Chapter Thirty Nine

Three Musketeers, A Dog And A Wheelbarrow Part I

By the time young Danny Branson and his cousin Robert Crawley both next awoke, Aix-les-Bains was but a distant memory and the Rome Express had reached Chambéry.

Founded at the meeting point of ancient routes from the Dauphiné, Burgundy, Switzerland and Italy, the town of Chambéry in Savoy lies in a wide valley between the Bauges and Chartreuse mountains. And for those travelling on the Rome Expres in the hot summer of 1932, it was where the steam engine at the head of their train was replaced, as was customary, by an electric locomotive for the next part of the journey up the steeply graded section of railway through the Alps and down to the border with the kingdom of Italy at Modane.

In fact, Danny had woken up sometime earlier, his sleep disturbed firstly by a nagging pain in his shoulder. Although he had made a complete recovery from when he had been shot and now bore but the faintest of scars, which lessened as he grew into early manhood, from time to time, Danny's arm still pained him and it was this that had awoken him early this morning.

But it had not only been this.

He had also been woken by what he had thought was a persistent scratching at the door of the compartment which he and Robert were sharing. However, when having shaken the sleep out of his eyes, finally having come to his senses and was now wide awake, Danny had cocked an ear and listened intently, there was nothing to be heard, save the constant rhythm of the train, the occasional whistle and the laboured beat of the engine as it began the steady climb through the Alps towards the summit of the line close to the eight and a half mile long Mont Cenis tunnel. Then, somewhere, further down the corridor, a door closed and shortly thereafter Danny fell asleep, only to awaken again when the express pulled into the quiet station at St. Jean de Maurienne.

Shortly after the train drew away from Chambéry, in the darkness, Max opened his eyes and awoke thankfully... to nothing.

The pain in his leg, at last, had gone. Cautiously, he slipped his hand beneath the sheet and, through the fabric of his pyjama trousers, gingerly grasped his hitherto injured knee. Other than a slight tenderness and which he knew from past experience would now quickly pass; the swelling had gone down and the joint no longer felt unduly hot or tender to the touch. That was the usual way a bleed in one of his joints ended. Slowly and with infinite care, Max drew up his knee. The joint moved perfectly and painlessly. Then, just as carefully, he lowered his leg and as before laced his hands together behind his head. In the blackness, well content, he smiled broadly. In moments like these, Max felt that life could be his friend and not, as so often, his enemy.

Of course, he knew the symptoms marking the beginning of a bleed just as well. Sometimes there would be nothing to account for it but more often than not it began after Max had suffered a fall, turned his foot awkwardly, or, when, unthinking, he had run into a room and in the process knocked his elbow accidentally upon the corner of a piece of furniture; perhaps nothing more than the slightest of glancing blows. Sometimes he might be lucky and no harm would have been done but that was rare. And then, it would begin.

First it would probably be nothing more than a slight irritation and, depending on the severity of the injury this might slowly fade away. More often, it did not and, with every passing minute, the affected joint would become ever more painful; sometimes excruciatingly so. The bleeding might last for hours, even days until, at last, finally, it stopped and the process of the re-absorption of the blood would begin. And, while this continued, Max suffered the most unbearable pain causing him to cry out, to scream aloud, the only relief being when he fainted away or else if he was given an injection of morphine administered by a doctor and a blessed then relief ensued. Not that Max's parents approved of the morphine; after all, it could so easily become habit forming. And, should an episode prove especially severe, then, it was almost inevitable that an admission to the clinic run by Dr. Lowenstein would follow with the likelihood of an equally painful blood transfusion administered over several days.

Afterwards, Max would be unable to bend or move the affected joint and the associated swelling and tenderness could likewise take days to disappear. But, once that had happened and he regained the use of his arm or his leg, then it would be as if nothing had occurred and, for weeks, perhaps even for months, Max would be as right as rain.

Until, that was, the the next time.

Suddenly, he never knew why, Max sat up in bed and, with a mounting sense of trepidation, felt hastily around on top of the covers. To his consternation, he found... nothing. Where, was Fritz?

"Frittie?" he called softly, expecting in an instant for the little dog to bound up onto the bed. Well, not exactly bound. Putting his front paws on the edge of the bed and then expecting to be helped the rest of the way was usually the way of it. Reply came there none and, apart from the sound of his mother's gentle breathing as she slept, the silence in the compartment was complete. And then, his heart lurched as Max saw the open door.

In an instant, Max was out of bed, hurriedly and quietly dressing, struggling into his shirt and shorts and tiptoeing out of the compartment in his stocking feet with his boots tied by their laces around his neck and padding down the dimly lit corridor; making his way towards the end of the carriage from whence he thought he had heard the distant sound of whimpering.

The train was once again at a stand and from outside the window, Max heard the sound of voices and, he thought, from somewhere, further down the corridor, a faint whimper and the patter of tiny feet. With the very real fear that somehow that his beloved Fritz was in danger, in an instant and without further ado, throwing all caution to the winds, all thought of taking infinite care forgotten, Max hurried back down the corridor.

To be frank, what happened next, was in part the fault of André, one of the table stewards in the dining car. Not, of course, that he was aware of the fact at the time and nor at any time thereafter did he ever realise the part he had played in the affair. But, that is some what to anticipate.

However, when the Rome Express pulled into the slumbering station at St. Jean de Maurienne, high in the Alps, having attended to his duties in the dining car so that all was ready in a few hours time to enable passengers on board the train to partake of breakfast, with the express having come to a stop at the deserted, lamp lit station of St. Jean, André decided to step down on to the platform to have a quiet cigarette.

While over to the east, beyond Annecy and towards the border with Switzerland, dawn was already beginning to break, here in the valley of the Maurienne it was still quite dark, the air chill and clear. And, on board the Rome Express, for anyone awake who wanted to watch the magnificent sight of a spectacular sun rise over the mountains and enjoy the breath taking views hereabouts, they were out of luck. Not that this state of affairs troubled André, standing by the open door of the carriage containing the sleeping quarters of the Bransons and the Crawleys, puffing contentedly on his Gaulois Bleu.

Nor indeed did it bother young Fritz who, more than once, having trotted the entire length of the corridor of the sleeping car allotted to the Bransons and the Crawleys, now found himself at the open door which led down onto the platform, just at the moment when André moved from it to walk down the length of the outside of the train to speak to the guard.

Standing four square in the open doorway, with his snout Fritz sniffed the clear Alpine air and it was while doing so that, from his superior vantage point his beady dark brown eyes lit with interest upon François, the station's large and almost feral tabby cat, curled and to all intents and purposes fast asleep upon a luggage trolley outside the salle d'attente.

One could have described what then happened by saying that in a flash Fritz was out of the carriage, down the steps and scurrying across the platform to become better acquainted with François. But only part of that would have been true, for when Fritz moved, he did so at a sedate pace. To do otherwise would, in his view, have been undignified.

Slowly Fritz stretched his little body forward and let himself down, first onto one step and then onto the next and finally onto the ground. From here, Fritz trotted across the platform as far as the luggage trolley, stretched up and placed both his front paws upon it, right next to where François was lying. The result was all too predictable.

For, Fritz's passage cross the platform towards the luggage trolley and its sleeping occupant had not gone unobserved ... by none other than François himself who was only cat napping. As first the little dog's two front paws and then his snout appeared over the edge of the trolley, François sat up. His green eyes glittering, he arched his back and hissed menacingly. In his feline experience, that usually sufficed; certainly for a dog of Fritz's small stature. Unfortunately, this time however, it did not have the desired effect. It now transpired that Fritz was made of much sterner stuff than appeared to be the case. Perhaps mindful of his Germanic heritage, Fritz was certainly not going to be cowed by one French cat, however large he might be. A guttural sound which began deep within Fritz's throat was quickly exhaled as a growl followed by a series of short sharp barks. It was this barking which finally alerted Max to the precise whereabouts of Fritz.

After he had found Fritz missing, Max had spent the next half hour or so, fruitlessly wandering up and down the corridor not only of the coach in which the Bransons and Crawleys had their sleeping berths but also in each of the two adjoining carriages and until now to no avail whatsoever, in an increasingly desperate search, looking for his dog,

Now, as he hurried back down the corridor in the direction of the sound of the barking, the door of Danny and Robert's compartment opened and Max all but ran head first into his two cousins. Awoken again by the sound of scratching at the door of the boys' compartment, Danny and Robert were up and dressed and just coming out into the corridor to investigate more fully the source of the strange noises which they had both now heard.

"Fritz!" Max exclaimed despairingly, pointing in the direction of the open door at the far end of the carriage. No further explanation was necessary and as Max continued hurrying on down the corridor as best he could - his knee was beginning to pain him once again - Danny, followed by Robert, ran after him, all of them reaching the door just in time to see the encounter between Fritz and a large tabby cat.

"Frittie! Nein!" cried Max.

"It's all right. Don't you worry, I'll get him!" Danny grinned and immediately began clambering down from the carriage.

"Dan! What on earth are you doing? You can't get off the train!" cried out Robert in alarm.

"Of course I can, Rob. Anyway, I'll be back in a jiffy. Besides, it's Max's little dog; he's out there on the platform".

"All right but I'm coming with you".

Danny nodded and lithely swung himself down the steps of the carriage with Robert following swiftly after. A moment later and Robert felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned in surprise to see that young Max,who, much as he wished to follow in the stead of his elder cousins, not being as tall as the other two boys, was unable to to negotiate the steps in the way Danny and Robert had just done.

Having hastily tugged on his boots and tied the laces, Max had seated himself on the floor in the doorway of the carriage, with his feet hanging over the steps. Looking earnestly down at the upturned faces of his two cousins, quickly and by means of a rapid series of hand gestures, he indicated to Danny and Robert that he needed their help in reaching the platform. With Danny on one side and Robert on the other, Max made it down the steps and, moments later, with all three boys at last on the platform, they made for the luggage trolley.

Unfortunately, by this time, François had had more than enough of Fritz. Hissing and spitting, the cat vaulted lithely down from off the luggage trolley and shot off along the length of the platform with Fritz, who evidently imagined it all to be a tremendous game, now scampering after, albeit in a dignified manner, just as fast as his short little legs would permit, with the three boys in hot pursuit.

So intent were they on cornering Fritz that they gave no thought to anything else. It was as they caught up with the little dog by the door to the bureau de location, that they all heard a single mournful blast on the horn of the massive electric locomotive at the head of the Rome Express. It was then and only then that they gave a thought to the train. But by now, the immaculate blue and gold painted coaches were already in motion and slowly gliding away from the station and into the blackness of the night.

"The train!" cried Robert, horrified.

"Jaysus! Feckin' hell!" yelled Danny making free with one of his father's customary expletives.

With Max trailing in their wake with Fritz held fast in his arms, Danny and Robert now began a desperate run back along the length of the platform, shouting themselves hoarse at the top of their voices until they thought their lungs would burst, waving frantically, trying to attract someone's attention on board the departing express.

But it was too late.

Heedless of the cries and waves of the two boys, inexorably, the long train continued to gather speed and, as they reached the end of the platform, all Danny and Robert could both do was to stand in stunned silence and watch as the bright red tail lamp on the last coach glimmered, dwindled to a pinprick of light and then finally disappeared altogether, swallowed up in the alpine darkness.

A moment later, still with Fritz held fast in his arms, Max caught up with his cousins at the end of the platform where he too now stood, mouth agape, staring into the cloying darkness which had shrouded the Rome Express. Here in the mountains the sound of the train continued to be audible for some time but, eventually, this too faded away. Until this happened, no-one said anything.

Not for nothing was young Robert Crawley his father's son and, in a mastery of English understatement, in language and which, in similar circumstances, no doubt Matthew himself might have used, it now fell to Robert to put into words what at this precise point in time all three of the boys were feeling.

"Well, what on earth do we do now?"

What indeed.

Author's Note:

Bureau de location - the station booking hall.