Authors: James Smiley
A Station In Life (30 page)
My sleepy Stores clerk
found the subject of signalling so incomprehensible that mere mention of it
torpified him. The following day, therefore, to set matters straight with all
possible expedition I peered into the dullard’s cluttered hut and beckoned him
to my office for some extra tuition. Such was his lassitude generally that he
found most of life’s endeavours beyond his energy, and consequently he tried my
patience sorely. However, on this occasion I was mindful of my own limitations,
namely telegraphy, and resolved to help the poor fellow understand the basic
principles at least. Company rules exempted no one from training, not even the
semi consciousness, and I decided that teaching a simpleton the rudiments of single-line
traffic management would make an interesting challenge.
Having made myself
buoyant about the proposition I looked around my office and salvaged from my
waste paper basket an out-of-date poster. Upon its verso I drew a map of the
railway, furnishing the artwork with three pencils to represent trains. The
result was a graphical aid comprising movable parts which I felt sure would
stir interest in my lethargic colleague.
After seating the clerk
before the diagram I was vexed to observe his eyes already closing, and there
was not a scintilla of interest when I demonstrated how a pencil could be used
to represent the progress of a train. Nevertheless, sensitive to the fellow’s
apprehension of matters technical I ventured a touch of levity by adding a
train sound. This comradely embellishment also failed to work, causing instead
a strangely convulsive yawn, so I cleared my throat and recapitulated the cold
facts in the hope that rote would succeed where invention failed.
“What do you say, Tom?
Simple stuff, eh?” I cajoled the fellow, suddenly aware that I had never once seen
him laugh or even smile.
Mr Turner frowned at me
weightily then nodded to indicate that his studies had been arduous but
successful. So far so good.
“Well done,” I
encouraged him. “Now, each block section has an associated staff, or baton as
we used to call it, and only the stationmaster in possession of the staff is
authorised to send trains into the related section. At Upshott we shall be at
the centre of two such sections, one between here and Widdlecombe and the other
between here and Busy Linton. You will appreciate, Tom, that the more sections
that a railway is divided into, the more trains it can accommodate at once.”
“How do trains get past
each other?” Tom interrupted me with misted eyes.
In celebration of this
mental stirring I patted his shoulder.
“This is why crossing
loops are being laid at Widdlecombe and Busy Linton,” I smiled.
I paused to see if the
technicalities had sunk in and Tom nodded, but he did so with a hesitance
suggesting that he was still confused, so I waited for him to confess. At
last, scratching his head through a heap of lacklustre curls, the dozy fellow
revised his answer and sighed with disarming innocence. At my wit’s end, I
went to my drawer and took out a specimen ticket.
“Study this,” I
commanded him. “You will see that it contains instructions to the holder, and by
reading these you will learn all you need to know.”
“I don’t understand,”
the clerk interrupted me with a pitiful mask of confusion still upon his face.
“If they get rid of the horses, what will Mr Maynard do?”
“Just a minute, Tom,” I
poppled. “If you give me a chance I will explain that Mr Maynard is to keep
his shunting horses. Shunting engines are too much of an extravagance.”
Perhaps I should have
nurtured this uncharacteristic spark of curiosity in my colleague but by now I
had my eye cast towards the clock, so I concluded the lecture and comforted
myself that a Stores clerk with an emulsified brain was unlikely to be called
upon to authorise a train departure. I tore up the improvised railway diagram
and steeled myself with a nip of liquor to tell Mr Maynard that his beloved
fast horses were to be sold.
Much to my
consternation, and in the face of my most earnestly expressed regret, Mr
Maynard did not see fit to take the blow like a gentleman. He lost his temper
and cut up rough, my attempts to calm him serving only to fuel his anger.
“You can hardly be
surprised, Julian,” I responded. “These improvements were inevitable.”
“Improvements? What
improvements, Mr Jay?,” he railed me. “My horses have served the South Exmoor
railway effectively and cheaply for nigh on fourteen years now. What
improvement is there room for?”
“I think you know what I
mean, Julian,” I parried the fellow sternly. “You cannot stand in the way of
progress. It is the march of time.”
“It is the march of the
London and South Western!” he snorted with uncharacteristic bile. “And unlike
everyone else here I will not disgrace my family by cowering to imperious
edicts like a court jester. We must stand together and fight these faceless
administrators. To the bitter end, if necessary.”
With this pronouncement,
leaving me to ponder what ‘bitter end’ he had in mind, the Horse superintendent
pulled off his immaculately maintained SER company cap, an item of uniform
which betokened little of the London and South Western railway, and threw it to
the ground. As if this ungentlemanly act was insufficient, he followed it with
a gesture that bordered upon lunacy. He jumped aboard the discarded cap and
danced upon it a grim jig of wrath. The comedy of the spectacle evaporated
quickly, however, when he vented the last of his vapours.
“Damn and curse the
London and South Western railway and its cold blooded visionaries,” he ranted.
“If just one of my horses has to go then so shall I. Touch me if I don’t, Mr
Jay. What’s more, I will put a torch to the company’s Giddiford office on my
way out.”
I had not realised that
beneath Mr Maynard’s polished exterior lurked such volatility. Yet far from
being alienated by the fellow’s outburst I was saddened by it. In Julian I had
found a valued and respected colleague and I had no wish to see our working
relationship soured, perhaps even ended, for the sake of a couple of horses.
Watching Julian saddle
Hildebrand and apply the spur I could only hope that his fury was transient.
It was certainly unbecoming, and as he rode away I recovered his crumpled cap,
shook the grit from it and took it to my office with a heavy heart. Here,
sitting at my desk I gazed into the cap’s reflective peak as if seeking the
wisdom of a crystal ball, contemplating the uncertainties of the future. I
felt great unease. For among the distorted reflections was a benevolent little
railway at the dawn of a new era, an era with higher priorities, and I
predicted that the casualties of this new era would be the very men who had
taken the greatest pride in the old.
Chapter Twenty-Six — Shop talk
Late autumn was
characterised by bitterly cold winds but I found compensation in two triumphs.
The first was that my measures to curb unpleasant rivalry between the
district’s apple growers had worked, resulting in the least fractious harvest
that anyone could recall. The second triumph was that I had persuaded Julian
Maynard to channel his anger towards the Directors of the LSWR through a
strongly worded letter of protest rather than by torching their premises. This
missive, being somewhat vitriolic, I redacted with Julian’s permission and
endorsed his very valid point that in a civilised society the strong are
obligated to avoid trampling upon the weak. Though who of the upper echelons
of the London and South Western would read this letter with any interest I had
no idea. Nevertheless it left Upshott addressed to the Managing Director of
that company.
In due course Julian’s
protest was redirected, unopened, to the SER. Replying from SER House in
Blodcaster, Mr Crump answered it with carefully crafted sympathy, leaving
Julian to grapple with himself over the matter thereafter.
With your permission I
now wish to set the station clock to a most delightful moment in my
recollections when, for once, all the world seemed at peace. I was listening
to the clock’s pleasant hourly chime drift across the platforms when a late
running ‘down’ train arrived. From this stepped Élise, and upon the meeting of
our eyes she requested my assistance in transferring a large wooden table to
her shop for display purposes.
“Are neighbours not
wonderful?” she purred. “A whole crowd of them came out to lift this aboard
the luggage van, you know. They even held up the train for me!”
“You are clearly well
regarded in Widdlecombe,” I grunted breathlessly as Diggory and I unshipped the
monstrosity. “Perhaps you will allow me to match their efforts in Upshott.”
As the lad and I
navigated the cobbled High street with our burden of English oak, Élise asked me
what she could do in return, and because just now I was feeling like a professional
strongman my response was uncharacteristically bold.
“Come riding with me,” I
said without preamble, taking myself by surprise.
Something spooked
Diggory and he dropped his end of the table. While he recovered I expanded
upon my impulsive suggestion.
“Perhaps we can take a
turn using Mr Maynard’s fine horses before they are retired,” I smiled.
“How kind, Horace, I
would love to,” Élise replied. “Though I do not see how a pleasant ride constitutes
repayment.”
Élise’s blithe
acceptance of my invitation not only brought relief that my advance had not
been improper, it made the table weightless. After a little thought she became
excited further by the prospect.
“I should very much like
to ride across Fallowfield common, Horace, for I have not ridden that way in a
long while and I used to love it so.” She raised her hands with a gasp. “Oh,
but Heavens, when shall we do it? My time is simply not my own these days.”
“When you are free
then,” I smiled, wondering how I might divert her preference in favour of Ondle
common with its romantic, riverside environs.
Upon reaching the shop,
Diggory and I grappled the table through the door and deposited it in a bay
window. Élise draped it with calico while I regained my breath, then conducted
me on a tour of the premises. Whilst it was evident that a mop and bucket had
been applied most fastidiously throughout the interior there were signs of long
term neglect. The painted and varnished surfaces had seen better days and most
of the cupboards were speckled inside with mould. Indeed everything was quite
jaded with decrepit shelves sagging under the weight of the stock, and crumbs
of plaster fallen like snow to contaminate just about every new roll of fabric.
My whistle-stop tour ended
in a musty backroom where I deposited my hat upon what I perceived to be a
cutting table and gazed through a small, bow window. Saint Martha’s Norman
tower loomed just beyond a high brick wall at the boundary of the property and
caused me to ponder a daunting unknown. Mankind’s bells may clang loudly and
his prayers resound from the tallest cathedrals, I reflected, but God’s plans for
the future presently remain a secret. Though I had canvassed Élise’s dream I
wondered what was the Lord’s design.
A pair of elongated
scissors, presumably for cutting fabric, found their way into my hand and in a
pensive state of mind I snipped the air with them. It seemed to me that whilst
rebuilding this business had begun as a sunny ascent it now looked more like a
dark precipice. The cutting table wobbled and the scissors were hopelessly
blunt with a slack spindle, and the wall before me was scarred by an ugly hole.
Sensing my despondency, Élise imparted some encouraging news.
“His Lordship is to have
the whole place redecorated in the New year,” she declared. “And look, already
you can see the hole where they are to install the gas lighting.”
“Gas lighting!” I
resiled and dropped the scissors. “What great relief. I had worried that you could
ruin your eyes in this room, Élise.”
“Certainly not,” she
assured me. “I know exactly what is needed here, Horace. And with guidance
from me, his Lordship has thought of everything. Yes, it is true that we shall
not have gas lighting upstairs but with three private rooms lit by oil I still
consider the place well appointed.”
“Ludlow’s of Blodcaster
had better watch out!” I congratulated her, pleased to hear such optimism.
Élise threw her hands in
the air as if spotting a unicorn.
“And do you know,
Horace, his Lordship’s agent is to introduce me to a leading textile wholesaler
in London,” she rejoiced. “Can you believe it? I shall have access to
continental textiles. I am to be a purveyor of exotic goods!”
Diggory chuckled
abruptly then stifled his mirth. I have no idea what like of conversation he
had overheard but to him the term ‘exotic’ clearly’ had its own connotation. I
pretended not to notice.
“Well,” I declared,
flipping open my fobwatch, “your son and I have duties to perform so we must,
alas, partake our leave. If there is anything else I can do for you, Élise,
please note that I am ever your servant. Also note that I can be found among
the inmates of the village prison. You will find the building cleverly
disguised as a railway station.”
We laughed and said
goodbye as kindred spirits.
The anaemic light of
December had denuded Upshott wood of its lush canopy and cast aside memories of
summer as counterfeit. Men hunched against raw valley winds under impatient skies,
rattling doors and squeaking signs supplanted birdsong, and picket fences
whistled like teeth. While patrolling the platforms in a vortex of scudding
leaves I turned a corner and chanced upon Élise. Even though we nearly
collided I did not recognise her at once, for she was wearing a modish taffeta
suit that I had not seen before. Holding her hat she beckoned me to the
Booking hall for a word.
“Horace, I have been
looking for you everywhere,” she complained as I trailed her with a flapping
collar.
Following Élise into the
Booking hall I was quite smitten with her businesslike new look, and closed the
door against the trilling wind to behold her more fully.
“Now, Horace,” she
began, “your words have been haunting me and it troubles me that you describe
yourself as a prisoner here. Why, I have even heard a whisper that you mean to
spend Christmas day alone. Is this true?”
“Of course not,” I
soothed, removing my hat. “Spook is to join me and has agreed to dress up as
Santa, if I allow him to share my Christmas dinner, which I am confident he
will do most competently. And he is to provide seasonal cheer when I take him
to the church to terrorise the vicar. I have no idea why but the vicar makes
him bark furiously.”
“Be serious, Horace,
have you no relatives?” she asked.
“None that are alive,” I
replied. “The dead ones make very poor company.”
Élise tutted, making it
clear that my levity was misplaced. I attempted to placate her.
“Miss Blake has promised
to make me a hog pudding and decorate it with berries,” I said. “So I shall be
festive enough.”
My inquisitor remained
unsatisfied.
“Saints alive, Horace,
you cannot eat hog pudding on Christmas day, no matter how elaborately it is finished,”
she exclaimed. “Do you not know, Christmas is a time for companionship and
gifts.”
Her reference to
companionship occasioned me a brief palpitation so I cocked my ear to learn
more.
“Now,” she instructed
me, “I have been thinking about your unfavourable situation and have come to a
decision. As you know, this Christmas will be the last Diggory and I spend at
Woodacott, and whilst we have no grand memories of the place it would be nice
to make at least one pleasant one before leaving. What do you say, Horace? I
grant you it will be a modest affair but you are most welcome to join us.”
Charmed, yet somehow
embarrassed by this unexpected offer, I gave my reply from behind a mask of
mischief. Straight faced with counterfeit formality I replaced my topper to
become more imposing.
“Why, Mrs Smith, are you
inviting me to spend Christmas with you?” I sought confirmation.
“I am, Mr Jay,” she
replied in the spirit of the jest. “And, sir, you need not fear for your
comforts, for we have struck a seam of coal and do keep the place very cosy.”
“Then I believe it would
be churlish of me to decline your commodious offer, ma’am,” I replied.
In the days leading up
to Christmas I engaged, through Humphrey, the services of a smithy in Toadgrinton.
This artisan supplemented his income by making riding tack so I commissioned
him to produce a collar and tether for Spook. This would be my Christmas
present to Diggory, along with a concocted document granting him official leave
to exercise the dog whenever it did not interfere with his duties. If the
freedom to roam Upshott wood each day in the pay of the SER did not excite the
lad then I was confusing him with sleepy Tom Turner.
The smithy’s
leather-craft turned out to be every bit as good as his reputation suggested
and I found myself in possession of a splendid harness which matched perfectly
the sketch that I had drawn. All I had to do now was think of something
equally singular for Élise, and this question taxed me heavily. Eventually, after
much cogitation and a trip to Exeter, I purchased an item which I felt sure
would be both appealing and practical, and wrapped it as festively as my
inferior dexterity would allow. Following this I asked Diggory to take the two
clumsily veiled gifts home with him to Widdlecombe.
“And Diggory, do not to
put them in that shabby coal bag of yours,” I beseeched him, but it was too
late.
Over the following fortnight
I sent Diggory home with a succession of festive delights, mostly comestibles
that I had received as gratuities, and looked forward to seeing Élise’s
Christmas table furnished bountifully. Though my contribution was not grand it
included game meats, a jar of preserved plums, French brandy, and several hanks
of coloured paper for making decorative chains, the latter purchased with a pot
of gum from the fishmonger. Unfortunately, as Humphrey had predicted, the
weather was planning a diversion of its own.