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.
