‘Next stop is Truro, ladies and gentlemen, Truro next stop,’ said the voice from the tannoy.
“Come on, Jack,” said Sarah, slamming shut a book she had been reading. “Open your eyes, we’re almost here.” I started at her voice, blinked, then stood up and lifted our bags down from the overhead luggage rack, feeling the train slow, then hiss as the brakes were applied more heavily and the station buildings came into view. As we pulled to a stop I lurched forward against Sarah, forgetting, as always, to brace myself.
“Steady, Jack.”
“Sorry, it’s your animal magnetism, Sarah. Irresistible.”
“Come on,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek as we left our compartment and stepped onto the platform where Mervyn stood smiling and holding the door open.
“Thank you for the wonderful service, and the lovely smooth journey,” said Sarah.
“You’re very welcome, madam,” he beamed. “These two old warships do a great job, very dependable,” he added, before climbing aboard again, closing the door, and peering out of the window towards the rear of the train. “Just checking that bike’s off safely. Ah yes, there it goes.”
I looked around to see the motorcycle in question being wheeled down a wooden ramp from the guard’s van at the end of the train. The ramp was then drawn up and the whistle blown, after which the train hissed once more and slowly pulled away from the platform. Our steward waved to us as it went.
“I think the bike belongs to that priest, darling, you know, in the dining car.”
“Yes,” I said, recognising the priest’s silhouette by the hair. “I believe that’s him.”
“What a very odd priest,” Sarah said to me as we walked along the platform. “And why bring a motorbike on a train?”
“He’s youngish so it’s as good a way as any to get about in Cornwall I suppose, and the train’s a lot easier than riding all the way from London.” I looked back as the owner of the bike, who had been met on the platform (by someone whose silhouette also seemed familiar), wheeled his machine towards a side gate at the far end of the platform.
“And what do you think that steward meant by ‘old warships’?”
“Warship class diesel locomotives,” I laughed, recognising Sarah’s habit of asking more and more questions when she was excited. “They use two of them, joined together, to pull the train.”
“Oh.”
*
“Isn’t this quiet, Jack?” said Sarah, as we stepped out of the car next to the Watersmeet, which was all in darkness except for a pale lamp which illuminated a sign over the front door:
‘St Austell Ales. Morwenna Poldhu, licensed to sell wine, beer, spirits and tobacco for consumption on these premises.’
“And the sky, look at the sky,” she cried, pointing upwards. I looked up as well, to the vague grey snake of the Milky Way, straddling countless individual stars that shone through the Cornish night, and visible to a much greater extent than it ever would be near the glow of a city.
“Shh, Sarah,” I said quietly, putting my finger on her lips. “Everyone’s in bed here by about eleven.”
“But it is beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispered as we walked up the steps to the hotel.
“Yes, it is, and wait until you see the village in the morning. A clear night sky like this usually means we’ll have nice weather tomorrow.”
“Jack, isn’t that the motorbike we saw at the station?” I looked down to see a large black Triumph machine parked behind our car, looking very like the one that had been wheeled down the ramp from the guard’s van.
“Similar size and shape yes, but I couldn’t be sure it’s exactly the same bike. Now then, where’s that key?” I fumbled in my pocket for a moment then found the hotel night key, given to me by Morwenna for use after hours. “Come on, Sarah,” I said as the door unlocked. “And quietly up the stairs.”