bucket to announce this to the whole station. Also, now that we were exposed under the gas lights of the booking hall, I was alarmed at the state of his dress – particularly his greatcoat, which seemed very much a second best affair and rather stained at the pockets. Bucket had always been somewhat eccentric but now it seemed old age was making him careless.
Nevertheless, I was more surprised by the station itself than I was by the enigmatic Inspector Bucket. This was a busy and freshly appointed London station, yet it was strangely quiet and empty on what should have been a bustling Monday evening. I reasoned that it must have been the weather putting people off; though at the front of the station there was no pause in the movements of the cabs, the carts, the pedlars and the omnibuses. In the booking hall there was a small group of businessmen, a clergyman in a cassock and a rather handsome unaccompanied woman, but, apart from these, and a late-arriving gentleman who might have been an iron master from the manufactories, the booking office was doing slow business. A small number of other passengers were taking shelter in the first class waiting room and a few third class ones were leaning morosely against the glass, trying to find some shelter from the gale that was blowing up on the open platform. Several of the gas jets were already blown out and others were fitful. It was a relief to see the Cock Tavern, newly built into the station’s eastern wing, where a passenger with a thirst on him might wait in more convivial surroundings in front of a fire.
We sat in the corner out of habit but just as I was about to quiz Bucket about tonight’s exploits we were joined by an important looking gentleman.
‘Inspector Bucket?’ he said. ‘I’m Beddows.’ This was clearly the man whom Bucket had arranged to meet.
‘I’ve a nephew who works on the railways,’ Bucket said by way of an answer. ‘He’s always trying to get me to take a ride on a steam locomotive, but it don’t seem natural to me!’
I noticed the inky stains on Bucket’s fingers but I thought little of that at the time, other than observing to myself that he must have been writing through the long hours of the afternoon and that his elderly carelessness extended to the ink bottle.
‘Then, I’m very grateful to you for coming at all, Inspector,’ the gentleman was saying. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you but we’re desperate, you see. We’re losing revenue because of it all and the police have been unable to do anything about it!’
Bucket had retired from the Police Force nearly twenty years before, to open his own private detective bureau, but he was still always addressed as Inspector.
‘There are regular reports of robberies on the trains and we can’t seem to do anything to prevent them,’ Beddows continued wearily. ‘Even as passengers sit in their carriages they’re not safe! The result is that the station and the line are being by-passed by the better class of customer. Like you, Inspector, they’d sooner take a hackney cab, or omnibus,’ he sighed despairingly. ‘Most of the complaints from our passengers seem to mention the run from us to Willesden Junction. We’re the new station so I’ve got the rest of the railway board on my back to get the culprits caught – and I’m at my wit’s end, I don’t mind admitting it!’
‘And what precautions have been taken, Mr Beddows?’ asked Bucket.
‘Well, Inspector, the station masters have put warning notices on the platforms, of course, advising people to travel in groups if they can, and especially in the evenings,’ said Beddows. ‘Our ticket officers and guards keep a careful lookout for shifty looking characters and we’ve asked for policemen to be on patrol at all the station exits and entrances. We’ve even had our own men travelling in the carriages, ones sworn in as county constables I mean, but they can’t keep a watch on every carriage, can they?’
‘Would put off most thieves, I expect,’ said Bucket thoughtfully, ‘all those men in uniform. But I think you must have a local gang, and a brazen one, working your line – if the thefts are still occurring, that is?’
‘Well, there has been a let-up in the complaints, but only, I think, because we’ve fewer passengers travelling; but that’s not a solution the Board likes!’ Beddows sighed, taking out his watch at the sound of an approaching train. ‘That will be the seven o’clock coming in, Inspector. You’ll journey on the line for us, won’t you, and see what you think? I have a pass for you and your companion here.’
‘No need, Mr Beddows,’ smiled Bucket. ‘I thought it more appropriate to purchase tickets of our own. Now, if you will excuse me, we have a train to catch.’
There was a small group around the first class carriages, most of them warily sizing up their fellow passengers even as they hastened to get out of the gale. However, instead of the usual desire to find a carriage of their own, they seemed more intent in finding safety in numbers. Bucket was again noisily informing me that I shouldn’t concern myself and that the gold necklace was safe with him. He even patted gently at the very pocket. My concern at the signs of his growing confusion began to grow.
Our chosen carriage already had four people inside and the seats were narrow, but the blue buttoned cushions were comfortable enough. We were joined by a businessman, a young woman, and the clergyman. Only one of the gas jets was lit and this almost blew out before the door was closed by the manufacturing gentleman. When he sat down I felt that he seemed somewhat familiar but he paid no attention to me. Despite the cold outside, it seemed really quite warm in the carriage, squashed up with all these other people, and I noticed that even Bucket had unbuttoned his greatcoat.
Not a word was spoken by anyone other than the Inspector and, for a while, he seemed never to stop: ‘Won’t cousin Ada be pleased with the gold necklace?’ he was saying. ‘It’ll look fine on her, set off her other jewellery to perfection – though the gold necklace is far superior to anything cousin Ada has ever worn before, and she’s worn pieces envied at many London balls and by many a London jeweller, ain’t she?’
I felt embarrassed by his odd outpourings and looked out of the window at the dark shapes passing by. I am ashamed to say I was pretending that this old man in the later stages of his dotage had nothing to do with me.
No-one alighted until we reached Camden Town. A middle-aged lady carrying a small child was peering through the carriage windows as we pulled in. The clergyman took a good look at her, I noticed. When she finally settled on our carriage, the worthy manufacturing gentleman chose that moment, conveniently, to exit, or there would indeed have been a crush. She wore a heavy tweed cape, and the child was exceedingly well wrapped up in woollen blankets against the squall. She was a bustling, verbose personage who began addressing her fellow passengers from the first moment of her entry.
‘I feel so much safer travelling in a full carriage,’ she said. ‘You hear so many stories, don’t you? That poor gentleman who was murdered and left for dead on the tracks – do you remember reading about it? I know it was a few years ago, but, well, he made the mistake of sitting by himself, alone in a first class carriage, and nobody heard his screams, did they? Well, how could they, with all the noise of the engine and the train lines rattling? Hackney wasn’t it? Where it happened, I mean. Well, I’ve been nervous about travelling on the railway ever since, haven’t you?’
These observations seemed to give little comfort to her fellow passengers. The clergyman sitting next to me was looking nervous and the lady on the other side alarmed. The businessman clutched his case of papers more closely to his chest. I watched the gas jet flickering fitfully. The chattering lady continued to make similar comments almost all the way to the next station, only pausing when her little girl began moaning.
‘There, there,’ she said to her, and then looked up at us all. ‘My niece has been unwell, you see, and I must get her back to her dear mummy. Would you mind awfully,’ she said, addressing the clergyman who was sitting next to the window, ‘if we were to open the window just for a moment? I think the child is rather warm.’
The clergyman complied with her request without saying a word. The window was opened, a gale blew in and the remaining gas jet blew out. We were plunged into darkness and confusion. There was a scream and some gasps, and then a sudden jostling in the carriage. Somebody stood up, I imagined to extinguish the gas, or perhaps to attempt to re-light it, and I felt a hand brush past mine where I was sitting next to the silent Inspector Bucket. If the intention was to re-light the gas, it was evidently unsuccessful; however, after a moment, the window was shut again and to everyone’s relief we began to pull into the lit precincts of Chalk Farm Station. Everybody was back in their seats and glad to be in some light again, even smiling at each other in acknowledgement of our recent predicament and panic.
‘Well, this is my stop,’ said the lady, cradling the silent child in her arms.
‘This is the termination for us all, I believe!’ said Bucket suddenly, standing up. ‘I must ask you all to step off the train for a moment.’
Everyone was aghast, not least myself.
‘What’s the game?’ said the clergyman, whom I had not heard speak until that moment and who sounded less like a man of the cloth then any I had ever heard. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘I’m no-one,’ said Bucket, ‘but this here gentleman is someone.’ The manufacturing gentleman who had left our carriage earlier had obviously just stepped out on to the platform at Camden and then stepped straight back into the next door carriage. He was now waiting, sentinel-like at our door, holding out his badge of office. He was a policeman! And now I recognised him as none other than our old friend Sergeant Meehan (now an inspector) who had been involved in the case of The Beast with us. As soon as a pair of burly officers had joined him from their position at the station’s exit, the passengers in the carriage had little choice but to step down.
‘What’s it all about Constable?’ the middle-aged lady was saying. ‘My poor daughter is ill you see. I must get her home.’
‘Oh, ‘daughter’ is it this time?’ said Bucket, raising his eyebrows. ‘You’ll be ashamed of yourself now, I expect, won’t you – using this ’ere small child for cover! Where have you picked the poor thing up from, eh? The streets? Hold her still, Inspector Meehan. Let’s see what we have hidden under these woollens, shall us?’
The small child whined but Bucket was gentle with her. ‘We won’t hurt you, my duck,’ he said, and withdrew an inkstained handkerchief wrapped around something shiny from amongst the folds of material. ‘Well, what have we here?’ he said, unfolding the handkerchief and holding its contents in his open, inky hand. ‘Look, an expensive gold necklace! Now, how did she come to have that tucked under her blanket, I wonder?’
In Bucket’s hand was not a necklace, of course, but a glass eye-dropper as used by doctors. A small amount of ink, or, as I discovered later, aniline dye, was still in the bottom of the unstoppered bottle.
‘I think we shall find a few ink stains on you too, madam,’ he said. ‘Shine your light here, Constable.’ And indeed there were stains, all down the woman’s dress and on the cape she was wrapped up in.
‘And your conscience will be stained too I expect, Vicar,’ said Bucket, staring at the clergyman. The light was duly shone and revealed a cassock stained with purple dye.
‘You picked my pocket when the light went out and you passed the parcel to this lady here, who then hid it under the child’s blanket,’ Bucket explained. ‘But I took the stopper out of the bottle just as you was dipping it out and the ink has shown who did it! Well,’ Bucket said, nodding at the constables to apply their handcuffs, ‘my friend at Highbury & Islington will be very pleased to have you two off his line while you walk up and down another one, doing shot drill at Tothill or Newgate. Take them away, Mr Meehan.’
‘Well,’ I said, when the figures had disappeared into the shadows, ‘You’ve surprised me again, Inspector Bucket. Is it back home on the next train then?’
‘No, my boy,’ he said, ‘call us a cab.’