Chapter 16

The Outside

Max had felt like sliding down the banister, skipping across the rail yard, dancing on the roof of the return steam tram and singing on the footplate of the Lewis Street Cable Car as he rode it back up to the city! For he had spoken with Harriet Leith! And he would have with her... some kind of date, although he didn't know quite what kind, that very Wednesday night!

But because he desired to be staunch and savvy he instead pulled his bowler hat down a little in the front and strolled back. Stopping only to tip that hat to 'Uncle Hector' in his booth.

That afternoon’s lectures passed in a blur. Max didn't learn a thing.

* * *

“I haven't seen Dickie in a few days,” said Wiremu as the three friends rode the homeward bound 5:15pm under the Horatio Street bridge and down through the Botanical Gardens.

“No?” responded Max nonchalantly, still hiding his excitement from his two companions. Pointing out the window he said, “Look up.”

Wang and Wiremu moved across to the glass and peered out. Max knew what they would see; somewhere high up above the city, beyond the spire of St Cuthbert's and the height of the Egyptian Lighthouse, past the coal smoke that drifted eternal from the mills, there would be a lone Dirigible.

“Dickie goes up in those?” asked Wang, retreating to his seat.

“Count me out,” reflected Wiremu.

“He certainly goes up,” answered Max. “He is the pilot.”

Wang looked impressed and returned to studying the slow-moving flying ship. A moment later he asked;

“Who is Dickie?”

“Of course. You haven't yet met," reflected Max. "He is a friend. Works for Father in the Aviaries and studies the most peculiar assortment of subjects.”

“Including Aeronautics?”

“Indeed.”

Wiremu regarded Max for a moment, one eye brow slightly raised.

“What!?” challenged Max, growing uncomfortable under the scrutiny and feigning ignorance, despite the crooked grin that now spread across his face.

“You're a smug fool Max Skilton! What? Indeed. You are the one that's sitting on something. Now spill it!”

“I thought you would never ask!” laughed Max pulling a roll of paper from the inside pocket of his waistcoat. “Gather around.”

The three friends put their heads together over the table between them and as the train took the sweeping left and came level with the estuary Max unravelled his triumph.

“A coin,” said Wiremu, studying the page on the table.

“A very old Chinese coin,” added Wang slowly. They both looked at Max for further explanation.

“On Saturday night..." begun Max. "...as the unfortunate victim of your.... Tong... was killed, this coin..." Max tapped Harriet's etching with his finger. "...rolled from his person and settled against the foot of Harriet Leith. And...” holding up a forestalling finger “...this afternoon she gave it to me.”

“When exactly did you see all this?” asked Wang, a hard edge entering his tone.

“Max never takes his eyes off Miss Leith,” shot Wiremu.

“I saw it as it happened.”

Wang didn't take his eyes off Max.

“Where is the actual coin now?” he asked.

“Don't worry Wang," said Max evenly. His excitement fading in the face of Wang's earnestness. "Harriet showed the coin to that fellow Sung. He gave it back to her.”

“That doesn't ease my concerns at all," replied Wang. "In any culture the exchanging of coins happens at the point of purchase.”

“I don't understand,” said Max, but a worm of worry was starting to move in his belly.

“Fong Wai Sung is no fool. He doesn't just hand out lucky coins. You have to understand how these people’s minds work. If he had arranged for that swordsman to be killed then everything the unfortunate owned had already transferred into his possession. Thus, that coin belonged to him well before Miss Leith picked it from the dirt. The fact that he then gave it to her means, in his mind at least, that he has purchased something of hers.”

Max's belly worm rolled over twice and became a heavy stone. A sudden, dragging worry. He half resented Wang for taking away his elation and replacing it with more complexity.

“Like what?” asked Wiremu. “What has he purchased?”

“I have no idea!” Wang was getting moody, impatient with explaining things to infants. “Where is the coin now?” he repeated.

“Ah, it seems that Harriet holds small regard for cultural artefacts and has melted it down for more contemporary purposes.”

“That at least is a blessing,” said Wang, sitting back in his seat. "Thank goodness she didn't put a cord through the hole and hang it around her neck!”

“I believe that Harriet is sincerely oblivious to all this Tong, murder, cloak and dagger stuff,” said Max, although he wasn't sure how convinced he sounded.

“It hardly matters. As I have said before; anyone with a connection to the Tong, whatever it may be, is in danger.”

“You are ruining my day Wang.”

“My goal is to save your life.”

* * *

Wang didn't ruin Max's day. In fact, his warnings hardly even affected Max's sleep that night. Harriet Leith had done that and had left little room for any other. Max had dealt with Wang's objections like a classic romantic, by turning them into opportunities. If Harriet did have something to fear from the Tong, then, Max reasoned, it provided him with the perfect spring board for playing the hero. He would hone his sword fighting skills with even more zeal and become the slayer of the Chinese Dragon. Such ideas appeal late at night and make a sense that they never could in the light of day.

When Wednesday finally dawned it was bright and warm. The intrigues of Chinatin felt a world away. The new day belonged to the 3:15 fencing class and the mysterious ten pm meeting with Harriet on White Bridge.

On the train ride into the city Wang seemed keen to ask Max about his classes and to find out more about his friend who flew in the airships. Max suspected that Wang kept the conversation flowing and away from contentious issues on purpose. He didn't mind, there was enough excitement in the offering without digging for more.

Wiremu however mustn’t have had much else to think about overnight. He was busting with questions and wanted to know from Wang; what kind of coins they used in Chinatin? How many members the Tong had? Did the Tong have a name? Why would the Chinese Government place an agent in Chinatin? Had Wang ever spoken to the murder victim?

Wang responded to all this rather tersely answering that they used normal dominion coinage, that he knew very little about the Tong and refused to speak its name, and that he had absolutely no idea why the Chinese Government would want to place an agent in Chinatin, if that rumour was even true.

“You are being a regular Inspector Bucket!” Wang finally cried with exasperation over Wiremu's investigation.

“He's from Dickens,” supplied Max, amused at the particular vent of Wang's frustrations.

“I'm well aware of the mysteries of the Bleak House thank you Max,” snapped Wiremu, while at the same favouring him with a wink. Wang rolled his eyes and went back to looking out the window.

* * *

“It isn't really my area,” stated Professor Wynyard. “But I'll take a quick look for you.”

Max placed the paper, on which Harriet's had made the rubbing of the Chinese coin, into the Professor of Archaeology's outstretched hand.

Wynyard had the look about him of both an academic and an outdoorsman. Slight of build and wiry, he always had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, giving the impression that he might be called on at any minute to up shovel and dig in the earth. He was bald and tanned on top, but with sides that grew down into a healthy grey beard.

He adjusted his small, round lensed eyeglasses and spread the sheet on the desk between them.

“As you say. A Chinese coin,” he confirmed at once. “And brass did you say?”

“Yes. It was made from brass,” repeated Max.

“I will have to consult my books. Shouldn't be too much work. When do we have class next? Tomorrow?

“Yes, tomorrow afternoon,” agreed Max.

“Fine, yes. I shall have something for you after class tomorrow,” promised the Professor rolling the paper up again and placing it in the top draw of his desk.

“That soon!? Thank you Professor, I would be much obliged.”

“By all means. I shall relish the exercise.”

They both fell silent then and surveyed the stone chips that, in small neat piles, covered the top of the Professor's desk. These had been the study of their day's class. Findings from the old Pā site at the mouth of the Paturau River on the West Coast, fragments of ancient tools and ornaments. In his lecture Wynyard had described them all, their attributes, and functions, as well as the routes that traders would have needed to have travelled to get the various raw stones to the Pā at Paturau. Amongst the collection there was black volcanic obsidian from the Northern Isle, Chert, Basalt, Adzite or Baked Argillite which is a South Island exclusive, Greywacke, Gabbro, local Serpentine, Schist, and a small pile of the precious gem like Nephrite Greenstone, which the Māori call Pounamu.

The Professor claimed that Pounamu was the most desired material for use in weapons and ornaments, and that it was only found in a few select rivers on the South Islands central west coast. He had suggested that the people at Paturau Pā would have endeavoured to maintain a strong trade with the Greenstone rivers in the south. And that it was highly likely that members of the hapū there would make an annual, overland, pilgrimage for this purpose.

Professor Wynyard sighed and started carefully sweeping the small piles back into their storage boxes.

“No, your coin will make a welcome change. Metal based archaeology is practically non-existent in Aotearoa.”

“I'm glad to be able to provide a distraction,” responded Max, picking up a box and lending a hand.

* * *

“Do not try to tickle him vith it!” shouted Captain Von Tempsky, as he strolled behind the backs of his black uniformed fencing students. In vain the blacks tried to feint off the attacks of their more senior opposites in white. “Imagine a point beyond your opponent and try to drive your foil though him to reach it. Not tap, tap, tap, on his foil. Bang! bang! bang! On his body.”

Max knew what The Captain meant; he understood the principle. It was the action that eluded him and already, under his mask, the sweat was starting to run into his eyes.

“Vhot! No! You are all trying too hard to hit his foil. Zere are no points for hitting his foil. Turn his foil aside at once and hit his body. Ze body is where ze points are.”

Max was working with the Goth who had helped him kit up for his duel with Lavisham the previous week. He had introduced himself at the start of this lesson as Julian Roil, and although Max couldn't land a hit on him, he was gracious and fair throughout their practice.

Along from Max two places, Sampson Rumbold, whom Max thought of as Ginger, fought with Gilbert Lavisham. Further along again Ihaka, who was one of the Northern Isle Māori Scholars, duelled with Harriet. Kingi was too far down the line for Max to tell who he sparred with.

“Mr Rumbold! You appear to be svotting at sandflies. Stop all this svish, svish, tennis racket, and keep all ze movement in ze vrist. Like you are painting a beautiful picture.”

A beautiful red painting with Gilbert's blood thought Max as he toiled on. So far he had avoided The Captain’s attention. In an attempt to maintain that status, he tightened up his stance and tried to restrict the movement of his sword arm to his wrist.

“Zhat is enough!” called The Captain. The duelling stopped at once and the students used the pause to take off masks and wipe brows on sleeves. Max glanced down the row and at once caught Harriet's eye. She gave him a very slight nod in greeting, and although no friendly smile graced her lips, Max was sure there was a sparkle in her eye. With heart suddenly racing, he carefully returned the nod, before quickly refocusing on von Tempsky.

“Please return to your marks,” he commanded. The class shuffled back to the places they had first taken at the start of the previous week's class. Two rows of blacks at the front, two of white at the back. Ginger's blunted foil seemed to somehow poke Max in the back a couple of times during the transfer. Max seemed to ignore it.

“Yes,” began The Captain, gripping his hands behind his back and resuming his position at the front of the class. “Time for another little exhibition. Master Roil, if you will.” Julian strode forward and took his place on the line next to Von Tempsky. “Now Master Skilton could not land a single blow on Master Roil? Vhy was zat?

“Because he is useless! Sir,” called Rumbold, and the class laughed at the gibe. Max's ears burnt hot as his peers looked his way. But all they saw was him casually examining the point of his own sword, pretending to test it for sharpness with his thumb. The implied threat was obvious to those who had eyes for subtlety.

“Not at all Mr Grass cutter,” responded The Captain, imitating Rumbold's 'sandfly swatting' style. The class laughed again, but now with a little more gusto. “Do not tempt me to pair you vith Master Skilton. For much as I would like to zee you humbled, I would not have you broken so soon in your training!” Max couldn't believe his ears. The class didn't make a sound. But Sampson was not about to let it go.

“What has he got on me?” he demanded. “We are both only two classes green!”

“Of course,” conceded the Captain, but then becoming impatient with the interruption added, “But many a master horseman has had his ribs snapped by an untrained colt. And you Sir I believe are already well in Master Skilton's debt.”

Rumbold fell silent then and glowered at Max from under his brows. Max was well ready for the attention to move elsewhere.

“Back to ze question at hand zen. Master Skilton could not land a point on Master Roil because Master Roil has learnt to train his eye. He has learnt to see how his opponent’s body gives away his mind's intention automatically, before even ze mind has told ze body how to act. Let me show you vhat I mean. Mr Ihaka, if you vill.”

Ihaka blinked once at hearing his own name, before breaking rank and striding to the front, where he took up position opposite Julian and dropped his mask into place.

“Now,” continued the Captain. “Even before Mr Ihaka had taken the first step on his short journey here, he had given away his intention. He bent his head forward slightly, he rocked forward on his toes a little, and zen he took his first step. No big deal of course. But ze swordsman who carries ze day is ze one who can read zese little hints and know vhat zey will lead to. Ze master is ze one who can also avoid making such give-aways himself, choosing instead to feint and bluff. But enough talking. You two, en-guard!”

The two thin foils sprung up at once, forming an inverted V between the classmates.

“Mr Ihaka is to attack. Master Julian to parry. Nothing more. Understand?”

Both heads nodded their understanding. “Begin!”

Ihaka lunged in straight for Roil's heart. Julian swept the blade aside easily, they both returned to their marks.

“Master Roil if you’d be so kind as to please explain to ze class your understanding of ze action.”

Julian hesitated for a moment before beginning his analysis.

“I sensed Ihaka tense before The Captain called 'begin', thus I guessed he would attack at the first moment. Even within the gloom is his mask his eyes appeared to narrow the split second before his lunge, further betraying his intention.”

“Very good,” judged The Captain. “Again zen. En-guard. Begin.”

This time Ihaka hesitated, then the foils came together with a quick clatter and Julian reposted the attack.

“Master Roil?” inquired The Captain.

“Because we both held a high en-guard, the foils would have to drop before a straight lunge could be enacted along the natural line. Therefore Ihaka's lunge was predictable because it's thrust followed directly on from the foils movement down from en-guard.”

“You see class, if your first movement hints at your second, you give your game avay. But of course, your task today is only to begin to recognise zese small betrayals in your opponent’s movements. Trying to disguise your own intentions from your opponent vill come later. Again. En-guard. Begin!”

Now Ihaka dropped his foil from the en-guard V to a level position and held it there for a moment. Then he flicked the length of steel a couple of times before taking a large step and lunging forward. Julian turned the thrust aside.

“Very good. Zis time Master Roil?”

“Because Ihaka levelled his weapon he favoured me with a good long view...”

“Yes,” interrupted The Captain. “Remember Mr Ihaka to keep ze tip of your sword... I mean your foil, pointed at ze eyes of your opponent. Zis gives him only the shortest view.”

Ihaka groaned. Max felt a modicum of pity for him, recognising that he had just been caught in a 'dammed if you do, dammed if you don't' type situation. Julian continued.

“Although Ihaka's stance is good, I saw the second before he lunged that he bent downward at the knees, so to spring up and forward.”

“Zere we have it. This downward 'bob' before ze lunge, which is very common in new students, was all Master Roil needed to see to anticipate Mr Ihaka's attack. Very good. Once more zen. En-guard. Begin!”

This time Ihaka seemed to assimilate the various advice. He hesitated a moment, pointed his sword at Julian's eyes and when he struck appeared not to 'bob' or give any other indication of his intention.

“Hussar!” cried the captain. For a point had been landed on Julian's right shoulder. The class clapped politely, while trying to hold their own foils and gloves. Julian gave Ihaka a quick nod of acknowledgement. But Max got the distinct impression that he had given the point as a kindness. “So, Master Roil?” asked von Tempsky. “What happened there?”

The two opponents removed their masks.

“Ihaka caught me out. He feinted left with his eyes but at the last minute struck right. Masterfully done.”

Ihaka looked neither pleased with himself nor suspecting of patronisation. He just stared at von Tempsky with sullen eyes. Max found himself wondering for the first-time what manner of young man he was. Curly black hair, bony, hard face. Big brown eyes that looked out from sockets the shade of a grey bruise.

Captain von Tempsky produced a square of white material from the top pocket of his black shirt. The third quarter of his handkerchief.

“Silk for your work,” he proclaimed, walking across to press the fabric into the young Māori's hand. “Now back to your places.”

Max noted the prick of jealously that he felt at the bestowing of the silk favour.

* * *

Max had told his mother that he would be home late and not to wait up. How late he had no idea. Ten at night was certainly a late start for any endeavour on a week night. Not that he knew what this particular endeavour was. He had his suspicions, but he preferred not to give these space. To be near Harriet was enough.

It was high summer, so the wool lined leather coat that he had lugged around self-consciously all day was draped across the chair next to him. The large roman numerals behind the glass face on the wall proclaimed that it was nine of the clock. Bustling past then, the Hostess paused to clear away the plate that had contained Max's meal; a large slice of meat pie, mashed potato, and beans, leaving only his pint of good Dixon's. He would need to nurse this for an hour more.

Max felt relaxed and confident, and he had drawn the meal out to fill the time. He was a man in control. The feelings of expectation and excitement were much like those on Christmas morning, when one has full assurance that the present opening time will come, could even be imminent, and thus finds pleasure in the delay, in dragging out the breaking of the fast, in conversing with family members and drinking a slow coffee. The time has been made and that time will come.

Looking out of the window he saw that the locomotive works across the way were now shrouded in gloom and scores of big moths circled the gas lights that hung above the yards.

Back inside a slightly comical looking fiddler had set up and with a little skill was scratching out a few classics. These he sung with a gap-toothed smile while trying to keep the instrument tucked under his bristly chin. A few of the other patrons, having also finished their meals, were joining in on the more rousing numbers. Max was sure that it was just a normal night at The Rail & Spike, a tidy establishment on the front end of Addingtown, just across the rails from the estuary and along a bit from White Bridge, where he had agreed to meet Harriet.

When he emerged from the tavern three quarters of an hour later the night was oily black, the sun long gone in the west. The small gloaming that would normally still be visible beyond the hills was blotted out by a heavy ceiling of restless cloud. The valley was 'backing up', filling with pregnant nimbostratus. It would be raining up in Riverdale before morning, if it wasn't already. The moon was also hidden, although the tide was full in the estuary, coming only a foot or two below the sleepers of the rails in the Addingtown Yards.

Max pulled on his coat before beginning the walk back along the haven side toward White Bridge. He had the footpath to himself. The rail yards across the way were silent and at rest for the night. It was a lonely stretch between Addingtown and the rest of the city.

Somewhere out in the inlet, on a wet island of rushes, a Banded Rail uttered its airy, laugh-like call. On the right the bank was undeveloped; piled with bracken and a few wilding pines. Max drew his collar tighter and felt completely alone.

It wasn't long before he was beginning to wonder if he had made the whole thing up. Harriet Leith, of all people, would never be waiting on a bridge, in the middle of a night like this, for him. He considered giving it up as a bad joke. Surely he had been visibly over keen, and this was her way, being full of disdain for such a puppy, to crush him.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Still, having come this far, he walked on.

White Bridge was a short, steel girder and rail structure that reached over the brackish waters of Burton Ale Steam to place the traveller onto the back of an earthen causeway. This causeway carried a dry road across the mudflats and reed beds to join with the western rail as it came up its embankment and onto the main Aorere River bridge at Ferntown. The rail shared the bridge with the road, but as always took precedence.

Nearer the bridge he could see Gibbstown, which appeared to float out in the river mouth on Wapping Point, its lights cutting golden paths across the black water to reach his eyes. Up on the ridge, above the twinkling lights of Collingwood city, The Egyptian spun its beam in a great level circle.

Max was almost onto the bridge before, in the pale glare of its twin gas lamps, he made out the dark shape of another walker waiting on the span. He paused. It could be anyone. A vagrant? A drunk? It could be Gilbert Lavisham, sent there by Harriet to defend her honour!

Max drew near.

“You came,” said Harriet suddenly in the darkness.

“Did you doubt it?”

“I have been left waiting before,” she responded, resting her elbows on the steel edge, and peering over. Her collar was turned up and in the dark he couldn't see her face very well at all. A woolly hat covered her hair. Max struggled to disguise his genuine surprise at truly finding her here, all by herself. He took a slow breath to steady himself.

“Is it... safe to be out alone like this?” he asked, joining her.

“I have my pepper-box,” she responded with a shrug.

“Really?!” Max had to work hard to imagine a small multi-barrelled pistol tucked inside her jacket.

“No. But did you think?”

Max gave a laugh.

“I have no idea what the latest side-arm of choice is for the modern lady.”

He could see her smile in the shadow now.

“But I'm not alone am I?"

Max didn't respond. Her statement was too poignant to ruin with whatever reply he could manage.

She dropped a piece of bread onto the surface of the water then and they watched as small night fish worried away at it, hidden in the dark but for their ripples and the movement of the bread as it was tugged about.

Then there did, there like that, seem an aloneness, an isolation about her. Max had a hundred questions to ask, but pushed aside the words, happy for now with simple nearness. He didn't speak, but remained with her, present in whatever was going on where she was. He knew that he was lost deep in Harriet's territory. The feeling of panic pushed hard against him.

With a force of will he abandoned himself to her, trusting that she would lead when ready. Another piece of bread, apparently the last, landed on the water. Still Max wondered at how much of the real Miss Harriet Leith he was being allowed to see right then. Was this nocturnal blesser of minnows a crafted pantomime?

There was a metal click and a glint of silver as she closed a fob and slipped it back into her jacket pocket.

“We best be off then,” she said matter-of-factly and started back the way Max just had come. He put his hands in his pockets, trying to appear relaxed and watched her go. Then, after a moment, following her, he called;

“What are we about this evening then?”

She was off the bridge now and walking up the railway tracks toward the yards.

“Don't twist your ankle. If you ruin my night by twisting your ankle between the sleepers, I'll throw you in the drink!”

“I believe you would.”

She turned to face him then and walking backwards, laughed, shaking her head, as if to say she wouldn't.

“At ten ten a locomotive will pass though, bringing a rake of empty gondolas up from the docks. She will only have two crew on board: the engineer and a fireman. They will go fast and non-stop all the way to the slate mine yards at the Salisbury. But first they will stop in Addingtown Yard to take on water.”

“At which point we climb on board,” Max concluded, in an even tone.

Harriet smiled behind her hands, which had been pushed together, up at her chin in a prayer like fashion. At his words she interlinked her fingers and bought them down to point at Max.

“Are you up for it?”

“Is it five past ten?”

And just then the truly lonely sound of a steam whistle came up the line from the harbour.

“What is between you and that Sampson Rumbold?” asked Harriet, as they leant their backs against the old concrete of some forgotten structure just beyond Addingtown Yard's rail-side water tower. Here, she had said, they would be hidden from the light of the approaching train.

“Between myself and him, nothing,” answered Max. “But between he and I, a great deal, it seems.”

“Go on,” encouraged Harriet, before peering around the corner to check on the progress of the train.

“Him and some of his lackies were acting the bully to a friend of mine, Wang, outside the Architecture department last week. Naturally, I and our other friend Wiremu, intervened. There was a fight and Rumbold's team ended up the sorer.” Max failed to mention that Wang did most of the fighting. “I guess that was enough to turn him against me. But then a handful of Goths arrived and offered us some care. Maybe Rumbold, who is a 'classical' has placed me at the Gothic end of their little design spectrum, and thus is seeking to advance their conflict on my person.”

“Are you a Goth?” asked Harriet.

“Me? I doubt it. I had never heard of them until a few months ago!"

“Of course. Whereas Rumbold has been raised on that rhetoric all his life.”

The locomotive was close now, its headlamp sweeping across the yard, casting long black shadows behind every bump in its surface.

“I would definitely be a Goth before a Classic,” she remarked, as the trains brakes began to squeak.

“Really? You have an interest in Architecture?”

“No not at all. But it's more than that. It's a 'worldview' thing, a way at looking at the world.”

“You'll have to explain that to me one day,” said Max, quietly suggesting some sort of future between them.

“It will be a Consolidation,” said Harriet.

“Sorry, pardon?”

“A Baldwin Consolidation, 2-8-0. The locomotive.”

“Oh, right.”

The noise of the steam engine was all around them now as vaporised water swirled past their concrete barricade. Harriet pointed beyond her to the tracks and Max looked around the corner to see the leading edge of the locomotives long triangular 'cowcatcher' come into view and then stop.

She leant in close to whisper to him and at once he felt the warmth of her on his face and despite the stream and coal smoke, caught the delicate scent of her perfume. He had to concentrate very hard on her words.

“It will take them a few minutes to fill up. We will need to wait until they start rolling again before we board. The Engineers will be too busy stoking to pay much attention to what is happening at the front of their loco.”

“We are getting on the front?” Max asked with controlled tone. Since having decided that he was along for this ride, he had also resolved to appear unshaken by whatever it may involve. He didn't imagine that Harriet would be much impressed by reluctance or cowardice on his part.

“Indeed,” she answered before going on excitedly “Consolidations are great. They have a good space on top of the lead wheels, in front of the smoke box and behind the cowcatcher, where we can sit. Below the headlamp too. You don't want to give the game away by getting your big head in front of the driver’s light.”

Max's heart started to pound in his chest as he began to fully understand what they were up to. Excitement, fear, madness. He knew he should get up and walk away, distancing himself from such dangerous and irresponsible behaviour. He turned to Harriet.

“This is going to be great!” he said and meant it. She smiled then, broadly and without reservation, and taking his hand from where it rested on the gravel between them, and squeezing it quickly, she replied,

“It will be that!”

His hand was released, certainly not withdrawn by him. It had been a spontaneous thing on her part. But Max was content.

The engine was relatively quiet now and as they waited the Engineer’s voices could be heard over the roar of water filling the tanks.

“Not long,” whispered Harriet and Max could hear the excitement in her voice. He wondered how many times she had done this.

After a couple more minutes there were a few clanks and bangs as the water tower's spout was swung back and the engine's tank dome reattached. Max imagined the two men climbing back up onto the footplate. They waited as the boiler got steam up again.

“Rumbold strikes me as a brute,” said Harriet suddenly, returning to their previous subject. “One of those types who must somehow legitimise his own existence by offsetting it or casting it in opposition to another’s. If you know what I mean.”

“I think so.”

“Like those foundry workers at Onekaka who don't care that they are Irish, until a band of Welsh are employed. Then they are all 'Taffy this' and 'Paddy that' and before long people are getting their heads broke.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” responded Max. “If we are going to be us, we had better establish a them.” He was thinking of his Grandfather and wondering at Harriet's familiarity with such circumstances as those she described.

“But Von Tempsky seems to be watching out for you ,” she said, making it plain that she was teasing.

“Unlooked-for support,” responded Max at once, pushing at a larger chunk of gravel with his boot. “I would not like to end up being regarded as teacher's pet.”

“Never fun,” she said, and Max guessed she was speaking from personal experience. He could easily call to mind memories of her fiery interactions with Professor McCormack at the robot races. Maybe she had been working against some bias he had been showing her? The tones of the steam hissing from the loco began to change as the pressure grew.

“You'll need these,” instructed Harriet, suddenly producing from within her coat and passing to Max, a pair of brass rimmed goggles. She pulled her own pair over her head and let them hang down around her neck. Max studied the set in his hands for a moment. A private smile crossed his lips. He had first seen these goggles on Harriet's top-hat at that first robot race. It had been the first time he had seen her. He gave a happy little snort and shook his head slightly at the memory, and at the full circle he had taken.

“What?” puzzled Harriet next to him.

“Nothing,” he lied with another shake of his head.

It had been in answer to his question about the use of these goggles that Dickie had informed him that Harriet potentially rode trains “...on the outside.” And now here he was.

Max pulled the goggles down over his head so that they likewise hung at his neck.

There was a couple of more pronounced hisses from the locomotive. Then the first loud puff as spent steam shot from the steam chest and up out the funnel.

“Time to make our dash,” said Harriet, rising to a ready crouch as another loud chuff sounded. Max copied. “Keep your head down and follow me.” Then she disappeared into the steam and darkness as the locomotive began to puff in earnest. Max dived after her.

The water vapour that jetted from engine and bellowed high against the concrete was warm and it seemed as if the clouded sky above had fallen. For a moment his was lost in white swirl. Then his head poked through the top of the smother, and he saw that Harriet had already clambered up on the cow catcher.

In another heartbeat he would need to be running to keep up with the accelerating train. Harriet, eyes sparkling with excitement and mischief, thrust out her hand. But Max ignored it and deftly sprung up next to her, gripping instead the diagonal iron bar that ran, on each side, from the smoke box down to the top of the cowcatcher.

“Nicely done,” remarked Harriet, shuffling over so Max could sit next to her. Huddled up, knees drawn toward chins, the smoke box warm on their backs, they perched on the front of the accelerating train.

There was no choice but to sit close and Max didn't mind one bit. When he looked at Harriet next to him and she threw back her head and laughed, the hair that had come loose from under her woollen hat blew back and her silver hoop earrings shone in the lamplight.

“I love this,” she said with such joy that Max couldn't help but being caught up in it.

As the train left the yards, rattling over sets of points and headed on up the line, he knew that there was no other place he would rather be. And he was the only one. The only one here with Harriet Leith! A whole sparkling city of suitors lay just behind them, but it was only he, Max Skilton, who was racing away into the night with her! He couldn't remember ever feeling so alive and full of promise.

For a time now their world was reduced to the cone of light cast by the headlamp above their heads. In its beam the twin iron rails shone golden as they disappeared, parallel, into the darkness ahead, while sleepers flashed past beneath. At their backs pushed a powerful locomotive, its smoke bending away the instant that it left the funnel. Behind came a whole train of wagons, but everything was behind them now. Max felt like he rode on the nose of a bullet, tearing through space, thundering through the very fabric of reality.

What they were doing was obviously dangerous and he assumed illegal, but somehow they had found an apparent safe place, right on the dragon's nose, at the fore of the danger, a calm in the eye of the storm. It had an amazing effect and the tension between panic and wanting to whoop for joy was intoxicating.

“Don't forget to breathe,” said Harriet. Max looked at her puzzled, then let out a great whoosh of air. He had forgotten. She indicated his goggles and pulled her own into place.

“Don't want to get hit in the eye by a moth. Or a morepork!”

Max could agree with that. He fitted the glass lenses over his eyes and fastened the band. Then there was nothing to do but settle in and enjoy the ride.

“I can see why you like this,” said Max over the rush of air and the pounding of the locomotive, as they passed thought Swamp Road station.

“You can?” asked Harriet. There was hope and happiness in her voice. Max imagined her turning to grip his arm and look full in his face. But she remained where she was. Max wondered if he was passing her test or if she was trying to frighten him for so naively coming to her Father's factory and asking her about 'riding trains on the outside', or if she was simply playing with him.

All he knew for certain was that he was only falling deeper in love with this wild, beautiful, mysterious, slightly crazy woman next to him.

“Maybe,” he answered, turning his head to her ear. “It's like either side of us there are ditches and creeks, roads and hedges, even hills and gullies, boundaries and restrictions... But we, we are just cutting though them all, like they don't apply to us. They don't apply to us. Nothing blocks the rail, we stop for no one!”

“Go on,” she urged, turning a little to face him.

“Riding here is somehow like riding on the edge of a wave... no, riding on the edge of time. Blasting first into the future.” She nodded at this, and Max continued, the words seemed to come easy. “It is like standing on the prow of a boat, the wake spreading out behind. But also it isn't, because a boat can go anywhere on the ocean and it doesn't really affect much. But we are charging through reality, through the real world, past people's houses, and cows. Sure, the steam is our wake, but we are noisy, and iron and magnificent! People wake from their slumber as we pass!” With this last he flung his arms wide, and they both laughed out loud.

Then she did grip his arm for a moment and looking at him full in the face she said;

“I think you do understand me a little, Max Skilton.”

Then Max imagined her reaching up to touch his jaw with her hand, before pressing her lips against his. The moment was right for it, he was sure. They looked at each other, then she sat back.

They were quiet for a time. The ghostly white trunks of the kahikatea trees next to the lagoon paraded past on the right and Max found himself wandering if Gilbert Lavisham had ever sat here next to his Harriet. Then the engineers blew their whistle loud and shrill in warning, moments before they crossed over the road, next to Aorere Pā Station. Harriet giggled when Max jumped in fright at this.

Only a couple of lights showed at the Pā. Wiremu would be asleep, totally unaware of Max's incredible journey. Max was already thinking about how he would tell his friend about this night's adventure. He was sure that Wiremu was the only one he could tell.

The lights of Rockville came into view almost at once and after a few minutes they shot past Dickie's parent's small farmlet.

“There is your place,” observed Harriet a moment later when the Aviaries and Skilton House slid past on the right. Max didn't pause to consider how she knew this fact. He was busy imagining his parents somehow seeing him sitting there on the front of the engine.

“I'd love to see the look on my Mother's face if she could see me now. But then reverse time... I'm only interested in the look, not all the other reactions.”

Harriet gave a chuckle at that.

“Reverse time,” she reflected. “Now that would be a helpful function.” This was said in a way that hinted at deeper meanings and Harriet looked off over the roof tops of Rockville town's taverns and linked terrace houses. The platform at Rockville Central was well lit, but no one was about. They passed though unobserved.

“If the train does stop, it will mean someone has seen us and contacted the signalman. We will have to get off and make a run for it. But we will see the red light at the same time as the engineers, so plenty of warning.”

The train took a sweeping right then and headed for the Rockville Bridge. Max gripped the diagonal bar on his side to stop himself from leaning too heavily on Harriet. As much as he would have welcomed the contact he didn't want to force it. She hadn’t given any indications of feelings for him. He knew he was only seeing what he hoped to see in her actions. Thus the status quo of nothing was preferable to clear rejection. Although he had to believe that something about sharing this experience was binding them together.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“For the bridge?”

“Yep.” She nodded forward and they both watched the twin, iron end posts of the bridge come into the head light beam. The whistle sounded again; a warning to any hapless travellers who happened to be on the road/rail bridge. Max had a fleeting thought of how it wouldn't go well for the pair of them if they hit a cow at speed.

“Get ready! And don't scream. That will certainly spook the engineers behind us!” Max really hoped that she didn't think he was a screamer.

But when the line bore them onto the bridge he understood her warning. For suddenly there was only the rail, the two of them and dark sparkling water below. Half way across he did want to scream... and hoot, but with celebration not fear. They were flying!

He laughed with joy and took hold of her hand. It would have been the natural thing with almost anyone, the connection from such an intense shared experience, simply needed to be acknowledged and strengthened through physical touch. But then they were off the bridge and her hand was still in his.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and placed it back on her knee. She turned her head and watched the big dairy factory pass on the left. Max took an interest in Rockville Grammar, his old school, on the right.

“Don't be,” she said quietly, barely audible over the rush of air and engine noise. “It just isn't that simple.” Max remained silent and wondered if he knew what she meant.

The line swung right again and ran along the base of the hills that separated Rockville from Riverdale. Then finding the mouth of the Kaituna Valley it turned left into Eeling Station. The lights were on in the building where Max and Wiremu had bought coffees that past weekend. But with no passenger trains due until morning the room beyond the golden window appeared stark and empty. Clouds of large moths swarmed the platform lights here also.

They were among the beech and rimu trees on the river bank now and Max was beginning to get a little cold. He pressed his back hard against the warm locomotive and felt its great fiery heart pounding within. He was glad for the goggles and wished that, like Harriet, he had a woolly hat. The line followed the Kaituna River until it forked off to the west, where the lights of Chinatin sparkled in their gully at the foot of the mountains. Now they followed a smaller river, the 'Bonnie Doon' past more towering kahikatea trees.

“How often do you do this?” asked Max, drawing Harriet from her reprieve.

“Hmm? Maybe only once a month. When I need space... to feel the things you described before.”

“What do your parents think about it?”

“Oh they don't know. They would lock me up and throw away the key!”

“As any good parent would,” reflected Max with a snort. “Does anyone else enjoy this little hobby of yours?” She seemed to like that and started to talk freely again.

“Some of the other Steam Engineering Students. It has become a bit of a rite of passage. Not that Professor McCormack knows about it. The guys in my team will all make a run every couple of months. Tick would like to strap himself upright to the roof of a guard van. There are no tunnels on the Valley line so it would work."

“Crazy!” chuckled Max, shaking his head.

“It gets the blood pumping.”

“That it does.”

Then to Max's horror Harriet actually stood up.

She held the two diagonal bars and kept her head below the light. The tails of her leather jacket whipped about as she braced herself against the blast. Max wanted to grab her and pull her back down to comparative safety. He resisted, knowing his intervention would not be welcome. Instead, he concentrated on trying to not look as alarmed as he felt. He knew that if one of them fell under the train, their remains, when gathered together, wouldn't be recognisable.

Letting the hand hold next to Max go, she pulled off her hat, so that the wind could draw out her hair like an orange flame. Max wanted to plead with her...

Sit back down! Make room in your life for me. For heaven's sake sit back down! Come into my arms.

She looked down and laughed at the mingled look of terror and admiration that she saw on his face. Then she extended her free hand to him.

Max looked at the pale hand, shaking with the shudder of the locomotive beneath them. It had come. He must have passed the first test, just getting on the train, and now she was upping the stakes. Had he surprised her thus far? He couldn't tell. She played her cards close to her chest. Did she think this would be his limit?

The hand would only remain offered for a moment longer. He knew that he wanted nothing more than to know this woman, to be let in, to be in her day and to have the freedom to tell her about his.

I'll be damned.

He had come this far, and he would follow her down whatever path she trod.

But now the hand was gone again. Harriet stood, chin up, motionless, and cold, hair steaming back, like a dead Valkyrie on the prow of a ship. Max's heart clenched in his chest to see her.

Gripping his own bar, he stood. Then reaching across her he likewise took the far side rail. The sleepers flashed under the cowcatcher two feet in front of him. He took a deep breath to steady himself... and she slipped behind him, placing her arms around his waist. He felt her head rest on his back.

It was a long moment before he let the air out of his lungs again.