Watt saw now that his companion all this time had been a chair. Its back was turned towards him. Little by little, as the light grew, he came to know this chair, so well, that in the end he knew it better than many a chair he had sat on, or stood on, when the object was beyond his reach, or shod his feet on, or toileted his feet on, one after the other, paring and curetting the nails, and scouring the webholes, with a spoon.
It was a high, narrow, black, wooden chair, with arms, and castors.
One of its feet was screwed to the floor, by means of a clamp. Not one of the remaining feet, but all, carried similar, if not identical irons. Not one, but all! But the screws, which no doubt had once fixed these to the floor, had very kindly been removed. Through the bars, which were vertical, of the back, Watt saw portions of a grate, heaped high with ashes, and cinders, of a beautiful grey colour.
This chair then had been with Watt, all this time, in the waiting-room, all these hours, of scant light, of no light, and it was with him still, in the exhilarating dawn. It would not be impossible, after all, to take it away, and put it somewhere else, or sell it by auction, or give it away.
Otherwise, as far as Watt could see, all was wall, or floor, or ceiling.
There next emerged, without haste, from the wall, a large coloured print of the horse Joss, standing in profile in a field. Watt identified, first the field, then the horse, and then, thanks to an inscription of great ? , the horse Joss. This horse, its four hooves firmly planted on the ground, its head sunk, seemed to consider, without appetite, the grass. Watt pushed forward his head, to see if it was really a horse, and not a mare, or a gelding. But this interesting information was hidden, just hidden, by a haunch, or tail, of more decency than breeding. The light was that of approaching night, or impending storm, or both. The grass was sparse, sere, and overrun with what Watt took to be a species of cockle.
The horse seemed hardly able to stand, let alone run.
This object too had not been always here, would perhaps not be always here.
The flies, of skeleton thinness, excited to new efforts by yet another dawn, left the walls, and the ceiling, and even the floor, and hastened in great numbers to the window. Here, pressed against the impenetrable panes, they would enjoy the light, and warmth, of the long summer’s day.
A merry whistling now sounded, afar off, and the nearer it approached, the merrier it grew. For Mr Nolan’s spirits always rose, as he approached the station, in the morning. They rose also, invariably, in the evening, when he left it. Thus Mr Nolan was assured, twice a day, of a rise in spirits. And when Mr Nolan’s spirits rose, he could no more refrain from whistling, merrily, than a lark sing, when it rises.
It was Mr Nolan’s habit, when he had flung open all the station-doors, with the air of one storming a bastille, to retire to the porters’ restroom, and there drink a bottle of stout, the first of the day, over the previous evening’s paper. Mr Nolan was a great reader of the evening paper. He read it five times, at his tea, at his supper, at his breakfast, with his morning stout and at his dinner. In the course of the afternoon, for he had a very gallant nature, he carried it to the ladies’ house of office, and left it there, in a conspicuous position. Few pennyworths gave more joy, than Mr Nolan’s evening paper.
Mr Nolan then, having unlocked and hurled, against their jambs, the wicket and the booking-office door, came to the door of the waiting-room. Had his whistle been less piercing, and his entry less resounding, he might have heard, behind the door, a disquieting sound, that of soliloquy, under dictation, and proceeded with care. But no, he turned the key and dealt, with his boot, the door a dunt that sent it flying inwards, at a great speed.
The innumerable semicircles thus brilliantly begun did not end, as on all previous mornings, in the bang that Mr Nolan loved, no, but they were all cut short, all without exception, at the same point. And the reason for that was this, that Watt, where he stood, swaying, murmuring, was nearer the waiting-room door than the waiting-room door was wide.
Mr Nolan found Mr Gorman on his doorstep, taking leave of his mother.
Now I am at liberty, said Watt, I am free to come and go, as I please.
There were four armpits, where the friezes met, four fair armpits. Watt saw the ceiling with an extreme distinctness. It was of a whiteness that he would not have believed possible, if it had been reported to him. It was a rest, after the wall. It was a rest too, after the floor. It was such a rest, after the wall, and the floor, and the chair, and the horse, and the flies, that Watt’s eyes closed, a thing they never did by day in the ordinary way on any account, except very briefly now and then, to prevent themselves from becoming too dry.
Poor fellow, said Mr Gorman, shall we telephone for a policeman.
Mr Nolan was all in favour of telephoning for a policeman.
Help him to rise, said Mr Gorman, perhaps he has a bone broke.
But Mr Nolan could not bring himself to do this. He stood in the middle of the booking-office, unable to move.
You do not expect me to help him to rise, all alone, said Mr Gorman.
Mr Nolan expected nothing.
Together let us levvy him to his feet, said Mr Gorman. Then, if necessary, you will telephone for a policeman.
Mr Nolan dearly loved to telephone. It was a treat seldom vouchsafed him. But in the door of the waiting-room he stopped short, and said he could not. He was sorry, he said, but he could not.
Perhaps you are right, said Mr Gorman.
(Hiatus in MS)
Yet we cannot leave him there like that, said Mr Gorman. The five fifty-five will be upon us — he consulted his watch — in thirty-seven and. . (Hiatus in MS) . . in a lower voice, And the six four will follow hard behind. The thought of the six four seemed to trouble him particularly, for some reason. There is not a moment to lose, he exclaimed. He drew himself up, threw back his head, lowered the hand that held the watch to the level of the glans (Mr Gorman had a very long arm) penis, laid the other to his temple and took the time. Then suddenly flexing his knees, and hunching his back, he cuddled the watch to his ear, in the attitude of a child cringing away from a blow.
It was as he feared, later than he hoped.
Run fetch a bucket of water, he said, perhaps who knows if we souse him thoroughly he will get up of his own free will.
Perhaps the hose—, said Mr Nolan.
The bucket, I said, said Mr Gorman, from the tap.
What bucket? said Mr Nolan.
Bloody well you know what bucket! cried Mr Gorman, not however an impatient man as a rule. The muck bloody bucket, blast your bloody—. He paused. The day was Saturday. Your bloody eyes, he said.
Watt distinguished fragments of a part:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . von Klippe zu Klippe geworfen
Endlos ins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . hinab.
Mr Gorman and Mr Nolan advanced together, stooping, the bucket, heavy with slime, held between them.
Sister, sister …… beware of a sullen silent sot …… always musing …… never thinks.
Gently does it, said Mr Gorman.
Is that the gob? said Mr Nolan.
Gently, gently, said Mr Gorman. Have you got a firm holt on her?
I have not, said Mr Nolan.
Don’t let go whatever you do, said Mr Gorman.
Or is it a hole in his trousers? said Mr Nolan.
Never mind what it is, said Mr Gorman. Are you right?
Hold back the handle, said Mr Nolan.
To hell with the bloody handle, said Mr Gorman. Tilt the bucket when I tell you.
Tilt her with what? said Mr Nolan. With the hair on me chest?
Mr Gorman spat violently into the bucket, Mr Gorman who never spat, in the ordinary way, if not into his pockethandkerchief.
Put down the bucket, said Mr Gorman.
They put down the bucket. Mr Gorman took the time, as before.
Lady McCann will be upon us in ten minutes, said Mr Gorman.
Lady McCann was a lady who daily left the neighbourhood by the first train in the morning, and returned to it by the last at night. Her reasons for doing this were not known. On Sundays she remained in bed, receiving there the mass, and other meals and visitors.
Hell roast her, said Mr Gorman. Good-morning, Mr Gorman, lovely morning, Mr Gorman. Lovely morning!
And Arsy Cox, said Mr Nolan.
And Herring-gut Waller, said Mr Gorman.
And Cack-faced Miller, said Mr Nolan.
And Mrs Penny-a-hoist Pim, said Mr Gorman.
That old put, said Mr Nolan.
Do you know what she says to me the other day? said Mr Gorman.
What was that? said Mr Nolan.
In my private burreau, said Mr Gorman. Placing his thumb and forefinger on his cheekbones, he pushed up the long yellow-grey moustache. Shortly after the departure of the eleven twenty-four, he said. Mr Gorman, says she, winter may be in my hair, but there is still plenty of spring in my do you follow me.
(MS illegible)
The right hand firmly on the rim, said Mr Gorman, the fingers of the left curled round the—
I follow you, said Mr Nolan.
They stooped.
God knows why I give myself all this trouble, said Mr Gorman. Tilt when I say the word.
The bucket slowly rose.
Not all at one go, said Mr Gorman, there is no point in soiling the floor unnecessarily.
Mr Nolan now releasing his hold on the bucket, Mr Gorman, who did not care to wet the outside of his trousers, was obliged to do the same. Together rapidly in safety they gained the door.
I declare to God she sprang out of me hands, like as if she was alive, said Mr Nolan.
If that doesn’t get him up, nothing will, said Mr Gorman.
Blood now perfused the slime. Mr Gorman and Mr Nolan were not alarmed. It was unlikely that a vital organ was touched.
Mr Case arrived. He had passed an unrefreshing night, in a sense, but his humour was excellent. He carried, in one hand, a can of hot tea, and, in the other, Songs by the Way, which the untoward events of the early morning had caused him to forget to leave behind, in his cabin, on the shelf, as his habit was.
He wished good-morning to, and shook hands warmly with, first Mr Gorman, and then Mr Nolan, who in their turn, and in that order, wished a very good morning to him, and shook him heartily by the hand. And then remembering, Mr Gorman and Mr Nolan, that in the heat of the morning’s vicissitudes they had forgotten to wish each other good-morning, and shake each other by the hand, they did so now, most cordially, without further delay.
Mr Case’s narrative was of great interest to Mr Gorman, and to Mr Nolan, there shedding light, as it did, where until now all had been dark. Much however remained to be elucidated.
You are sure it is the same? said Mr Gorman.
Mr Case picked his way, to where Watt lay. Bending he scraped, with his book, a little mire from the face.
Oh, you’ll spoil your nice book, cried Mr Gorman.
The clothes seem to me the same, said Mr Case. He went to the window and turned over, with his boot, the hat. I recognise the hat, he said. He rejoined Mr Gorman and Mr Nolan in the doorway. I see the bags, he said, but I cannot say that I recognise the face. It is true, if it is the same, that I have only seen it twice before, and both times the light was poor, oh very poor. And yet I have a great memory for faces, as a rule.
Particular a face like that, said Mr Nolan.
And for arses, added Mr Case, as an afterthought. Let me once catch a fair glimpse of an arse, and I’ll pick it out for you among a million.
Mr Nolan murmured something to his superior.
Grossly exaggerated, said Mr Gorman.
Otherwise my memory is poor, said Mr Case, oh very poor, as my wife could tell you.
Lady McCann joined the group. Greetings were exchanged, and salutes. Mr Gorman told her what they knew.
Do I see blood? said Lady McCann.
A mere trickle, my lady, said Mr Case, from the nose, or perhaps the lug.
Arsy Cox and Herring-gut Waller arrived together. Following the usual compliments, and prescribed motions of the head, and hands, Lady McCann informed them of what had passed.
Something must be done, said Mr Cox.
At once, said Mr Waller.
A breathless boy appeared. He said he was sent by Mr Cole.
Mr Cole? said Lady McCann.
Of the level-crossing, my lady, said Mr Case.
Mr Cole desired to know why Mr Case’s signals were against Mr Cole’s five fifty-seven, now rapidly approaching, from the south-east.
God bless my soul, said Mr Case, what can I have been thinking of.
But he had not reached the door, when Mr Gorman, on a sign from the boy, desired him to stay.
Mr Cole, said the boy, would also be very happy to learn for what reasons Mr Case’s signals were against Mr Cole’s six six, now hastening towards him, from the north-west.
Return, my little man, said Lady McCann, to him that sent you. Tell him that — has been the scene of terrible events, but that now all is well. Repeat now after me. The scene …… of terrible …… terrible …… events …… but that now …… all is well …… Very good. Here is a penny.
Cack-faced Miller arrived. Cack-faced Miller never greeted anyone, orally or otherwise, and few people ever greeted Cack-faced Miller. He knelt down beside Watt and inserted his hand under the head. In this touching attitude he remained for some time. He then rose and went away. He stood on the platform, his back to the line, his face to the wicket. The sun had not yet risen, above the sea. It had not yet risen, but it was rising fast. As he watched, it rose, and shone, with its faint morning shining, on his face.
Watt now also rose, to the no small diversion of Messrs Gorman, Nolan, Cox and Waller. Lady McCann was less amused.
Who the devil are you, said Mr Gorman, and what the hell do you want?
Watt found his hat and put it on.
Mr Gorman repeated his question.
Watt found his bags, first one, then the other, and settled them in his hands, in the way that irked him least. The group fell away from the door and he passed out, into the booking-office.
Who is he? said Mr Cox.
And what does he want? said Mr Waller.
Speak, said Lady McCann.
Watt halted before the ticket-window, put down his bags, once more, and knocked on the wooden shutter.
Go and see what he wants, said Mr Gorman.
When Watt saw a face on the other side of the window, he said:
Give me a ticket, if you please.
He wants a ticket, cried Mr Nolan.
A ticket to where? said Mr Gorman.
Where to? said Mr Nolan.
To the end of the line, said Watt.
He wants a ticket to the end of the line, cried Mr Nolan.
Is it a white man? said Lady McCann.
Which end? said Mr Gorman.
What end? said Mr Nolan.
Watt did not reply.
The round end or the square end? said Mr Nolan.
Watt reflected a little longer. Then he said:
The nearer end.
The nearest end, cried Mr Nolan.
There is no need to bellow, said Mr Cox.
The voice is low, but clear, said Mr Waller.
But what an extraordinary accent, said Lady McCann.
I beg your pardon, said Watt, I mean the further end.
What you want is a free pass, said Mr Nolan.
Issue him a third single to —, said Mr Gorman, and let us have done.
One and three, said Mr Nolan.
Watt counted out, in the fluted trough, one shilling, two sixpences, three threepences, and four pennies.
What’s all this? said Mr Nolan.
Three and one, said Watt.
One and three, roared Mr Nolan.
Watt put the difference in his pocket.
The train! exclaimed Lady McCann.
Quick, said Mr Cox, two there and back.
It was Mr Cox’s and Mr Waller’s practice, though they travelled daily, on this line, to and from the city, to buy their tickets every morning anew. One day it was Mr Cox who paid, and the next it was Mr Waller. The reasons for this are not known.
Not many minutes later the six four entered the station. It did not take up a single passenger, in the absence of Mrs Pim. But it discharged a bicycle, for a Miss Walker.
Mr Case, free now again to leave his box, joined Mr Gorman and Mr Nolan, before the wicket. The sun was now well above the visible horizon. Mr Gorman, Mr Case and Mr Nolan turned their faces towards it, as men will, in the early morning, without heeding. The road lay still, at this hour, leaden, deserted, between its hedges, and its ditches. From one of these latter a goat emerged, dragging its pale and chain. The goat hesitated, in the middle of the road, then turned away. The clatter came fainter and fainter, down the still air, and came still faintly when the pale had disappeared, beyond the rise. The trembling sea could not but be admired. The leaves quivered, or gave the impression of doing so, and the grasses also, beneath the drops, or beads, of gaily expiring dew. The long summer’s day had made an excellent start. If it continued in the same manner, its close would be worth coming to see.
All the same, said Mr Gorman, life isn’t such a bad old bugger. He raised high his hands and spread them out, in a gesture of worship. He then replaced them in the pockets, of his trousers. When all is said and done, he said.
Riley’s puckaun again, said Mr Nolan, I can smell him from here.
And they say there is no God, said Mr Case.
All three laughed heartily at this extravagance.
Mr Gorman consulted his watch.
To work, he said.
They parted. Mr Gorman went in one direction, Mr Case in another and Mr Nolan in a third.
But they had not gone far when Mr Case hesitated, went on, hesitated again, stopped, turned and cried:
And our friend?
Mr Gorman and Mr Nolan stopped and turned.
Friend? said Mr Gorman.
Mr Gorman was between Mr Case and Mr Nolan, and so did not need to raise his voice.