‘Did I ever tell you,’ said Mr Reginald Sprocket, that charming but little-known essayist, moistening the stamp and placing it on his letter, ‘of my war-service in the Ministry of Transport?’
The girl behind the counter at the village post-office, drapery and sweet-shop gave him 3½ d. change, and said that he hadn’t. It was, in fact, the first time she had seen him.
Mr Sprocket pushed the office scales a little further along the counter and sat negligently down. ‘This will interest you professionally,’ he said. ‘Stop me if you have heard it.’
Owing to a difference of opinion with the Director as to the relative importance of news (said Mr Sprocket), I had just retired from my post of announcer at the B.B.C.; to the regret of many millions of listeners, some of whom, we may surmise, had already cast on the first stitches of the Christmas bed-socks which they proposed to knit for me. I had held my post for a comparatively short time, and had been unable, therefore, to effect the revolution in the Corporation’s policy for which I had hoped. I mention this because I do not wish you to hold me responsible for the many shortcomings which you find in the service; such as, to take a case, the habitual levity of the Scandinavian Folk Songs in the Third Programme. The blame lies elsewhere. But perhaps I had better tell you first the full story of my connexion with that autocratic body.
For some months I had been Deputy Assistant Director of the Dramatic Sounds Department, being personally responsible for all those noises which give so much more reality to a radio play than mere dialogue: storms at night, mounted men crossing a cobbled bridge, seagulls taking leave of a liner, and rats gnawing their way through woodwork—to give the examples which will occur most readily to your mind. But it had long been my wish to exchange the yellow pullover of the Sounds Department for the full evening dress of the Announcer Corps, and it was with this purpose that I sought an interview with the Chief of Staff.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked courteously.
I explained that I wished to better myself.
‘What are you now?’
I said that for the greater part of the previous week I had been an Austin 7 going into first on mounting a hill, but that for the last two nights I had been a flock of sheep in a mist on the mountains.
‘And what would you like to be?’ he asked kindly.
‘I should like to be an announcer,’ I said.
He looked surprised.
‘You are accustomed to wearing full evening dress?’ he asked.
‘From a child,’ I said.
‘And what other experience have you had?’
I told him that once when Red Hot Roper had had a severe cold, I was the American who said, ‘This is Red Hot Roper and his Razzle Dazzle Swing Boys bidding you all good night, good night, everyone, good night and carry on.’
He seemed impressed.
‘How did it go?’ he asked. ‘Was reception good?’
I said that it might have been a coincidence, but Red Hot had had two proposals of marriage and a box of candied fruit next day.
‘That sounds very promising,’ he said. ‘In the circumstances I think you might announce the 6 o’clock news this evening.’
I thanked him and went home to dress.
When I was handed the script from which to announce, I found that it was full of such clichés as are the despair of a writer like myself. Black smoke habitually poured from tails; patches of oil continually rose to the surface. It was my intention to give new life to all these outworn phrases.
(‘And did you?’ asked the girl, moving along the counter to the sweet department, at which a younger patron was holding out an urgent penny.
‘Unfortunately, no,’ said Mr Sprocket.)
I began (he said) in the orthodox way. ‘This is the B.B.C. Home Service. Here is the 6 o’clock news, and this is Reginald Sprocket reading it, better known to most of you, I dare say, as the author of many charming essays, of which the latest volume, Daffodil Days, to be published shortly by Crump and Webster at the moderate price of seven shillings and sixpence——’ It was at this point that there occurred, without warning, what is technically known as a technical hitch; and before it could be put right I was asked to take my pocket-comb with me and leave the building. From the public’s point of view it was a calamity, since I had much to say to them, but from my own it was merely an inspiration to new and greater fields of endeavour. Forgive me for interrupting myself a moment, but what were those charmingly coloured balls which appealed so strongly to our visitor?
(‘Assorted fruit-drops, penny an ounce.’
‘I will have an assortment weighing four ounces,’ said Mr Sprocket . . .)
My first step (continued Mr Sprocket) on being relieved of my arduous duties at the B.B.C, took me to the Ministry of Soap and Whitewash. The Minister, who had recently been promoted or degraded (it was never clear which) from the Ministry of Food, was an old friend of the family. A cousin of mine of the same name had recently written a small monograph on Pressed Flowers, and by some confusion of sound between ‘flour’ and ‘flower’, or miss-association of the subject with the separate industry of Pressed Beef, the book was fortunate enough to catch the attention of the Minister of Food. Meeting me at a Memorial Service, and accidentally hearing my name when I was introduced to him, he said kindly, ‘Ah, Mr Socket, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. I have been reading with great interest your book on old English porcelain.’ This, I felt, gave me a certain claim on his attention, and I was not surprised when I heard that he would receive me.
‘Well, Mr Spigot,’ he said, ‘I am delighted to meet you again. I have not forgotten the pleasure your book on Chinese coins gave me. Now what can I do for you?’
I explained that I wished to put myself at the service of my country.
‘Yes, well, we are full up here at the moment, but there might be something for you somewhere else. You had better go and see Hammersmith this afternoon. Good morning to you, and let me know how you get on. You must write another book one day.’
I withdrew, and, after a light lunch, boarded a bus to Hammersmith. The Minister had not mentioned what his object was in wishing me to become acquainted with this particular quarter of London, and I may say at once that I spent a profitless afternoon there; but the news which greeted me on my return, that Lord Hammersmith would like me to ring him up, threw a new light on the matter, and almost reconciled me to my fruitless journey.
It never became clear who Lord Hammersmith was, but he appeared to be a capable young man, who found no difficulty in securing me a well-paid post in the Ministry of Transport. I forget who was Minister at the time. They came and went with a certain regularity. One got into the way of calling any new face which had an air of authority ‘Chief’, and assuming that it had come into one’s room in order to raise one’s salary; instead of which (as we writers say) it would reveal itself, as often as not, as a humble addition to the staff, desiring to know its way to the lavatory. When, however, I did at last meet the Minister, I had no difficulty in identifying him as the tall, thin man whose pint of beer I had accidentally drunk at the canteen two days before, leaving him, on some vague impulse of compensation, to pay for both of us. Naturally I did not presume on our previous acquaintance, but said, ‘You sent for me, sir?’ respectfully, and waited to hear why he had summoned me to his presence.
(Mr Sprocket opened his bag of assorted fruit-drops, and chose a green one; but, realising as it approached his lips that it might impede his natural flow of words, checked, and replaced it in the bag.)
Transport in war-time (said Mr Sprocket) is always a difficulty, whether it is Hannibal trying to get his elephants over the Alps or King John conveying the royal baggage across the Wash—though perhaps, to make my meaning quite clear, and avoid unnecessary scandal, I should have used the word impedimenta rather than baggage. In modem war the problem assumes a different shape, and may, perhaps, best be exemplified by the fact that a parcel of unbound essays, travelling from, as it might be, Frome towards the office, to take a case, of Messrs Crump and Webster in London, would think nothing of spending three months on the journey, and being last heard of in Market Bosworth as a box of dried prunes.
(The girl nodded. ‘Shocking it was,’ she said. ‘They used to blame me for it, just as if I had anything to do with it.’)
I had ventured to call the Minister’s attention to this and other matters which were delaying the moment of victory, and now it seemed that he had sent for me to discuss the matter. For if things are put on trains and never get anywhere, where, as the Minister well said, do they get to?
‘Where indeed, sir?’ said I.
‘Suppose, for instance,’ said the Minister, ‘the line is damaged, and the train is unable to proceed? Well? Is it just left there? For ever? That’s bad, Sprocket. We must improve on that. Trains mustn’t be left just lying about.’
I reminded him that passenger trains were similarly inconvenienced, but that there was no record of a passenger being lost entirely.
‘Exactly my point,’ he said. ‘If the line is damaged at Chipping Podbury, the passenger alights and re-embarks at Chipping Salterton. But what does the train do? These are the things we ought to know, Sprocket.’
I suggested that the train backed into a siding until the line was repaired, and then proceeded on its way.
‘With goods on train if goods-train?’ said the Minister tersely.
‘Presumably so, sir.’
‘Then why don’t the goods arrive in course of time, with the train, so to speak, in support?’
‘Perhaps,’ I tried again, ‘they are unloaded at Chipping Podbury before backing, and then when the train resumes its journey, it forgets that it is empty, and accidentally——’
‘But would not somebody—as it might be, a porter at Chipping Podbury—be aware of all this?’
‘He should be, sir.’
‘But apparently he is not. Here are these poor dumb crates dotted about the railway systems of Great Britain, unable to call for help, unable to indicate their latitude and longitude, and nobody can do anything about it. It’s up to us, Sprocket. The Ministry of Transport. Note that word “transport”. Not the Ministry of Immobility in Sidings.’
And then I had my brilliant idea; an idea which, little though I anticipated it, was to lead me into the charming company in which I now find myself.
‘Chief,’ I said, ‘how would it be if I travelled as a crate of goods from Frome to Paddington? I, at least, should not be inarticulate.’
‘You mean,’ he said, ‘that you would put your head through the straw and call for help from time to time?’
‘No, no, sir, you misunderstand me. I should remain silent, but I should be taking notes all the time. Whatever happens to packages on a goods train, or for that matter a passenger train, will happen to me, for I shall be one of them. The only difference will be that when we all arrive at Paddington I shall be in a position to make a full report, as the other packages will not, of the sequence of events which brought us there.’
The Minister was thoughtful.
‘It’s an idea, Sprocket,’ he said at last. ‘Quite an idea. The only objection which occurs to me at the moment is that, when your report is presented on your arrival at Paddington, it may be dismissed by the Cabinet as the senile reminiscences of a garrulous old man.’
I need hardly tell you, dear lady, that I had foreseen this objection. For it was my idea to present a series of interim reports from week to week, as circumstances allowed; emerging from the crate by means of a sliding panel at (as it might be) Chipping Slowcombe-on-the-Whiffer, and dispatching a letter to the Ministry from the local post-office, drapery and sweet-shop.
I explained this to the Minister. His chief apprehension removed, he shook me warmly by the hand.
‘Sprocket,’ he said, ‘you are a gallant fellow, and the Government will not forget it. You will take every precaution? The Ministry cannot afford to lose you.’
I assured him that I should be well prepared.
‘You must keep in mind,’ he said kindly, ‘not only the months which lie ahead of us, but the ensuing seasons as they will recur. Thus, Sprocket, it is a question not only of winter woollies, to which, no doubt, you have given your attention, but of summer light-weight zephyrs, mesh or otherwise. But I can safely leave all this to you. Good luck, to you, my dear fellow.’
I thanked him and withdrew.
Next morning I went down to Frome by car. Naturally our Ministry had its agents everywhere, and at Frome I got into contact with one of our most knowledgeable men. We discussed the venture from every angle. As an example of the minute attention we paid to detail I may instance the consideration we gave to the question whether I should be labelled ‘China and Glass, Fragile or, as I was inclined to prefer, ‘Dynamite, Handle with Care.’ Obviously I did not want to be thrown about. I had boasted to the Minister that I should be in a position to make a continuous report, and it was necessary to remain in that position. On the other hand the whole point of this experiment was that one should not receive special treatment. Any such cri du cœur as ‘Urgent’ would be entirely misconceived. In the end we decided that I should travel quite simply as ‘Books’, with the one small concession to human frailty, ‘This Side Up.’
My home for the next few months (as I supposed) was comfortably padded, and had a sliding panel which could be worked from the inside. Besides clothes for the varying climatic conditions, and a certain amount of tinned food, I had provided myself with refreshment for the mind; notably Paradise Lost, a work with which I was insufficiently acquainted, and an early volume of essays Mornings at Seven (Crump and Webster, 5s.) by the well-known author of Daffodil Days. My idea was that at the many sidings to which I was clearly destined, I would get out, stretch my legs, and eventually fetch up at some house of refreshment, returning to my fellow-travellers in ample time to resume the journey. Emergency rations, therefore, were all that I needed.
I shall not weary you (said Mr Sprocket kindly) with the full tale of my adventures. My companions, as I discerned through one of the many peep-holes with which I had provided myself, were a likely looking lot of young packages, though inclined to be over-familiar. However, a certain irregularity of shape in the roof of my house, which I had thoughtfully insisted on, gave me the freedom of the upper air, and the unrestricted use of my panel. Throughout the whole of my wanderings I was only superimposed upon by one bicycle; a bicycle, however, which seemed, particularly at night, to be composed exclusively of pedals.
At the beginning the procedure was much as would have been expected. We left Frome at 7 o’clock one Monday night, and, travelling uneventfully backwards for some 28 miles, reached Long Sutton and Pitney at 8.30 on Wednesday morning. Here we rested for three days before returning to Frome, and by the following Tuesday were safely back at Long Sutton and Pitney again. I sent a brief report to the Minister giving ‘Poste Restante, Long Sutton and Pitney’ as an accommodation address, and resumed my comfortable quarters and the delightful company of Mornings at Seven . . .
The full tale of my travels will no doubt be published shortly in a White Paper. The life would have been monotonous but for the occasional glimpses we had of the sea. I have always had a passion for this element, and the first sight of the waves breaking on the beach at Bognor Regis gave me new courage for my task. By now I had re-read that charming work Mornings at Seven sixteen times, and if I had not completely mastered Paradise Lost, I had at least got some idea of the plot and general scope of the work. It was not, however, until we were wintering at Merthtyr Tydfil that I first encountered the hero, by name Adam; and it was in the Manchester Ship Canal, I remember, that he was joined by his dear wife—Eve, if I recollect the name aright . . .
‘And that, roughly speaking,’ said Mr Sprocket ten minutes later, ‘is how we brought the guns up from Aix to Ashby de la Zouch. Of my arrival at Basra labelled Small Arms Ammunition; of my life as a vaulting-horse in the gymnasium at Haifa; and of my eventual return labelled Not Wanted on Voyage to Long Sutton and Pitney, this is not the place to speak. Suffice it to say that I am now making what must surely prove to be a temporary stay at your own charming marshalling-yards. For here in this letter’—he held it up—’I have sent in my resignation to the Minister. The war, I understand, is over, and my publishers, Messrs Crump and Webster, tell me that Daffodil Days has at last made the grade, and will be published next month. I feel once more at liberty to resume my profession of writing. Disappointing though the news will be to admirers of the essay as an art-form, I think of trying my hand in my next volume at some form of fictitious narrative. Sadly inexperienced as I am,’ said Mr Sprocket regretfully, ‘I hope in time to develop some slight talent for it,’
He put an assorted fruit-drop in his mouth, swung himself from the counter, and wished the girl a very good afternoon.
‘Crackers,’ said the girl, as the door closed behind him. She went on stamping letters.