Authors: James Smiley
A Station In Life (4 page)
“Did she?,” I scoffed.
“Well, who could blame her for preferring the smell of fish? Anyway, I fail to
see what relevance this has to swine fever.”
“Ever since then,”
Wheeler ignored me, “Squire Albury’s been trying to drive the cuckold off ’is
land with unfair tithes. They say it’s made ’im demented.”
“I have to admit it is a
sad tale,” I replied. “Yet still I must apply the rules.”
“Back in January,
Smethwick stole some railway rope and ’ung ’imself,” Wheeler elaborated
unnecessarily. “They reckon ’e would ’ave died if the rope ’ad been shorter. So
he lives on.”
“This much I can see for
myself,” I commented.
“Anyway, ’e weren’t
drunk, Mr Jay,” the clerk persisted in advising me. “If you’d been alone with
’im ’e would ’ave barged you to the ground and bitten you. ’E turns like a
rabid dog when accused of drinking.”
Bedevilled with troubles
of my own I found myself in need of a more soothing sight than Wheeler’s face
twitching as if bothered by flies, so I turned and directed my attention to
Platform One. The delightful woman in lace was nowhere to be seen. Who was
she, I wondered.
Chapter
Four — Too distracted to be diverted
I looked at my company
timepiece, a necessarily frequent act which reminded me of Mr Mildenhew. It was
7.40am and the erstwhile stationmaster’s arrival at the Parcels office to
collect his luggage sealed my melancholy. Consequently I was unable to face
him. Instead I summoned the Junior porter, Diggory Smith, to assist the poor gentleman.
Mr Mildenhew left the
Parcels office and crossed the footbridge to Platform Two where he took up a
waxwork pose. In his wake struggled young Diggory with two weighty trunks and
a hat box, eventually stationing himself obediently at his former master’s
side.
Two trains were due, one
bound for Blodcaster, the other for Giddiford Junction, and consequently the
travelling public had imported its colourful presence to both platforms.
Upshott station hosted the South Exmoor railway’s only crossing loop, the
remainder of the enterprise comprising a single line to accommodate both ‘up’
and ‘down’ trains, making its arrangement of two platforms unique. At
Giddiford Junction, the southern terminus of the branch, the railway occupied a
single bay platform alongside the main line to London, and at Blodcaster, the
northern terminus, a second platform was only now under construction.
Harking back to the
adorable woman whose presence had so briefly graced my station, and of whom my gaining
further knowledge would doubtless prove impossible and result in unrequited
admiration, I decided that any attempt to investigate would have to wait. I
could hear the thudding of a ‘down’ train among the hills and it heralded my
first test as the new Stationmaster. Had the commercial success of the South
Exmoor railway been more confidently anticipated then separate ‘up’ and ‘down’
lines would have been laid, and horrifying practises such as the one I was
about to orchestrate would have been unnecessary.
The Monday timber train
could only be found a path, in other words squeezed into the timetable, by
attaching it to the rear of a regular passenger train. This amalgamation of
rollingstock was extremely perilous in the days before vacuum brakes and
required a peace-shattering trio of locomotives to haul it as far as Upshott.
To overcome the steep gradient the ensemble needed to be headed by two engines and
pushed by a third at the rear, the one at the rear being called the ‘banker’.
This cumbersome combination could now be heard climbing away from Widdlecombe
viaduct on its approach to Upshott.
With the arrival of the
Giddiford train in the opposite direction a few minutes later, the effluvia of
no fewer than four steam locomotives were about to befog the station. This
weekly event made many a main line station look tranquil by comparison and
reflected the South Exmoor’s commercial importance in the district.
Goods trucks attached to
the rear of a passenger train were known as swingers, and so many swingers were
there on the 7.46am ‘down’ train each Monday that when it came to a halt they
would overhang the crossing loop by several yards and consequently obstruct the
departure of the ‘up’ train. There was potential here for me to make a fool of
myself.
While I was pondering the
situation I espied upon the platform yet another vision of loveliness. So
similar in appearance to my faithful Elisabeth was this one that momentarily I
thought it was she. I am bound to point out that the real Elisabeth would by
now have been much older than my imagined contemporary, nevertheless the
verisimilar female approaching me had the same dimpled cheeks and mischievous
smile framed by playful blonde ringlets and quite transfixed me with both
intrigue and admiration.
“Are you the new
stationmaster?” she asked, her voice much like Elisabeth’s save for her manner
of speech which suggested an altogether different provenance.
Notwithstanding the
woman’s vulgar vernacular I wondered what kind of magic lurked here in Exmoor.
As if I did not know. Temporary postings had familiarised me with the romantic
ambience of the place, its crystal rivers tumbling exuberantly through ancient
woodlands embraced by dramatic hills, and thus was I sensitised to its spiritual
timelessness. It seemed crafted by our Maker to conjure up lifelong
companions. My aesthetic appreciation of the district was beyond the
sensibility of the local inhabitants, of course, for whom life was harsh.
Indeed these moors were known to produce many of England’s ugliest ladies and
yet, by fortune’s same clown, some of its prettiest too. Examples of both were
abundant in Ondle valley and I expected to be shocked and charmed daily.
“Stationmaster Horace
Ignatius Jay at your disposal, ma’am,” I answered, tipping my top-hat and
wondering if this breathtaking lady’s likeness to my childhood idol portended
any significance.
“I think I left my
parasol here, Mr Jay,” she informed me. “A pink one with a grey trim. Has
anyone handed it in? It would have been around yesterday.”
“Have a word with my
Senior porter, ma’am,” I advised her. “Mr Milsom takes care of lost property.”
Sadly I was indisposed
to be charmed or shocked just now, for I had need of my wits. I tipped my hat
and returned my attention to the approaching train. Watching it clatter
towards me I decided that I would have the pilot engine uncoupled and parked in
a siding, have the timber trucks at the rear uncoupled from the passenger vehicles
so that the Blodcaster train could continue its journey behind the train
engine, then have the banking engine push the timber trucks forward into
Platform One in readiness for their own departure. This final manoeuvre would
clear the loop points and allow the ‘up’ passenger train to leave Platform Two
for Giddiford Junction. If I could pull off this tricky operation the rest of
the day would be a trifle and leave me free to consult Mr Milsom about the two
charming ladies that had stirred me so.
Shrinking from the noisy
stampede of incoming wheels I turned and was surprised to discover that
Elisabeth’s look-alike was still with me. She had tarried patiently to resume
her enquiry at my convenience. I had no objection to this but was presently
too preoccupied with railway complications to render immediate assistance, so I
tipped my hat again and stepped forward to dissect the convulsing miscellany of
wagons that was coming to rest in my station.
Unfrocked of its
belching, black veil the train revealed a shock nastier even than the one I was
expecting. Mounted atop a flat-truck was an expensive road carriage which I
assumed to be squire Albury’s new cabriolet. Not only had it been placed
aboard the worst train imaginable, it was sandwiched between the train engine
and the leading passenger coach. Verily my stomach wriggled like a bag of
ferrets. It confounded me that the thing was not among the swingers where it
belonged?
“How are you finding
Upshott, Horace? Have you arranged lodgings yet?” Elisabeth’s look-alike asked,
as if reeling out a tripwire.
“I have rooms in the
station house,” I responded inattentively, examining the mobile conundrum that
had barged into my world.
With every minute a
precious commodity I had no choice but to ignore further ill timed courtesies
and formulate a solution, leeward of a confident smile, so that on my first day
at Upshott I would not be the cause of a logjam, delay, or worse still an
accident. Thus recomposed I parted company with my charming, if persistent,
inquisitor and sallied forth. It was no help that an extremely unpleasant
smell had pervaded the station. This was a matter upon which I had exchanged
words with Mr Milsom earlier in the day and learned nothing.
With unfaltering
persistence my inquisitor followed me, soon after which Mr Wheeler also took up
position beside me. The three of us ignored each other as if platform
stanchions, gazing without comment at the ungainly train and its three
simmering engines. Somewhat optimistically I waited for the clerk to
contribute a useful suggestion but none was forthcoming.
“What is that foul
smell?” I queried him. “It is unforgivable to expect fare-paying passengers to
abide it.”
“That’s the price of
sanity,” the clerk enlightened me with a facial twitch. “It comes from the new
sewage farm down at Upford. Last night one of the spreaders in The Pheasant
told me that microbes are to blame. They’re too small to see yet they raise a
stench, and no one knows how many there are. All the same, the spreader
reckons we’re lucky to ’ave sanity in Upshott, and we’re to thank the Lord for
it. Lord Lacy, that is. E’s what they call a phil… phalinthro… philampro…”
Wheeler gave up trying to say ‘philanthropist’ and continued: “There’s parts
of London don’t ’ave it yet.”
“I know all about the
new sewage works, Mr Wheeler, and I fully appreciate the value of sanitation.
I lost my brother to cholera when I was small.”
A winsome voice entered
my left ear.
“Rose Macrames, Horace,
but everyone calls me Rosie,” it said.
I turned and was warmed
by the companionable smile of my inquisitor delivered at close quarters. Thus
I learned the name of Elisabeth’s look-alike.
“I would be so
grateful,” she pleaded, “if you would take personal charge of finding my
parasol.
“Of course, ma’am,” I
replied dutifully while studying the faces of everyone nearby. It seemed that
only I was perturbed by the unsavoury odour.
“There’s been no parasol
been found ’ere, Miss,” Wheeler interjected.
I ushered him to one
side for a word.
“Never mind the parasol,
Mr Wheeler, what I want to know is the cause of that ghastly stink,” I skewered
him with narrowed eyes. “I have given it some thought and concluded that it most
resembles conspiracy. Why, Mr Milsom claims that he cannot even smell it! If,
as you say, the odour is coming from the new Pasteur works then how do you
suppose it is getting here? There is not so much as a whiffle today. Do you suppose
it travels by train?”
Miss Macrames overheard
my remonstration and gasped with amusement, flattering me that I possessed
wit. I responded with an amiable smile, leaving my Booking clerk to make do
with a scowl.
“Oh, it don’t need wind
to get about, Mr Jay,” he protested. “It’s what they call organic, sir.
Microbes are organic and can turn anything they like into manure.”
Jack Wheeler was a
woolly minded individual but the key to the matter lay in his use of the word
‘manure’, for I recalled seeing the London & South Western railway convey
such sullage to farms for application on the land. More significantly, Mr
Hales’s vegetables were uncommonly verdant and his plot of land curiously
fertile given the meagre upland soil found elsewhere in the district.
“I shall look into the
matter,” I told the clerk and dismissed him.
As Mr Wheeler wandered
away my attention was drawn to Mr Hales signalling me anxiously. He wished to
commence the outstanding shunt and I signalled him back that I was ready to begin.
“Do you like my outfit,
Horace?” Miss Macrames laid out another trip-wire. “I made it myself but I
have no one to comment.”
I turned and beheld her
dress in all its intricate detail, dismayed that my admiration would have to be
brief. It was a dark blue affair with the lower portion gathered at the back
to emulate a bustle and the front upper portion adjusted to hug its wearer’s
bosom like the wrapping paper of a generous gift that had been partly opened.
Being a man with an eye for beauty but not the nuances of fashion I could
comment only upon the overall effect which, in truth, was much improved on by
the application of a fantasy. Being a gentleman I hesitate to expand upon this,
suffice it to say that I saw Miss Macrames removing her silken wrapper with
exotic deliberation. This proved more enticing than imagining her at once without
it. I cleared my throat and made to resume my work but was pressed harder upon
the matter.
“The white trim is made
of silk,” she apprised me proudly. “And look, I had enough left to decorate my
bonnet.”
Anxious not to be overly
titillated I tipped my hat again with a perfunctory reply.
“You put the village
dressmaker to shame. Now, if you will excuse me.”
An awareness of Miss Macrames’
continued gaze propelled me about my business with uncharacteristic
self-confidence and I revised my plan of action to deal with the squire’s
cabriolet, instructing the locomotive crews most stridently.
“You will make your
first uncoupling between the passenger rake and the flat-truck carrying the
cabriolet,” I began. “Then with your locomotives coupled together you will
take the cabriolet to the coal dock were you will use the loop in the sidings to
detach one of your locomotives and take the passenger train forward to
Blodcaster.”
This manoeuvre, I
believed, would unlock the shunting puzzle and establish my credentials as a
seasoned railwayman. However, my stratagem was flawed by one simple oversight,
and my downfall was heralded by Mr Wheeler tapping me on the shoulder with a
pantomime exuberance fast becoming familiar to me.
“Albury’s coachman is
’ere, bearing gifts,” he confided through walnut teeth.