Sleep Story: The Railway Children 11 | Read By S D Hudson

When Father goes away with two strangers one evening, the lives of Roberta, Peter, and Phyllis are shattered. They and Mother have to move from their comfortable London home to go and live in a simple country cottage, where Mother writes books to make ends meet. Let the soothing sound of English author S D Hudson transport you to another time and another place, with her skilled reading of this classic story.

Transcript

THE RAILWAY CHILDREN by E.

Nesbitt Read by S.

D.

Hudson Chapter 11 The Hound in the Red Jersey Bobby knew the secret now.

A sheet of old newspaper wrapped around a parcel.

Just a little chance like that had given the secret to her and she had to go down to tea and pretend there was nothing the matter.

The pretense was bravely made,

But it wasn't very successful.

For when she came in,

Everyone looked up from its tea and saw her pink-lidded eyes and her pale face with red tear blotches on it.

My darling,

Cried Mother,

Jumping up from the tea tray,

Whatever is the matter?

My head aches rather,

Said Bobby,

And indeed it did.

Has anything gone wrong?

Mother asked.

I'm all right really,

Said Bobby.

And she telegraphed to her mother from her swollen eyes this brief imploring message.

Not before the others.

Tea was not a cheerful meal.

Peter was so distressed by the obvious fact something horrid had happened to Bobby that he limited his speech to repeating more bread and butter please at startlingly short intervals.

Philly stroked her sister's hand under the table to express sympathy and knocked her cup over as she did it.

Fetching a cloth and wiping up the spilt milk helped Bobby a little,

But she thought the tea would never end.

Yet at last it did end,

As all things do at last,

And when Mother took out the tray,

Bobby followed her.

She's gone to own up,

Said Philly to Peter.

I wonder what she's done.

Broken something I suppose,

Said Peter,

But she needn't be so silly over it.

Mother never rouse her accidents.

Listen.

Yeah,

They're going upstairs.

She's taking Mother up to show her.

The water jug with stalks on it,

I expect.

Bobby,

In the kitchen,

Had caught hold of Mother's hand as she set down the tea things.

What is it?

Mother asked,

But Bobby only said,

Come upstairs.

Come up where nobody can hear us.

When she had got Mother alone in her room,

She locked the door and then stood quite still and without words.

All through tea she'd been thinking of what to say.

She decided that I know all,

Or all is known to me,

Or the terrible secret is a secret no longer would be the proper thing to say.

But now that she and her mother and that awful sheet of newspaper were alone in the room together,

She found she could say nothing.

Suddenly she went to Mother and put her arms around her and began to cry again,

And still she could find no words,

Only,

Oh,

Mummy,

Oh,

Mummy,

Over and over again.

Mother held her very close and waited.

Suddenly Bobby broke away from her and went to her bed.

From under its mattress she pulled out the paper she'd hidden there and held it out,

Pointing to her father's name with a finger that shook.

Oh,

Bobby,

Mother cried when one little quick look had shown her what it was.

You don't believe it.

You don't believe Daddy did it,

Do you?

No.

Bobby almost shouted.

Now she'd stopped crying.

That's all right,

Said Mother.

It's not true,

And they shut him up in prison,

But he's done nothing wrong.

He's good and noble and honourable and he belongs to us.

We have to think of that and be proud of him and wait.

Again Bobby clung to her,

Mother,

And again only one word came to her,

But now that word was Daddy,

And,

Oh,

Daddy,

Again and again.

Why didn't you tell me,

Mummy?

She asked presently.

Are you going to tell the others?

Mother asked.

No.

Why?

Because.

Exactly,

Said Mother.

So you understand why I didn't tell you.

We two must help each other to be brave.

Yes,

Said Bobby.

Mother,

Will it make you more unhappy if you tell me all about it?

I want to understand.

So then,

Sitting cuddled up close to her mother,

Bobby heard all about it.

She heard how those men who had asked to see Father on that night when the engine was being mended had come to arrest him,

Charging him with selling state secrets to the Russians,

With being,

In fact,

A spy and a traitor.

She heard about the trial and about the evidence,

Letters found in Father's desk at the office,

Letters that convinced the jury Father was guilty.

Oh,

How could they look at him and believe it,

Cried Bobby,

And how could anyone do such a thing?

Someone did it,

Said Mother,

And all the evidence was against Father.

Those letters.

Yes,

How did the letters get into his desk?

Someone put them there,

And the person who put them there was the person who was really guilty.

He must be feeling pretty awful all this time,

Said Bobby,

Thoughtfully.

I don't believe he had any feelings,

Mother said hotly.

He couldn't have done if he did a thing like that.

Perhaps he just shoved the letters into the desk to hide them when he thought he was going to be found out.

Why don't you tell the lawyers or someone that it must have been that person?

There wasn't anyone who would have hurt Father on purpose,

Was there?

I don't know.

I don't know.

The man under him who got Daddy's place when he.

.

.

When the awful thing happened,

He was always jealous of your father because Daddy was so clever and everyone thought such a lot of him.

Daddy never quite trusted that man.

Couldn't we explain all that to someone?

Nobody will listen,

Said Mother very bitterly.

Nobody at all.

Do you suppose I've not tried everything?

No,

My dearest,

There's nothing to be done.

All we can do,

You and I and Daddy,

Is to be brave and patient and.

.

.

She spoke very softly.

To pray,

Bobby dear.

Mother,

You've got very thin,

Said Bobby abruptly.

A little,

Perhaps.

I do think you're the bravest person in the world as well as the nicest.

Said Bobby.

We won't talk of this any more,

Will we dear?

Said Mother.

We must bear it and be brave and darling,

Try not to think of it.

Try to be cheerful and to amuse yourself and the others.

It's much easier for me if you can be a little bit happy and enjoy things.

Wash your poor little round face and let's go out into the garden for a bit.

The other two were very gentle and kind to Bobby and they did not ask her what was the matter.

This was Peter's idea and he had drilled Phyllis who would have asked a hundred questions if she'd been left to herself.

A week later,

Bobby managed to get away alone and once more she wrote a letter and once more it was to the old gentleman.

My dear friend,

It said.

You see what is in this paper?

It's not true,

Father never did it.

Mother says someone put the papers in Father's desk and she says the man under him that got Father's place afterwards was jealous of Father and Father suspected him a long time.

But nobody listens to a word she says.

But you are so good and clever and you found out about the Russian gentleman's wife directly.

Can't you find out who did the treason?

Because it wasn't Father upon my honour.

He's an Englishman and incapable to do such things and then they would let Father out of prison.

It is dreadful and Mother is getting so thin.

She told us once to pray for all prisoners and captives.

I see now.

Oh,

Do help me.

There's only just Mother and me that know and we can't do anything.

Peter and Phyllis don't know.

I'll pray for you twice every day as long as I live if you'll only try,

Just try to find out.

Think if it was your Daddy,

What would you feel?

Oh,

Do help me.

With love,

I remain your affectionately little friend,

Roberta.

P.

S.

Mother would send her kind regards if she knew I'm writing but it's no use telling her I am in case you can't do anything.

But I know you will.

Bobby,

With best love.

She cut the account of her father's trial out of the newspaper with Mother's big cutting out scissors and put it in the envelope with her letter.

Then she took it down to the station going out the back way and round by the road so that the others should not see her and offer to come with her.

And she gave the letter to the station master to give to the old gentleman next morning.

Where have you been?

Shouted Peter from the top of the yard wall where he and Phyllis were.

To the station,

Of course,

Said Bobby.

Give us a hand,

Pete.

She set her foot on the lock of the yard door.

Peter reached down a hand.

What on earth,

She asked as she reached the wall top,

For Phyllis and Peter were very,

Very muddy.

A lump of wet clay lay between them on the wall.

They each had a slip of slate in a very dirty hand.

And behind Peter,

Out of the reach of accidents,

Were several strange rounded objects rather like very fat sausages,

Hollow but closed up at one end.

It's nests,

Said Peter,

Swallows nests.

We're going to dry them in the oven and hang them up with a string under the eaves of the coach house.

Yes,

Said Phyllis,

And then we're going to save up all the wool and hair we can get and in the spring we'll line them and then how pleased the swallows will be.

I've often thought people don't do nearly enough for dumb animals,

Said Peter with an air of virtue.

I do think people might have thought of making nests for poor little swallows before this.

Oh,

Said Bobby vaguely.

If everybody thought of everything,

There'd be nothing left for anybody else to think about.

Look at the nests,

Aren't they pretty,

Said Phyllis,

Reaching across Peter to grasp one.

Look out,

Phil,

You don't,

Said her brother.

But it was too late,

Her strong little fingers had crushed the nest.

There now,

Said Peter.

Never mind,

Said Bobby.

It is one of my own,

Said Phyllis,

So you needn't jaw,

Pete.

We've put initials on the ones we've done so the swallows will know who they've got to be so grateful and fond of.

Swallows can't read silly,

Said Peter.

Silly yourself,

Retorted Phyllis.

How do you know?

Who thought of making the nests anyhow,

Shouted Peter.

I did,

Screamed Phyllis.

No,

Rejoined Peter.

You only thought of making hay ones and sticking them in the ivy for the sparrows.

And they'd have been sopping long before egg-laying time.

It was me,

Said Clay and Swallows.

I don't care what you said.

Look,

Said Bobby.

I've made the nest all right again.

Give me the bit of stick to mark your initial name on it.

But how can you?

Your letters and Peter's are the same.

P for Peter and P for Phyllis.

I put F for Phyllis,

Said the child of that name.

That's how it sounds.

The swallows wouldn't spell Phyllis with a P,

So I'm certain sure.

They can't spell at all,

Peter was still insisting.

Then why do you always see them all Christmas cards and.

.

.

Valentines with letters round their necks?

How would they know where to go if they couldn't read?

That's only in pictures.

You never saw one really with letters round its neck.

Well,

I have a pigeon then.

At least Daddy told me they did.

Only it was under their wings and not round their necks.

But it comes to the same thing.

I say,

Interrupted Bobby,

There's to be a paper chase tomorrow.

Who?

Peter asked.

Grammar school.

Perks thinks the hare will go along by the line at first.

We might go along the cutting.

We can see a long way from there.

The paper chase was found to be a more amusing subject of conversation.

.

.

Than the reading powers of swallows.

Bobby had hoped it might be.

And next morning,

Mother let them take their lunch.

.

.

And go out for the day to see the paper chase.

If we go to the cutting,

Said Peter,

We'll see the workmen.

.

.

Even if we miss the paper chase.

Of course it had taken some time to get the line clear.

.

.

From the rocks and earth and trees that had fallen on it.

.

.

When the great landslide happened.

That was the occasion,

You'll remember.

.

.

When the three children saved the train from it being wrecked.

.

.

By waving six little red flannel petticoat flags.

It's always interesting to watch people working.

.

.

Especially when they work with such interesting things.

.

.

As spades and picks and shovels and planks and barrows.

.

.

When they have cindery red fires in iron pots with round holes in them.

.

.

And red lamps hanging near the works at night.

Of course the children were never out at night.

.

.

But once,

At dusk,

When Peter had gone out of his bedroom skylight.

.

.

Onto the roof,

He'd seen the red lamps shining far away.

.

.

At the edge of the cutting.

The children had often been down to watch the work.

.

.

And this day,

The interest of picks and spades and barrows.

.

.

Being wheeled along planks.

.

.

Completely put the paper chase out of their heads.

So they quite jumped when a voice just behind them panted.

.

.

Let me pass,

Please!

It was the Hare,

A big-boned,

Loose-limbed boy.

.

.

With dark hair lying flat on a very damp forehead.

The bag of torn paper under his arm.

.

.

Was fastened across one shoulder by a strap.

The children stood back.

The Hare ran along by the line.

.

.

And the workmen leaned on their picks to watch him.

He ran on steadily and disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel.

That's against the by-laws,

Said the foreman.

Why worry,

Said the oldest workman.

Live and let live's what I say.

Ain't you ever been young yourself,

Mr Bates?

I ought to report him,

Said the foreman.

Why spoil sport's what I say?

Passengers are forbidden to cross the line on any pretence.

.

.

Murmured the foreman doubtfully.

He ain't no passenger,

Said one of the workmen.

Nor he ain't crossed the line.

.

.

Nor where we could see him do it,

Said another.

Nor yet he ain't made no pretences,

Said a third.

And,

Said the oldest workman.

.

.

He's out of sight now.

You see,

The art needn't take no notice of.

That's what I say.

And now,

Following the track of the Hare.

.

.

By the little white blots of scattered paper.

.

.

Came the bounds.

There were thirty of them.

.

.

And they all came down the steep ladder-like steps.

.

.

By ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens.

Bobby and Phyllis and Peter counted them as they passed.

The foremost ones hesitated a moment at the foot of the ladder.

Then their eyes caught the gleam of scattered white whiteness along the line.

.

.

And they turned towards the tunnel.

.

.

And by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens.

.

.

Disappeared into the dark mouth of it.

The last one,

In a red jersey.

.

.

Seemed to be extinguished by the darkness like a candle that is blown out.

I don't know what they're in for,

Said the foreman.

It isn't so easy running in the dark.

The tunnel takes two or three turns.

It'll take a long time to get through,

Don't you think?

Peter asked.

An hour or more,

I shouldn't wonder.

Then let's cut across the top and see them come out the other end,

Said Peter.

We shall get there long before they do.

The council seemed good and they went.

They climbed the steep steps from which they picked the wild cherry blossom.

.

.

For the grave of the little wild rabbit.

.

.

And reaching the top of the cutting.

.

.

Set their faces towards the hill through which the tunnel was cut.

It was stiff work.

It's like Alps,

Said Bobby breathlessly.

Or Andes,

Said Peter.

It's like Himi.

.

.

What's his name?

Gasped Philip.

Mount Everlasting,

Do let's stop.

Stick to it,

Panted Peter.

You'll get your second wind in a minute.

Philip consented to stick to it and on they went.

.

.

Running where the turf was smooth and the slope easy.

.

.

Climbing over stones.

.

.

Helping themselves up rocks by the branches of trees.

.

.

Creeping through narrow openings between tree trunks.

.

.

And rocks and so on and so on,

Up and up.

.

.

Till at last they stood on the very top of the hill.

.

.

Where they so often wished to be.

Halt,

Cried Peter and threw himself flat on the grass.

From the very top of the hill was a smooth turfed table land.

.

.

Dotted with mossy rocks.

.

.

And little mountain ash trees.

The girls also threw themselves down flat.

Plenty of time,

Peter panted,

The rest all downhill.

When they were rested enough to sit up and look around them.

.

.

Bobby cried,

Oh look!

What at?

Said Phyllis.

The view,

Said Bobby.

I hate views,

Said Phyllis,

Don't you Peter?

Let's get on,

Said Peter.

But this isn't like a view they take you to in carriages.

.

.

Or a view at the seaside,

Or sea and sand and bare hills.

It's like the coloured counties in one of Mother's poetry books.

It's not so dusty,

Said Peter.

Look at the aqueducts straddling strap across the valley.

.

.

Like a giant centipede.

Then the towns sticking their church spires out of the trees.

.

.

Like pens out of an inkstand.

I think it's more like.

.

.

There they could see the banners of Twelve Fair Cities shine.

I love it,

Said Bobby,

It's worth the climb.

The paper chase is worth the climb,

Said Phyllis,

If we don't lose it.

Let's get on,

It's all downhill now.

I said that ten minutes ago,

Said Peter.

Well I've said it now,

Said Phyllis,

Come on.

Loads of time,

Said Peter.

And there was.

For when they'd got down to a level with the top of the tunnel's mouth.

.

.

They were a couple of hundred yards out of their reckoning.

.

.

And had to creep along the face of the hill.

There was no sign of the Hare or the Hounds.

They've gone long ago,

Of course,

Said Phyllis.

.

.

As they leaned on the brick parapet above the tunnel.

I don't think so,

Said Bobby.

But even if they had,

It's ripping here.

.

.

And we'll see the trains come out of the tunnel like dragons out of lairs.

We've never seen that from the topside before.

No more we have,

Said Phyllis,

Partially appeased.

It was really a most exciting place to be.

The top of the tunnel seemed ever so much further from the line than they had expected.

It was like being on a bridge.

.

.

But a bridge overgrown with bushes and creepers and grass and wildflowers.

I know the paper chase has gone long ago,

Said Phyllis,

Every two minutes.

And she hardly knew whether she was pleased or disappointed.

When Peter,

Leaning over the parapet,

Suddenly cried.

.

.

Look out,

Here it comes!

They all leaned over the sun-warmed brick wall in time.

.

.

To see the hare,

Going very slowly,

Come out of the shadow of the tunnel.

There now,

Said Peter,

What did I tell you,

Now for the hounds?

Very soon came the hounds,

By ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens.

.

.

And they were also going slowly and seemed very tired.

Two or three,

Who lagged far behind,

Came out long after the others.

There,

Said Bobby,

That's all.

Now what shall we do?

Go along into the told you would over there and have lunch,

Said Phyllis.

We can see them for miles up here.

Not yet,

Said Peter,

That's not the last.

There's the one in the red jersey to come out yet.

Let's see the last of them come out.

But though they waited and waited and waited.

.

.

The boy in the red jersey did not appear.

Now let's have lunch,

Said Phyllis.

I've got a pain in my front with being so hungry.

You must have missed seeing the red-jerseyed one when he came out with the others.

But Bobby and Peter agreed he had not come out with the others.

Let's get down to the tunnel mouth,

Said Peter.

Then perhaps we'll see him coming out from the inside.

I expect he felt spun-shuck and rested on one of the manholes.

You stay up here and watch Bob,

And when I signal from below,

You come down.

We might miss seeing him on the way down with all those trees.

So the others climbed down and Bobby waited till they signaled to her from the line below.

And then she too scrambled down the roundabout slippery path,

Among tree roots and moss,

Until she stepped out between two dogwood trees and joined the others on the line.

And still there was no sign of the hound with the red jersey.

Oh,

Do let's have something to eat,

Wailed Phyllis.

I'll die if you don't,

And then you'll be sorry.

Give her the sandwiches,

For goodness sake,

And stop her silly mouth,

Said Peter,

Not quite unkindly.

Look here,

He added,

Turning to Bobby.

Perhaps we'd better have one each too.

We may need our strength.

Not more than one though,

There's no time.

What?

Asked Bobby,

Her mouth already full,

For she was just as hungry as Phyllis.

Don't you see?

Replied Peter impressively.

That red jersey's hound has had an accident.

That's what it is.

Perhaps even as we speak,

He's lying with his head on the metals,

An unresisting prey to any passing express.

Oh,

Don't try to talk like a book,

Cried Bobby,

Bolting what was left of her sandwich down.

Come on.

Phil,

Keep close behind me,

And if a train comes,

Stand flat against the tunnel wall and hold your petticoats close to you.

Give me one more sandwich,

Pleaded Phyllis,

And I will.

I'm going first,

Said Peter.

It was my idea,

And he went.

Of course you know what going into a tunnel is like.

The engine gives a scream and suddenly the noise of the running,

Rattling train changes and grows different and much louder.

Grown-up people pull up the windows and hold them by the strap.

The railway carriage suddenly grows like night,

With lamps of course,

Unless you're in a slow local train in which case lamps are not always provided.

Then by and by the darkness outside the carriage window is touched by puffs of cloudy whiteness.

Then you see a blue light on the walls of the tunnel.

Then the sound of the moving train changes once more,

And you're out in the good open air again and grown-ups let the straps go.

The windows,

All dim with the yellow breath of the tunnel,

Rattle down into their places and you see once more the dip and catch of the telegraph wires behind the line and the straight-cut hawthorn hedges with the tiny baby trees growing up out of them every thirty yards.

All this of course is what a tunnel means when you're in a train,

But everything is quite different when you walk into a tunnel on your own feet and tread on shifting sliding stones and gravel on a path that curves downwards from the shining metals to the wall.

There you see slimy oozy trickles of water running down the inside and you notice the bricks are not red or brown and they are at the tunnel's mouth but dull,

Sticky,

Sickly green.

Your voice when you speak is quite changed from what it was out in the sunshine and it is a long time before the tunnel is quite dark.

It was not yet quite dark in the tunnel when Phyllis caught at Bobby's skirt,

Ripping out half a yard of gathers,

But no one noticed it this time.

I want to go back,

She said.

I don't like it.

It'll be pitch dark in a minute.

I won't go on in the dark.

I don't care what you say,

I won't.

Don't be a silly cuckoo,

Said Peter.

I've got a candle end and matches and what's that?

That was a low humming sound on the railway line,

A trembling of the wires beside it,

A buzzing humming sound that grew louder and louder as they listened.

It's a train,

Said Bobby.

Which line?

Nobody knew.

Let me go back,

Cried Phyllis,

Struggling to get away from her hand by which Bobby held her.

Don't be a coward,

Said Bobby.

It's quite safe.

Stand back.

Come on,

Shouted Peter,

Who was a few yards ahead.

Quick,

Manhole!

The roar of the advancing train was now louder than the noise you hear when your head is underwater in the bath and both taps are running and you're kicking with your heels against the bath's tin sides.

But Peter shouted for all he was worth.

And Bobby heard him.

She dragged Phyllis into the manhole.

Phyllis,

Of course,

Stumbled over the wires and grazed both her legs,

But they dragged her in and all three stood in the dark,

Damp arch recess,

Where the train roared louder and louder.

It seemed as if it would deafen them.

And in the distance they could see its eyes of fire growing bigger and brighter every instant.

It is a dragon.

I always knew it was.

It takes its own shape in here in the dark,

Shouted Phyllis,

But nobody heard her.

You see,

The train was shouting too,

And its voice was much bigger than hers.

And now,

With a rush and a roar and a rattle and a long,

Dazzling flash of lighted carriage windows,

A smell of smoke and a blast of hot air,

The train hurtled by,

Clanging and jangling and echoing in the vaulted roof of the tunnel.

Phyllis and Bobby clung to each other.

Even Peter caught hold of Bobby's arm,

In case she should be frightened,

As he explained afterwards.

And now,

Slowly and gradually,

The tail lights grew smaller and smaller,

And so did the noise,

Till with one last whizz,

The train got itself out of the tunnel,

And silence settled again on its damp walls and its dripping roof.

Oh,

Said the children all together in a whisper.

Peter was lighting the candle end with a hand that trembled.

Come on,

He said,

But he had to clear his throat before he could speak in his natal voice.

Oh,

Said Phyllis,

If the red jersey one was in the way of the train.

We've got to go and see,

Said Peter.

Can we go and send someone from the station,

Said Phyllis.

Would you rather wait here for us,

Said Bobby severely,

And of course that settled the question.

So the three went on into the deeper darkness of the tunnel.

Peter led,

Holding his candle end high to light the way.

The grease ran down his fingers and some of it right up his sleeve.

He found a long streak from wrist to elbow when he went to bed that night.

It was not more than 150 yards from the spot where they had stood while the train went by that Peter stood still,

Shouted,

Hello,

Then went on much quicker than before.

When the others caught him up,

He stopped and he stopped within a yard of what they had come into the tunnel to look for.

Phyllis saw a gleam of red and shut her eyes tight.

There by the curved pebbly down line was the red jerseyed hound.

His back was against the wall,

His arms hung limply by his sides and his eyes shut.

Was the red blood?

Is he all killed?

Asked Phyllis,

Screwing her eyelids more tightly together.

Killed?

Nonsense,

Said Peter.

There's nothing red about him except his jersey.

He's only fainted,

What on earth are we to do?

Can we move him?

Asked Bobby.

I don't know,

He's a big chap.

Suppose we bathed his head with water?

No,

I know we haven't any,

But milk's just as wet,

There's a whole bottle.

Yes,

Said Peter,

And they rub people's hands,

I believe,

And say,

Look up to me,

Speak to me,

For my sake,

Speak.

They burn feathers,

I know,

Said Phyllis.

What's the good of saying that when we haven't any feathers?

As it happens,

Said Phyllis,

In a tone of exasperated triumph,

I've got a shuttlecock in my pocket,

So there.

And now Peter rubbed the hands of the red jerseyed one.

Bobby burned the feathers of the shuttlecock one by one under his nose.

Phyllis splashed warmish milk on his forehead.

And all three kept on saying,

As fast and as earnestly as they could,

Oh,

Look up,

Speak to me,

For my sake,

Speak.