14 Railway Children - Stephanie Poppins

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.
This is the final episode.

Transcript

The Railway Children by E.

Nesbitt Read by S.

D.

Hudson Chapter 14 The End Life at Three Chimneys was never quite the same again after the old gentleman came to see his grandson.

Although they now knew his name,

The children never spoke of him by it.

At any rate,

When they were by themselves.

To them,

He was always the old gentleman.

And I think he had better be the old gentleman to us,

Too.

It wouldn't make him seem any more real to you,

Would it,

If I were to tell you his name was Snooks or Jenkins?

Which it wasn't.

And after all,

I must be allowed to keep one secret.

It's the only one.

I've told you everything else.

Except what I'm going to tell you in this chapter,

Which is the last.

At least,

Of course,

I haven't told you everything.

If I were to do that,

The book would never come to an end.

And that would be a pity,

Wouldn't it?

Well,

As I was saying,

Life at the Three Chimneys was never quite the same again.

The cook and the housemaid were very nice.

I don't mind telling you their names.

They were Clara and Ethelwyn.

But they told Mother they did not seem to want Mrs.

Viney,

And that she was an old muddler.

So Mrs.

Viney only came two days a week to do the washing and ironing.

Then Clara and Ethelwyn said they could do all the work right if they weren't interfered with.

And that meant the children no longer got the tea and cleared away and washed up and dusted the rooms.

This would have left quite a blank in their lives.

Although they had often pretended to themselves and each other they hated housework.

But now that Mother had no writing and no housework to do,

She had time for lessons.

And lessons the children had to do.

However nice the person that is teaching you may be,

Lessons are lessons all the world over,

And at their best are worse fun than peeling potatoes or lighting a fire.

On the other hand,

If Mother now had time for lessons,

She also had time for play and to make up little rhymes for the children as she used to.

She had not had much time for rhymes since she came to Three Chimneys.

There was one very odd thing about these lessons.

Whatever the children were doing,

They always wanted to be doing something else.

When Peter was doing his Latin,

He thought it would be nice to be learning history like Bobby.

Bobby would have preferred arithmetic,

Which was what Phyllis happened to be doing.

And Phyllis,

Of course,

Thought Latin was much the more interesting kind of lesson and so on.

So one day when they sat down to lessons,

Each of them found a little rhyme at its place.

I put the rhymes in to show you that Mother really did understand a little how children feel about things.

And also the kind of words they use,

Which is the case with very,

Very grown-up people.

I suppose most grown-ups have very bad memories and have forgotten how they felt when they were little.

Of course,

The verses are supposed to be spoken by the children.

I once thought Caesar easy pap,

How very soft I must have been.

When they start Caesar with a chap,

He little knows what that will mean.

Oh,

Verbs are silly,

Stupid things.

I'd rather learn the dates of kings.

Bobby The worst of all my lesson things is learning who succeeds who in all the rows of kings and queens with dates to everything they do.

With dates enough to make you sick.

I wish that it was arithmetic.

Phyllis Such pounds and pounds of apples fill my slate.

What is the price you'd spend?

You scratch the figures out until you cry upon the dividend.

I'd break the slate and scream for joy if I did Latin like a boy.

This kind of thing,

Of course,

Made lessons much jollier.

It is something to know that the person who is teaching you sees it's not all plain sailing and does not think that it's just your stupidness that makes you not know your lessons till you learn them.

Then,

As Jim's leg got better,

It was very pleasant to go up and sit with him and hear tales about his school life and the other boys.

There was one boy named Pa,

Of whom Jim seemed to have formed the lowest possible opinion,

And another boy named Wixby Minor,

For whose views Jim had great respect.

Also there were three brothers named Paley,

And the youngest was called Paley Turds,

And was much given to fighting.

Peter drank in all this with deep joy,

And Mother seemed to have listened with some interest.

For one day she gave Jim a sheet of paper on which she had written a rhyme out about Pa,

Bringing in Paley and Wixby by name in a most wonderful way,

As well as all the reasons Jim had for not liking Pa,

And Wixby's wise opinion on the matter.

Jim was immensely pleased.

He had never had a rhyme written expressly for him before.

He read it till he knew it by heart,

Then he sent it to Wixby,

Who liked it almost as much as Jim did.

Perhaps you may like it too.

His name is Pa.

He says that he is given bread and milk for tea.

He says his father killed a bear.

He says his mother cuts his hair.

He wears galoshes when it's wet.

I've heard his people call him Pet.

He has no proper sense of shame.

He told the chaps his Christian name.

He cannot wicket keep at all.

He's frightened of a cricket ball.

He reads indoors for hours and hours.

He knows the name of beastly flowers.

He says his French is just like Masu,

A beastly stuck-up thing to do.

He won't keep cave,

Shirks his turn,

And he says he came to school to learn.

He won't play football,

Says it hurts.

He wouldn't fight with Paley turds.

He couldn't whistle if he tried,

And when we laughed at him,

He cried.

Now Wixby Miner says that Pa is only like all new boys are.

I know when I first came to school,

I wasn't such a jolly fool.

Jim could not understand how mother could have been clever enough to do it.

To the others it seemed nice,

But natural.

You see,

They have always been used to having a mother who could write verses just like the way people talk,

Even to the shocking expression at the end of the rhyme,

Which was Jim's very own.

Jim taught Peter to play chess and draughts and dominoes,

And altogether it was quite a nice time.

Only Jim's leg got better and better,

And a general feeling began to spring up amongst Bobby,

Peter and Phyllis that something ought to be done to amuse him.

Not just games,

But something really handsome.

But it was extraordinarily difficult to think of anything.

It's no good,

Said Peter,

When all of them had thought and thought till their heads felt quite heavy and swollen.

If we can't think of anything to amuse him,

We just can't and there's an end of it.

Perhaps something will just happen of its own accord that he'll like.

Things do happen by themselves sometimes without making you making them,

Said Phyllis.

I wish something would happen,

Said Bobby dreamily.

I wish something would happen,

Said Bobby dreamily.

Something wonderful.

And something wonderful did happen exactly four days after she had said this.

I wish I could say it was three days after,

Because in fairy tales it is always three days after that things happen.

But this is not a fairy story,

And besides,

It really was four and not three,

And I am nothing if not strictly truthful.

There seemed to be hardly railway children in all those days,

And as the days went on,

Each had an uneasy feeling about this,

Which Phyllis expressed one day.

I wonder if the railway misses us,

She said plaintively.

We never go to see it now.

It seems ungrateful,

Said Bobby.

We loved it so when we hadn't anyone else to play with.

Perks is always coming up to ask after Jim,

Said Peter,

And the signalman's little boy is better,

He told me so.

I didn't mean the people,

Explained Phyllis.

I meant the dear railway itself.

The thing I don't like,

Said Bobby on this fourth day,

Which was a Tuesday,

Is our having stopped waving to the 9.

15 and sending our love to father by it.

Let's begin again,

Said Phyllis,

And they did.

Somehow the change of everything that was made by having servants in the house,

And mother not doing any writing,

Made the time seem extremely long since that strange morning at the beginning of things,

When they had got up so early,

And burnt the bottom of the kettle,

And had apple pie for breakfast and first seen the railway.

It was September now,

And the turf on the slope to the railway was dry and crisp.

Little long grass spikes stood up like bits of gold wire.

Frail blue hair-bells trembled on their tough slender stalks.

Gypsy roses opened wide and flat their lilac-coloured disks.

And the golden stars of St.

John's ward shone at the edges of the pool that lay half-way to the railway.

Bobby gathered a generous handful of the flowers and thought how pretty they would look lying on the green and pink blanket of silk waist that now covered Jim's poor broken leg.

Hurry up,

Said Peter,

Or we'll miss the 9.

15.

I can't hurry any more than I'm doing,

Said Phyllis.

I'll bother it.

My bootlace has come undone again.

When you're married,

Said Peter,

Your bootlace will come undone going up the church aisle and your man that you're going to get married to will tumble over it and smash his nose on the ornamented pavement.

And then you'll say you won't marry him and you'll have to be an old maid.

I shan't,

Said Phyllis.

I'd much rather marry a man with his nose all smashed in than marry nobody.

It would be horrid to marry a man with a smashed nose all the same,

Went on Bobby.

He wouldn't be able to smell the flowers at the wedding.

Wouldn't that be awful?

Bother the flowers at the wedding,

Cried Peter.

Look,

The signal's down.

We must run.

They ran,

And once more they waved their handkerchiefs,

Without at all minding whether the handkerchiefs were clean or not,

To the 9.

15.

Take our love to father,

Cried Bobby,

And the others too shouted.

Take our love to father.

The old gentleman waved from his first-class carriage window.

Quite violently he waved.

And there was nothing odd in that,

For he always had waved.

But what was really remarkable was that from every window,

Handkerchiefs fluttered,

Newspapers signalled,

Hands waved wildly.

The train swept past with a rustle and a roar.

The little pebbles jumped and danced under it as it passed,

And the children were left looking at each other.

Well,

Said Peter.

Well,

Said Bobby.

Well,

Said Phyllis.

Whatever on earth does that mean?

Asked Peter,

But he did not expect any answer.

I don't know,

Said Bobby.

Perhaps the old gentleman told the people at his station to look out for us and wave.

He knew we should like it.

Now,

Curiously enough,

This was just what had happened.

The old gentleman,

Who was very well known and respected at his particular station,

Had got there early that morning and had waited at the door when the young man stands,

Holding the interesting machine that clicks the tickets.

And he had said something to every single passenger who passed through that door.

And after nodding to what the old gentleman had said,

And the nods expressed every shade of surprise,

Interest,

Doubt,

Cheerful pleasure and grumpy agreement,

Each passenger had gone onto the platform and read one certain part of his newspaper.

And when the passengers got into the train,

They told the other passengers,

Who were already there,

What the gentleman had said.

And then the other passengers also looked in their newspapers and seemed very astonished and mostly pleased.

Then,

When the train passed the fence where the three children were,

Newspapers and hands and handkerchiefs were waved madly,

Till all that side of the train was fluttery with white,

Like the pictures of the king's coronation in the biograph of Maskeling and Cooks.

To the children it almost seemed as though the train itself was alive,

And was at last responding to the love they had given it so freely and so long.

This most extraordinary rum,

Said Peter.

Most extraordinary,

Echoed Phyllis.

But Bobby said,

Don't you think the old gentleman's wave seemed more significant than usual?

No,

Said the others.

I do,

Said Bobby.

I thought he was trying to explain something to us with his newspaper.

Explain what?

Said Peter,

Not unnaturally.

I don't know,

Bobby answered,

But I do feel most awfully funny.

I feel just exactly as if something's going to happen.

What's going to happen?

Said Peter.

Is it Phyllis's stockings are going to come down?

This was but too true.

The suspender had given away in the agitation of the waves to the 9.

15.

Bobby's handkerchief served as first aid to the injured,

And they all went home.

Lessons were more than unusually difficult to Bobby that day.

Indeed,

She disgraced herself so deeply over quite a simple sum about the division of 48 pounds of meat and 36 pounds of bread amongst 144 hungry children,

That Mother looked at her anxiously.

Don't you feel quite well,

Dear?

She asked.

I don't know,

Was Bobby's unexpected answer.

I don't know how I feel.

It isn't that I'm lazy.

Mother,

Will you let me off lessons today?

I feel as if I wanted to be quite alone by myself.

Yes,

Of course,

I'll let you off,

Said Mother,

But Bobby dropped her slate.

It cracked just across the little green mark that's so useful for drawing patterns round,

And it was never the same slate again.

Without waiting to pick it up,

She bolted.

Mother caught her in the hall feeling blindly among the waterproofs and umbrellas for her garden hat.

What is it,

My sweetheart,

Said Mother.

You don't feel ill,

Do you?

I don't know,

Bobby answered a little breathless,

But I want to be by myself and see if my head really is all silly and my inside is all squirmy twisty.

Hadn't you better lie down,

Mother said,

Stroking her hair back from her forehead.

I'd be more alive in the garden,

I think,

Said Bobby.

But she could not stay in the garden.

The hollyhocks and the asters and the late roses all seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

It was one of those still shiny autumn days when everything does seem to be waiting.

I'll go down to the station,

Bobby said,

And talk to Perks and ask about the signalman's little boy.

So she went down.

On the way,

She passed the old lady from the post office,

Who gave her a kiss and a hug,

But rather to Bobby's surprise,

No words except,

God bless you,

Love,

And after a pause,

Run along,

Do.

The draper's boy,

Who had sometimes been a little less civil and a little bit more than contemptuous,

Now touched his cap and uttered the remarkable words,

Morning,

Miss,

I'm sure.

The blacksmith,

Coming along with an open newspaper in his hand,

Was even more strange in his manner.

He grinned broadly,

Though,

As a rule,

He was a man not to give in smiles,

And he waved the newspaper long before he came up to her.

And as he passed her,

He said in answer to her,

Good morning.

Good morning to you,

Missy,

And many of them.

I wish you joy,

That I do.

Oh,

Said Bobby to herself,

And her heart quickened its beats.

Something is going to happen.

I know it is.

Everything's so odd,

Like people are in your dreams.

The stationmaster wrung her hand warmly.

In fact,

He worked it up and down like a pump handle,

But he gave her no reason for this unusually enthusiastic greeting.

He only said,

The 11.

54 was a bit late,

Miss.

The extra luggage this holiday time.

And he went away very quickly into that inner temple of his into,

Which even Bobby dared not follow him.

Perks was not to be seen,

And Bobby shared the solitude of the platform with the station cat.

This tortoiseshell lady,

Usually of a retiring disposition,

Came today to rub herself against the brown stockings of Bobby,

With an arched back,

Waving tail,

And reverberating purrs.

Dear me,

Said Bobby,

Stooping to stroke her,

How very kind everybody is today,

Even you.

Perks did not appear until the 11.

55 was signalled,

And then,

He like everybody else that morning,

Had a newspaper in his hand.

Hello,

He said,

Here you are.

Well,

If this is the train,

It'll be smart work.

God bless you,

My dear.

I see it in the paper,

And I don't think I was ever so glad of anything in all me bourne.

He looked at Bobby a moment,

And then said,

Well,

I must have,

Miss,

And no offence,

I know,

On a day like this here.

And with that he kissed her,

First on one cheek,

And then on the other.

You ain't a fainted,

Are you?

He asked,

Anxiously.

I ain't took too great a liberty,

On a day like this,

You know.

No,

No,

Said Bobby.

Of course it's not a liberty,

Dear Mr.

Perks.

We love you quite as much as if you were an uncle of ours.

But on a day like what?

Like this here,

Said Perks.

Don't I tell you I see it in the paper?

See what in the paper?

Asked Bobby,

But already the 11.

54 was steaming into the station,

And the stationmaster was looking at all the places where Perks was not,

And ought to have been.

Bobby was left standing alone,

The station cat watching her from under the bench with friendly golden eyes.

Of course you know exactly what was going to happen.

Bobby was not so clever.

She had the vague,

Confused expectant feeling that comes to one's heart in dreams.

What her heart expected,

I can't tell.

Perhaps the very thing that you and I know was going to happen.

But her mind expected nothing.

It was almost blank,

And felt nothing but tiredness and stupidness,

And an empty feeling like your body has when you've been a long walk,

And it's very far indeed past your proper dinner time.

Only three people got out of the 11.

54.

The first was a country man with two basket-y boxes full of live chickens.

The second was Miss Pickett,

The grocer's wife's cousin with a tin box and three brown paper parcels.

And the third.

.

.

Oh,

My daddy,

My daddy!

That scream went like a knife into the heart of everyone in the train,

And people put their heads out of the windows to see a tall,

Pale man with lips set in a thin,

Close line,

And a little girl clinging to him with arms and legs while his arms went tightly around her.

I knew something wonderful was going to happen,

Said Bobby as they went up the road,

But I didn't think it was going to be this.

Oh,

My daddy!

Then didn't mother get my letter?

Father asked.

There weren't any letters this morning.

Oh,

Daddy,

Is it really you,

Is it?

The clasp of a hand she had not forgotten assured her it was.

You must go in by yourself,

Bobby,

And tell mother quite quietly that it's all right.

They've caught the man who did it.

Everyone knows now it wasn't your daddy.

I always knew it wasn't,

Said Bobby,

Me and mother and our old gentleman.

Yes,

He said,

It's all his doing.

Mother wrote and told me you'd found out,

And she told me what you'd been to her,

My own little girl.

They stopped a minute then,

And now I see them crossing the field.

Bobby goes into the house,

Trying to keep her eyes from speaking before her lips have found the right words to tell mother quite quietly that the sorrow and the struggle and the parting are over and done.

And that father has come home.

I see father walking in the garden,

Waiting.

He's looking at the flowers,

And each flower is a miracle to eyes that all these months of spring and summer have seen only flagstones and gravel and a little grudging grass.

But his eyes keep turning towards the house,

And presently he leaves the garden.

It is the back door,

And across the yard the swallows are circling.

They're getting ready to fly away from cold winds and keen frost to the land where it is always summer.

They are the same swallows the children built the little clay nests for.

Now the house door opens,

And Bobby and his father are walking in.

He goes in and the door is shut.

I think we will not open the door or follow him.

I think that just now we are not wanted there.

I think it will be best for us to go quickly and quietly away.

At the end of the field,

Among the thin gold spikes of grass and the hedges of the trees,

Bobby and his father are sitting.

At the end of the field,

Among the thin gold spikes of grass and the hair bells and gypsy roses in St John's Wart,

We may just take one last look over our shoulders at the white house where neither we nor anyone else is wanted now.

Reviews

Haven’t quite made it through without falling asleep yet (perfect!) but I’m really grateful you read this book, thank you!

What a wonderful story!! Thank you for introducing me to such a sweet story.