Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [107]
Merrick found another third-class carriage and climbed in. This time he got there first and that was a piece of luck, because after that no one else would enter the carriage, and he made the journey to London in peace. Hope was rising in him. Not much further now …
The air was grey and smoky when he got out of the train at Liverpool Street. A high glass ceiling covered the station to let in as much light as possible, but already darkness could be seen beyond it. Merrick had no idea of the time but he felt as if he had been traveling forever. Was it only this morning he had got on the train somewhere in Belgium?
Even in his state of nerves and excitement the station was a wonderful place to him. He stood and regarded it, with its newsstands, sweet stalls, and shoe shiners calling their services. Passengers moved to and fro, carrying luggage, surveying noticeboards, seeking platforms. In one part of the station a row of benches stood for the benefit of passengers with a long time to wait. A woman in her early forties was seated at one of the benches, deep in conversation with another woman beside her. On her other side stood a large pile of baggage, atop of which was perched a boy of about twelve. He looked about to pass out from boredom, and his eyes roamed round the station in search of some diversion more interesting than his mother’s conversation. Not finding it, he raised a peashooter to his mouth, aiming it at an elderly man and his wife who were passing. The woman beside him turned just in time and grabbed the weapon with the hand of maternal authority.
“Little beast,” she admonished him. “I thought Mummy told you not to bring that horrid thing. Can’t you behave?”
The boy made a face, which she did not see, having resumed her conversation again immediately. He turned his attention back to the barrier at the end of the nearest platform, through which were streaming passengers from the newly arrived boat-train. There was one who caught his eye before he even reached the barrier, on account of his strange attire. He wore a long black cloak that enveloped him completely, and a grey flannel hood hung down obscuring his face. Even through this obliterating disguise the little boy could see that the creature’s head must be vast. He began to tug on his mother’s skirt.
“Mummy, mummy! Look at that man! His head, it’s huge! Mummy, why is his head so big? Mummy? Mummy?”
“Do be quiet, Tom,” she ordered. “Can’t you see Mummy is speaking?”
Merrick had passed the barrier now and stood uncertainly, trying to decide which way to go. His eyes, sweeping round the station, fell on Tom tugging at his mother’s skirt and pointing at him. At once he turned away and began to walk in the opposite direction along a wall stacked with trunks and suitcases, trying to blend in and escape attention. His heart was filled with dread.
A few people gave him casual glances but then looked away and passed on. But young Tom was not to be deterred. He had got down from his perch and was chasing after him, catching up.
“Hey, mister,” he called, “why is your head so big?”
Merrick gave him a brief glance, then looked round for an escape. Across the station a large archway led out onto the street. He began to move toward it as quickly as he could.
“Mister,” Tom called after him, protestingly.
His voice attracted the attention of two other boys nearby. They moved over to join him, and the three of them watched the weird figure of Merrick escaping hastily across the station. As one boy they ran after him, moving with the instinct that inspires a greyhound in pursuit of a mechanical rabbit. It moves: chase it.
“Mister—mister,” they called after him.
“Why don’t you answer me?” wailed