Euston, March

Mason stopped and shivered in spite of his greatcoat and the fingers of occasional steam from the waiting train curling about him. He began to count the rivets studding the barrel of the locomotive’s engine. It was still a polished black, but the occasional rust spots reminded him of too many blood-flecked bandages. A faint sheen of sweat misted his forehead, congregating under his cap band. Wretched thing. Fumbling for his handkerchief, he snatched under the peak. It came away grey and sodden. He stared at it momentarily ashamed and clutched his case until his knuckles whitened and then exhaled heavily, once, twice. That’s it, he ordered himself. In. Out. None of the scuttling passengers noticed him talking to himself. Everyone was mad these days.
All around him filtered the rough chatter of men curious about their destination, but Mason didn’t care. Just another camp. Just another stepping stone. Usual routine, drill, training, mess dining, recovery, recuperation, return.
‘Captain Mason? Sir?’ The voice, deferential of course, broke his barrier. ‘You need to board now, sir. The train’s leaving in one minute.’
‘What? Oh, thank you Henshaw. I’ll see you when we arrive.’
‘Very good sir.’ The little corporal performed his peculiar salute and shuffled away.
Mason was grateful to find an empty carriage. God save me from polite conversation he thought. All he wanted to do was watch the world dissolve in steam and smuts. No more thinking, no more anything. Settling into his seat, he shifted his buttocks and stretched out his khaki legs.
As a child he’d loved the thrill of the train, the rough textured upholstery rubbing against bare legs, schoolboy stockings pushed surreptitiously to his ankles. Mother wouldn’t like that, but Nurse never minded. Just smiled and laughed when he scrawled his name or drew childish pictures on the windows. He’d always travelled badly, hating the inevitable taste of bile in his mouth. Breakfast, luncheon, tea, all would reappear without hesitation. Each time Nurse would shrug, smile, and clean him up again. She couldn’t clean him up now of course, no one could. Mason doubted if he’d ever feel fully clean again. They could boil his shirts a thousand times but it wouldn’t matter. When it was all over, he never wanted to see those damned shirts again, they could burn them, tear them into dusters, for all he cared. He’d wear collarless ones with stripes, sleeves rolled to the elbow, braces hanging loose about his waist. Adopt a pipe and a straw hat. Become a sort of Van Gogh type, lurking in the fields and scaring the crows. Grow a straggled beard and eventually small wire rimmed glasses. Shut himself away from the madness.
Over three years and no sign of ending. He was fresh out of a history degree at the start, packed with ridiculous heroic ideals, crammed with unlived life. They’d still be digging in that mud when his hair was white, battalions of childless old men destroying a future they’d lost.
Gazing out of the spattered window he watched the station begin to waver in a cloud of steam and smoke. Porters beetled about, occasionally pointing errant passengers in an appropriate direction. A lean old conductor puffed with self-importance on a silver whistle hanging from a chain about his loose waistcoat. Mason wondered how often the narrow-faced man felt the frisson of power, of control. No train, no passenger, regardless of status could move until he said so. Not one. Good for you, thought Mason, sinking further into his greatcoat and pulling the collar about his neck. Good for you. Railways were just like death, a great leveller.
Finally the little man’s whistle shrilled and the engine shrugged into a slow, almost agonising movement. Mason pictured the pistons urging the wheels, pumping with metronomic energy. Much like the breathing exercises his doctors had recommended. Another train, an endless night of a train had brought him to them, not that he remembered much about that journey to Scotland, nor wanted to. Anderson had already been transported, pyjamaed and wrapped in grey blankets to save the ladies, the Army was always such a gentleman. Neither he nor Anderson presented any visible scars, apart from those gained as childhood badges of honour. One, slim and crescent shaped, graced his left kneecap. He’d always been proud of it, proud of the way it curled rather delicately around the sparse hairs and gleamed bone white whenever his legs had been allowed to brown in the sun. How he missed the sun! He’d known some sort of summer out there, before the birds deserted, hadn’t he? He thought he’d been in Scotland for part of one summer but remembered it only for granite walls, unfriendly girls and too much screaming.
Mason was glad he’d closed the carriage door, perhaps if he pulled down the blind they’d leave him alone for the entire journey. Company was the last thing he needed. The one thing he’d craved, even more than freedom from the mud, the lice or the rats, was privacy. Some respite from the sweat, the farts, and the groans of men desperate to be somewhere else. Even censoring their letters brought little relief. Corporal Henshaw would invariably pop up, his innocent foolish face craving some sort of occupation.
‘Not now Henshaw.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’
‘Perfectly, thank you. I’m busy with these.’
‘Very good sir. Sorry to have disturbed you.’
Mason often wondered if his batman ever slept.
Censoring the letters was one of the worst things, worse even than the incessant noise and filth. His thick indelible pencil strokes ensuring they remained unintelligible. At first Mason had read the letters with the same care their authors had lavished on their thoughts, confessions, even farewells, craving some sort of connection with the simpering sweethearts and mothers. These days he cast little more than a rudimentary glance over each one, uncaring if the truth seeped out. Let them know. Once they said it’d all be over by Christmas. They said a lot of things.
He watched the world begin to quicken. Greying buildings melted into green fields, cows and sheep dotted like the Noah’s Ark toys he’d refused to play with. Mother hadn’t been at all pleased. All he’d ever been interested in was his paints. Especially the little mahogany inlaid box Nurse had given him. He’d loved its secret feel, packed with tubes and cakes of magic; carmine, yellow ochre, cobalt blue, indigo, emerald green, burnt sienna, everything he could ever want. There was even a ceramic palette, an inlaid water jar complete with screw top lid and three brushes. Nurse had watched him prise it open, her gap-toothed grin widening as he picked out each wonder and held it up for inspection. It was then he’d decided Nurse was the woman he was definitely going to marry when he grew up. After she left, packed off without goodbye or explanation, he heard the box had once belonged to her elder brother.
The train began to follow a silver river, but no one was fishing or boating. The world felt empty. Good, he thought, a sort of peace. Huddled in his carriage, the rough wool collar almost meeting the cap pulled low over his eyes, Mason was pleased he could almost eradicate the rest of humanity. Occasional voices, flickers of laughter, all male of course, still permeated his sanctuary. Perhaps he could sleep away the duration, though sleep didn’t love him much these days. He knew he should read but his mind was too busy. All he wanted to do was forget the last two years. It was always safer to play in the distant past.
‘Shouldn’t take all day,’ his CO had smirked. ‘Change of scene should do you good.’ A train journey packed with bored Canadians en route to a holding camp on the North Wales coast. How would that do him any good? Wales, for God’s sake. Stupid man.