The Clearwater Tales Volume Two

Now, this is only an idea at this stage, but once I have finished ‘A Depraved Indifference,’ I may start on another volume of the Clearwater Tales. If I do, it will take the same format as volume one, with a few characters from Clearwater, Larkspur and Delamere meeting up en route to somewhere (Cornwall, probably, for Christmas), and each one telling a short story. The tales will then have to be linked by someone or something.

I made a start when I was between Delameres a few months ago, but then stalled because I wasn’t sure I’d chosen the correct five characters to meet by accident. I think I will have to ask readers which five they think should make an appearance…

Anyway, today, I thought I’d let slip a few words from this potential project so you can see what you think. Actually, see whether you can guess who the characters are. In this clip, Harry is the stationmaster, and there is a quiet lad alone in a corner of the station waiting room. The other two are big characters from one of the series, but can you guess who? (This isn’t complete or edited, it’s just a snippet, for fun.)

Chapter I

THE PROLOGUE, PART ONE

In which our players chance upon each other in a winter fog at a remote junction that was once a halt.

On Saturday, 23rd December 1893, the Morning Post reported: Exceedingly dull weather has prevailed at nearly every station, thick mist of fog being reported at a large number of them, both on the coast and inland…

(Later, in the remote, fog-bound station waiting room…)

One stood warming himself at the fire with his back to the room, and Harry was unable to see his face, though from his posture and clothes, he also took him to be on the young side. The other, on seeing Harry at his post, rose from the armchair he had taken and floated across the room. At least, that was how the approach looked, for the man was so… It was difficult to find the word at first, it hovered somewhere between captivating and frightening. Captivating because of his dark skin and eyes, his broad and open smile, and the precise manner in which he slipped off his gloves. He was frightening for the same reasons. The eyes held and refused to let go. Harry had not met many men with such tanned features, and the way he removed his gloves made him appear as if he was about to commit a strangulation. Despite all that, the word he settled on was regal.

‘Good evening.’ The dark man greeted him with a calm tip of the head, and in a voice as smooth as his skin. ‘May I trouble you for coffee? I see no menu.’

‘Evening, Sir. That’s right. The menu is whatever I have brought to share, but I always have tea, coffee and cocoa to warm my passengers.’ Now realising the man was a gentleman, Harry took him into his confidence. ‘I also have something a little stronger for the menfolk, but we mustn’t tell the magistrate.’

The stranger smiled. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘You have my silence on the matter, Sir. Myself, I was brought up in a faith that forbids me from taking alcohol.’

‘I see.’

‘However, just because I was brought up beneath it doesn’t mean I allow myself to remain smothered. Therefore, if you have a shot of whisky, feel free to drop a splash in my cup. The largest you have, as I feel we may be in for a long wait. Correct?’

‘That you are, Sir,’ Harry sympathised. ‘I will make you as comfortable as I can for the evening. Take your seat. I will bring it across, and if there is anything else, just say. I have some hampers made up if you’re on a long journey, and I only charge cost price.’

‘You are kind,’ the swarthy stranger declared, and Harry preened at the compliment.

The new arrival at the fireplace had turned and now stood with his hands on his hips, parting his long overcoat and revealing a slim, some would say athletic body that was made statuesque by the not-quite-fashionable tightness of his clothing. Harry took no offence. He had once had such a physique, and comparing his now to his guest’s, decided the blond man was not yet married. What he was, however, was inquisitive, because he stared at the silent boy for some time before sighing, as if disappointed at not being noticed. From there, he watched the swarthy man at the counter, and all the way back to one of the fireside armchairs, before deciding where to sit.

He chose the opposite armchair, and as he sat with his coat and legs thrown open, his eyes never left the darker man. Harry raised an eyebrow at the provocative behaviour, while the other man smiled politely, and produced a newspaper from his luggage.

The samovar water had come to temperature by the time the two spoke, and with no other sound than the clock, the flames and the water burner, it was no trouble to hear their conversation, which Harry listened to out of concern for his passengers, and not to learn gossip. On a night such as that one, when there was a long wait, it also helped to pass the time.

‘Excuse me, mate…’ The younger, blond one opened the discussion. ‘Yeah… Hello?’

‘Good evening. May I be of assistance?’

‘Just passing the time, really. Fancy a chat?’

‘I am not averse to a conversation, Sir, but I may not be very interesting. Would you like a newspaper instead? Or a book?’

‘No thanks. Unlike you, I’m not a very good reader.’

‘Oh? You can tell how I read?’

‘I can tell you read fast, and you’re heading towards Cornwall, like I am.’

The darker man looked around his feet where his luggage stood, and then back at the blond.

‘I have no labels on my luggage… How?’

‘You’re reading last week’s copy of the West Briton and Cornwall Advertiser,’ the other replied. ‘Now, I got to admit that London’s my gaff, but I’ve been in this business a few months now, so I’ve got me nose in and out of a few riddles. From what I remember, that newspaper’s only printed in Truro. I dare say a few copies find their way to London and other places, but not immediate, like, if at all. I say that, ’cos if there’d been one out today, you’d have had a copy. Maybe. Just a guess, ’cos I don’t know where you’re coming from. Like I said, I’m passing the time.’

The second stranger seemed entertained and impressed. ‘Your deducement is correct, Sir. I am, indeed, on my way home to Cornwall.’

‘Yeah, alright. We’re going to be here for some hours, mate, so maybe we can do away with the Sir, business?’

The darker man was probably of Arabic extraction, Harry mused as he added whisky to the man’s coffee. The lighter one was from London, or nearby, south certainly, and yet, the Arab was better spoken. A prince, perhaps, he thought as he made up the tray, adding, for good measure, two glasses, some water, two slices of his wife’s fruit cake, and the half bottle of scotch. They could have it; he had plenty more. By the time he delivered the tray, and his guests had gratefully accepted his offerings, the men were on surname terms and chatting quietly.