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_ We are a stolid and a taciturn race, we of the Five Towns. It may
be because we are geographically so self contained; or it may be
because we work in clay and iron; or it may merely be because it
is our nature to be stolid and taciturn. But stolid and taciturn
we are; and some of the instances of our stolidity and our
taciturnity are enough to astound. They do not, of course, astound
us natives; we laugh at them, we think they are an immense joke,
and what the outer world may think does not trouble our deep
conceit of ourselves. I have often wondered what would be the
effect, other than an effect of astonishment, on the outer world,
of one of these narratives illustrating our Five Towns
peculiarities of deportment. And I intend for the first time in
history to make such a narrative public property. I have purposely
not chosen an extreme example; just an average example. You will
see how it strikes you.
Toby Hall, once a burgess of Turnhill, the northernmost and
smallest of the Five Towns, was passing, last New Year's Eve,
through the district by train on his way from Crewe to Derby. He
lived at Derby, and he was returning from the funeral of a brother
member of the Ancient Order of Foresters at Crewe. He got out of
the train at Knype, the great railway centre of the Five Towns, to
have a glass of beer in the second-class refreshment-room. It
being New Year's Eve, the traffic was heavy and disorganized,
especially in the refreshment-room, and when Toby Hall emerged on
to the platform again the train was already on the move. Toby was
neither young nor active. His years were fifty, and on account of
the funeral he wore broadcloth and a silk hat, and his overcoat
was new and encumbering. Impossible to take a flying leap into the
train! He missed the train. And then he reflectively stroked his
short grey beard (he had no moustache, and his upper lip was very
long), and then he smoothed down his new overcoat over his rotund
form.
'Young man,' he asked a porter. 'When's next train Derby way?'
'Ain't none afore tomorrow.'
Toby went and had another glass of beer.
'D--d if I don't go to Turnhill,' he said to himself, slowly and
calmly, as he paid for the second glass of beer.
He crossed the station by the subway and waited for the loop-line
train to Turnhill. He had not set foot in the Five Towns for
three-and-twenty years, having indeed carefully and continuously
avoided it, as a man will avoid the street where his creditor
lives. But he discovered no change in Knype railway-station. And
he had a sort of pleasure in the fact that he knew his way about
it, knew where the loop-line trains started from and other
interesting little details. Even the special form of the loop-line
time-table, pasted here and there on the walls of the station, had
not varied since his youth. (We return Radicals to Parliament, but
we are proud of a railway which for fine old English conservatism
brooks no rival.)
Toby gazed around, half challengingly and half nervously--it was
conceivable that he might be recognized, or might recognize. But
no! Not a soul in the vast, swaying, preoccupied, luggage-laden
crowds gave him a glance. As for him, although he fully recognized
nobody, yet nearly every face seemed to be half-familiar. He
climbed into a second-class compartment when the train drew up,
and ten other people, all with third-class tickets, followed his
example; three persons were already seated therein. The
compartment was illuminated by one lamp, and in the Bleakridge
Tunnel this lamp expired. Everything reminded him of his youth.
In twenty minutes he was leaving Turnhill station and entering the
town. It was about nine o'clock, and colder than winters of the
period usually are. The first thing he saw was an electric tram,
and the second thing he saw was another electric tram. In Toby's
time there were no trams at Turnhill, and the then recently-
introduced steam-trams between Bursley and Longshaw, long since
superseded, were regarded as the final marvel of science as
applied to traction. And now there were electric trams at
Turnhill! The railway renewed his youth, but this darting
electricity showed him how old he was. The Town Hall, which was
brand-new when he left Turnhill, had the look of a mediaeval hotel
de ville as he examined it in the glamour of the corporation's
incandescent gas. And it was no more the sole impressive pile in
the borough. The High Street and its precincts abounded in
impressive piles. He did not know precisely what they were, but
they had the appearance of being markets, libraries, baths, and
similar haunts of luxury; one was a bank. He thought that Turnhill
High Street compared very well with Derby. He would have preferred
it to be less changed. If the High Street was thus changed,
everything would be changed, including Child Row. The sole
phenomenon that recalled his youth (except the Town Hall) was the
peculiar smell of oranges and apples floating out on the frosty
air from holly-decorated greengrocers' shops.
He passed through the Market Square, noting that sinister freak,
the Jubilee Tower, and came to Child Row. The first building on
your right as you enter Child Row from the square is the Primitive
Methodist Chapel. Yes, it was still there; Primitive Methodism had
not failed in Turnhill because Toby Hall had deserted the cause
three-and-twenty years ago! But something serious had happened to
the structure. Gradually Toby realized that its old face had been
taken out and a new one put in, the classic pillars had vanished,
and a series of Gothic arches had been substituted by way of
portico; a pretty idea, but not to Toby's liking. It was another
change, another change! He crossed the street and proceeded
downwards in the obscurity, and at length halted and peered with
his little blue eyes at a small house (one of twins) on the other
side from where he stood. That house, at any rate, was unchanged.
It was a two-storeyed house, with a semicircular fanlight over a
warped door of grained panelling. The blind of the window to the
left of the door was irradiated from within, proving habitation.
'I wonder--' ran Toby's thought. And he unhesitatingly crossed the
street again, towards it, feeling first for the depth of the
kerbstone with his umbrella. He had a particular and special
interest in that house (No. 11 it was--and is), for, four-and-
twenty years ago he had married it. _
Read next: PART X - BEGINNING THE NEW YEAR: CHAPTER II
Read previous: PART IX - NEWS OF THE ENGAGEMENT: CHAPTER I
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