The clock at Paddington Station showed that it was exactly 11 minutes before 11 when Sir Grand Plenkton, the Pale Back Whale, huffed onto Platform 11. In Sir Grand’s culture, being a single minute late was considered worse than poor form; it was seen as being essentially un-whale-like and it was Sir Grand’s strict intention to adhere to every facet of being a well-groomed, well-mannered Pale Back Whale. Thus he had spent a full three extra minutes carefully brushing a small part of his vast head with his custom-built hairbrush before leaving.
He now had enough minutes until his pre-booked journey to Plymouth, where his parents lived, was to depart. Sir Grand presented his large and sodden ticket to the attendant who eyed it and him with the special brand of bureaucratic weariness that only station workers have.
‘Right then,’ said the attendant. ‘Mr Whale, sir. I am afraid that I have to charge you an extra of £15.20 plus a supplement per-foot levy for your tail. And since you’re already on the platform, that’ll be a penalty.’
Sir Grand paid without a word and waddled towards the train. He was aiming for the special accessible carriage which had been designed with a door wider than the usual to allow for the smooth entry of prams, bikes and, on this occasion, whales.
He squeezed his vast slippery head through the doorway. His shoulders followed, which was a tight squeeze. He sucked in a massive breath and pushed. It was a failure. Sir Grand was well and truly stuck. He was a perfect fit for the aperture of the door but only at his widest point and no amount of shimmying would help.
The clock struck 11:10. The whistle blew. A conductor of immense patience came running. After a complicated conversation involving the railway’s health and safety guidelines and the physics of whale mass, it was determined that Sir Grand would have to travel on an open-platform flatcar.
‘It’s not ideal,’ Sir Grand said with a mournful blow of water from his blowhole, ‘but I must see my parents.’
The station was in turmoil. New tickets were printed for the flatcar travel, the large animal supplement was transferred and a special loading operation involving a forklift and a small army of porters was commenced. The total extra cost was £1,975.63. At last Sir Grand was loaded onto the train for his new accommodation: the top of a low-slung industrial carrier. With a special sigh of relief, the train finally departed at 11:13. Two minutes late.
The journey was a blur of fields and suburban fences. Sir Grand was relatively comfortable despite the wind rushing past his large and wet face. He enjoyed the open air and the view. He was in his element. All seemed well until the conductor walked the length of the train towards him.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘the next few miles of line will take us through five tunnels. Your tail is a problem.’
‘A problem?’ Sir Grand said. ‘I’m quite sure it’s within the legal limits.’
The conductor unfolded a diagram.
‘The limit for a carriage is four feet and six inches. Your tail from fluke-tip to fluke-tip is twenty-eight feet.’
Sir Grand’s tail was hanging perilously off the edge of the flatcar. There was no other option: it would have to go in the tunnel with the train.
With a heavy heart, Sir Grand allowed the conductor to strap his massive, muscular tail with heavy chains so it was aligned with the train car. The tail was straight as an arrow, its tip just inches from the edge of the flatcar. Sir Grand felt a tremendous amount of stress. He had seen cartoonish movies in which the tail was the problem. This was the first time it was his problem. The first tunnel was the most difficult. The walls were uneven, the brickwork old. Sir Grand closed his eyes and braced for impact. He felt a light brush of cold stone against his left fluke. Those were the longest forty-five seconds of his life.
The next four tunnels were slightly better. His tail only scraped once in the entire series of five. It was a triumph of train travel. The Plymouth line was safe. Sir Grand’s tail was safe. He felt a great relief.
A digital signal clock passing by the track showed 1:11 in the afternoon. A special number. A sign.
Sir Grand Plenkton, the Pale Back Whale, had overcome the impossible. He had learned a powerful lesson about the practicalities of travel and he had developed a new appreciation for the simple pleasures of being a whale. His tail had been tested in the fires of British rail and it had emerged victoriously.
Disclaimer:
No animals were mistreated during the making of this story.
