A Station In Life (13 page)

Back to contents page

Chapter
Twelve — Accident on the viaduct

The Mail train’s Senior
Guard threw open the double-doors of the trailing van and revealed Diggory
squirming upon the floorboards.  The young porter was manifestly in distress
and I rushed to his assistance immediately, whereupon I learned that he had
been struck by a train while crossing Widdlecombe viaduct.

“How badly is he hurt?”
I asked, taking the boy’s head in my hands.

“Hard to tell,” the
Guard replied.  “According to the driver it were a glancing blow at worst, but
engines and boys don’t mix.”

I instructed Snimple to
fetch Doctor Bentley while Humphrey and I set about carrying the gangling lad
up to my private quarters to make him comfortable upon my bed.

“In truth I think the
young gent is only bruised, sir, but he’s badly blighted by shock,” the fireman
told me as we struggled across the platform.  “Shock’s a funny thing,” he added
with a squint.

The squinting footplateman
retired to a bench to recover from a dizzy spell.  His driver approached to
render assistance in his stead.

“This porter of yours veered
straight across the line with no hint of caution,” he told me sternly.  “You’d
have thought he was in one of them Doctor Braid’s mystical trances.”

Doctor Braid, I should
explain, was a pioneer hypnotist who had made a name for himself mesmerising
suggestible fools for the entertainment of gullible audiences.

“Mark me well,” the
driver continued as we wrested Diggory through a door leading to my quarters,
“there’s something weighty on this lad’s mind.  I’ve two young’uns of my own
and I know how distant they become.”

“Perhaps so, but the boy
has mentioned nothing significant that I can recall,” I replied.  “However,
this is only my second day here.”

Not surprisingly, the
struggle to convey Diggory up the narrow flight of stairs to my quarters
stalled upon the landing where respite was sought by all and we lowered our
burden to the floor.  My hopes dashed that a less helter-skelter day lay ahead,
I handed Jack Wheeler my keys and instructed him to look up the lad’s home
address.

“Send Mr Maynard to
inform the boy’s mother of the incident,” I said.  “And tell him to be
tactful.  We must not alarm her.”

Finding himself in
possession of all my keys, Jack appeared startled by my level of trust.

“Step lively,” I waved
him away.

The clerk twitched
mechanically and set off for my office.

Having made Diggory
comfortable in my room I set about examining him.  His face was besmirched with
the culm of his rescuers, his dark hair matted with grease and clotted blood,
and his delirium suggested something worse than shock.  Also I was bothered
that no one had taken the trouble to recover his company cap from the viaduct,
though quite why such a minor matter should agitate me I did not know.

Leaving Diggory’s side,
I asked Humphrey to invigilate while I accompanied the driver and his mate back
to their locomotive.  Upon reaching the platform the fireman handed me a small vial
of smelling salts, obviously home-made, and guaranteed confidentially that it
could be relied upon to return the lad to consciousness.  I sniffed the
concoction to gauge its potency and with my nostrils ablaze decided that it
would probably kill him.  Thanking the fireman, I slipped the lay medicine in
my pocket for disposal down the privy.

Observing that Snimple had
placed the pitchers for Busy Linton aboard the Guard’s van I gave the
Blodcaster train its ‘right away’.  A few minutes later the drumming of the
locomotive had faded into the hills, but the tingle of gossip lingered.

Back in my room with
Diggory I heard a knock at the door and received Doctor Bentley whom, I
noticed, was wearing a nightshirt beneath his overcoat.  Ushered in by Snimple,
the doctor examined the patient thoroughly and diagnosed that in addition to
shock the young porter was slightly concussed.  Otherwise he was unharmed save
for a few minor cuts to the head which had bled disproportionately.  There were
no broken ribs, thankfully, but the lad would develop some tender bruises
later.  I ventured an opinion.

“It is fortunate there
is a severe gradient on the viaduct, Doctor.  As a result the train was
advancing slowly.”

“Has he been sick?” the
doctor interrupted me.

“Not as far as I am
aware,” I replied.

Doctor Bentley dabbed
the boy’s wrists, which I had noticed were cold and clammy.

“Mmm, he’s sweating a
little and his pulse is weak,” he observed brusquely.  “Be so good as to bring
me some fresh water, Jay, would you.”

This I did at once and
the doctor moistened Diggory’s lips.  In response, the boy rallied and reached
out for the tumbler.  This was denied him.

“Perhaps he would like a
drink,” I ventured, mystified by the doctor’s behaviour.  “Or better still, a
tot of brandy.  I believe we have a bottle in the medicine chest.  I shall go
and…”

“You’ll do no such
thing, Jay,” the doctor halted me sharply.  “The patient will have a thirst but
he must not be allowed to drink while in this condition.  Least of all liquor. 
Just keep him on his back with his legs raised thus,” he instructed me and
placed my pillow under the boy’s muddy boots.  “Master Smith will be
disassociated for some while yet but the malaise will pass.  When he responds
to his name, fetch me and I will check his lesions and renew the dressings. 
He’ll live!”

“I am greatly relieved
to hear it, doctor,” I replied as Doctor Bentley prepared to leave.  “And so
shall his mother be, I’ll warrant.”

Thereafter, I left
Diggory alone only when unavoidable.  One such occasion was to have a word with
Mr Swain, the PW ganger, who had escorted a recent absentee to my office.

“How is your foot?” I
asked the sad-eyed platelayer, exchanging a wink with Mr Swain.  “In future I
should keep a sharper lookout for the squire’s gamekeeper.  Either that or
leave his pheasants be.”

My advice was wasted on
the poor fellow, of course.  No permanent way man would waste his occupation’s advantage
over the gamekeeper, and loss of a day’s pay would serve only to increase his
need to poach.  Mr Swain doffed his faded straw boater and escorted the limping
gang-hand out of my office.  I returned to Diggory’s side and found him asleep.

I had become drowsy
myself and was gazing dully out of my bedroom window when three events roused
me to attention in succession.  First I saw Rose Macrames at the bottom of the
High street walking purposefully towards the station, next I glimpsed the belle
in white lace passing beneath my window, and finally I heard a knock upon my
door.  After my unpleasant encounter with Mrs Goadby, and despite a lingering
desire to introduce myself to the sylphlike belle, I was disinclined to give
chase.  So I ignored the two sightings and I went to my door.

‘You must curb your
delusions, Horace,’ I told myself.  ‘Why, next you will be seeing the sylph in
fat old Humphrey!’

I opened the door and
there stood fat old Humphrey beaming at me with a friendly smile.

“Boy alright now is he?”
he enquired loudly, causing me to shush him.  “His mother be here.  Send her
up, shall I?”

“Please do, Humphrey,” I
replied, pushing the door ajar.

Humphrey clumped down
the stairs and invited Mrs Smith up, whereupon petite footsteps made their way
to the landing.  I poised myself to greet Mrs Smith and comfort her with well
chosen words, then stepped forward to deliver them.  But before I could utter
my piece I lost my tongue, for facing me anxiously was the most unexpected
visitor imaginable.

Back to contents page

Chapter
Thirteen —
Dream or reality?

Gracing my landing with
her presence was the elusive belle in white lace.  Although presently not in
lace she was every bit as enchanting at close quarters as she was from afar. 
Not only this, by Jove, she was the mother of my Junior porter!  After all my
fruitless investigations I pinched myself to test the reality of the moment,
for I had been troubled by some pretty peculiar dreams lately and it was perfectly
possible that waking up had been one of them.   Yet despite the pain of my
pinch, and Mrs Smith’s fragrance of wayside flowers rendering me insensible, I
remained incredulous.  Indeed, for so long did I gaze in astonishment at her that
I must have appeared ill bred.  And when I finally recovered my wits and
attempted to greet her I found my feet glued to the floor, the cause being her
pretty brown eyes.

“Why, how do you do?” I
stammered, my trifling welcome polite but insensitive given the circumstances.

I suspect that Mrs Smith
was too distracted to notice my gauche behaviour.  She reciprocated my greeting
anxiously then entered the room where I settled her alongside her son and
recounted such details of the accident as I had been able to glean.  After this
I roused the young fellow and left him alone with his delightful mother while I
kept my appointment with Mr Maynard to inspect the company stables.

On my way to see the
horses I stopped outside the Booking hall entrance to steady my nerves and take
a pinch of snuff, and here overheard a conversation which proved beyond all
doubt that in Upshott station there existed no such thing as a normal day.

It seemed that not only
I, the Stationmaster, was smitten with a paragon of the fairer sex.  Mr Troke,
whose voice was reverberating from Mr Phillips’s office window, revealed
unwittingly that any scheme I might devise to familiarise myself with Diggory’s
mother without appearing improprietous would pale into insignificance beside
the bizarre romance of one of my porters.  I could scarcely believe my ears and
recall the conversation vividly.

Mr Troke:
“It grieves me, Edwin, that a fulsome
woman such as Emily Higham should pick Snimple to trifle with.  But then she is
a coquette who enjoys flirting with working class men.  She’d give a tinker the
glad eye if it passed an afternoon.  Does she not realise how perilous this
is?”

Mr Phillips:
“Perhaps not, William, but I am bound
to point out that whilst Snimple may speak a different language to the rest of
us he is quite a decent fellow.  If anyone is in peril it is Snimple, I fear. 
However, with any luck, it is only his knowledge of horticulture which
fascinates her so.”

Mr Troke:
“But I’ve got fascinating knowledge
too, and I can be discreet.  What’s more, I wouldn’t be so daft as to fill my
head with notions of wedlock.  A Higham marry Snimple?  Huh!  It’s
unthinkable!  Absurd!  He’s whistling in the park.”

Mr Phillips:
“Just so, but be truthful now,
William.  What miffs you is this ‘fulsome’ woman’s choice of trifle.  It is
Snimple’s peril that you covet.”

Mr Troke:
“I don’t covet Snimple.  I just don’t
like waste.  I’d trifle back, not make nosegays and talk of butterflies.”

Mr Phillips:
“You would do no such thing, William. 
In any case, how old are you?  Thirty-two?  Thirty-three?  Snimple may be
Snimple but he is ten years your junior and about the same age as this Higham
girl.  No, I am sure the fellow does not yearn to be spliced.  He has the
misgiving to stay on the leeward side of the nuptials.  I say let Snimple have
his day, for the poor fellow is bound to have few of them.”

Mr Troke:
“Well, maybe, but unless Snimple
learns to keep his assignations unbeknown, the Brigadier will be after him with
his regimental sword to make alterations.”

Mr Phillips:
“You are right, of course.  The
ruling classes have a lamentable habit of allowing their progeny to learn of
life at the expense of common folk, then rounding on us when the lessons prove
unsatisfactory.”

Mr Troke:
“You’re right, Edwin, you can’t win. 
The knobs are all the same, every each and one of them.”

At this point the
inimitable Mr Phillips demonstrated his boredom with the subject by bursting
into song, and I heard Mr Troke leave the room.

Thus forewarned I braced
myself to face yet more lunacy, for I knew that Mr Troke would be looking to
step into the breach should Snimple’s forbidden romance run off the rails. 
Indeed, I had no doubt that Mr Troke would actively set out to derail it. 
Somewhat distracted by the prospect I moved on and inspected Mr Maynard’s
horses.  Doubtless the stables were immaculate and the Horse Superintendent’s
tour highly informative, but I returned to my quarters scarcely able to recall
a word he had said.

Diggory was sitting
upright and complaining of a thirst so I arranged hot drinks for his mother and
me, after which I sent Snimple to fetch Doctor Bentley.  While the doctor
renewed Diggory’s dressings I explained to the charming Mrs Smith that her son
would not be required for duty until he had made a full recovery.

“I think we can overlook
Diggory’s absence for a while,” I said, somewhat boldly given company rules
regarding sick leave.  “This is just between you and me, of course,” I added
confidentially.

If kept unofficial the Junior
porter would lose no pay, and I chose this course of action because I had been
told that Mrs Smith’s circumstances were meagre.  I consulted my fobwatch. 
With over two hours until the next Widdlecombe train I wondered what
alternative travel arrangements might suit the boy and his mother.  One thing
was clear, Diggory was too shaky to ride or walk home.  Doctor Bentley came to
the rescue.

“May I offer you a lift,
Mrs Smith?” he grated.  “I have my chaise outside and I am sure I can squeeze
you both in.”

Not a little envious I
shook the divine Mrs Smith’s hand and partook my leave.  You may accuse me of
wishful thinking but I felt sure that I detected a twinkle in the woman’s
captivating eyes that was missing for Doctor Bentley.  Even wearing a simple cotton
dress she had bewitched me, and although our meeting had been a brief and
strained affair brought about by an unfortunate event I was invigorated to
know, at last, the identity of the haunting belle in white lace.  Other matters
did not please me so much.

Tom Turner, William
Troke, and Jack Wheeler filed into my office.

“Explain,” I commanded
them.

The torpid Mr Turner and
the mercurial Mr Wheeler exchanged looks, seemingly unable to articulate their
doubtless well rehearsed excuse.

“Come now,” I prompted
them.  “I want no humbug.  The fizzling pot-lamps on driver MacGregor’s train
last night have something to do with your scheme to catch the lamp-oil thief,
do they not?”

“What thief?” Mr Troke
asked stupidly.

“The one who pilfers our
lamp oil,” I answered him deedily.

Jack muttered something
inaudible then wiggled a finger through his matted curly hair to locate an itch.

“Speak up!” I pounced.

“Me and William spiked a
drum of oil and put it in a prominent position to make it the most likely
took,” he spoke up.  “Tom reckons it’s the locksmith’s boy from Penpool, Mr
Jay.  The Stores shed lock ’asn’t been forced and that boy comes ’ere regular
to get pig-iron.  I reckon…”

“A bird in hand is
worthless,” Mr Troke interjected with one of his maffled sayings.

“Never mind all that. 
With what did you spike the oil?” I interrupted.

“Well, Mr Jay,” Jack
explained, “we broke open one or two of them self-detonating fog signals and
emptied out the black powder…”

“Gunpowder!” I
exploded.  “I’ve heard enough.”  I switched my gaze to his accomplice.  “So, in
all the confusion last night, confusion which you caused, Mr Turner, you filled
the pot-lamps aboard the night Giddiford train with an explosive concoction.  I
can scarcely believe it, even of you two cretins.”

Much to my surprise my
outburst caused contrition.

“Will there be
disciplinary action?” Mr Turner enquired feebly.

“I shall think hard upon
it,” I told him.

I decided to leave these
two fishes on my hook for a while.  Unfortunately I would have to throw them back
eventually because my own position was more precarious than theirs.  As the
Stationmaster I had been the one to authorise their dangerous trap and so,
naturally, Head office would deem me responsible for any resulting mishap.

“We might catch the
weasel yet,” Jack purred seductively with a hollow grin.

“Leave,” I snapped with
feigned disgust, at risk of seeing the funny side of the affair.

Before the bungling trio
could get through my door I recalled Jack for further questioning.

“One minute, Wheeler,” I
rumbled with stern brevity, catching his eye to unnerve him.

Economy of words, I had
discovered, disadvantaged the clerk psychologically.  Although on this occasion
the technique was slow to take effect.

“Sewage?” I queried him.

Jack stared at me with
counterfeit innocence that almost fooled me.

“Two people are
responsible for what takes place in the sidings, apart from myself,” I opened. 
“They are the Rollingstock superintendent and the Goods clerk.  Yet strangely
both resemble puppets.  Let word filter through to the puppeteer, Jack, that
only the Stationmaster pulls the strings here.  Mr Phillips seems to think
there will be a power struggle but I can assure you he is wrong.  The puppeteer
will acknowledge my authority by having the treated sewage removed at once.  He
will then have the truck sullied by it flushed out at the water tower.  Will he
not, Jack?”

Jack’s defiant stare
would have lasted until Judgement day had his face not puckered involuntarily. 
To my dismay, however, after this convulsion came a self assured twinkle. 
Another pucker, sans twinkle, showed that the impudent clerk had at last registered
the perpetuity of my own defiant stare.

“Anything you say, Mr
Jay,” he acquiesced with a suspiciously deferential nod inflected with
condescension.

At this point Jack
expected me to dismiss him, for which reason I detained him further,
embellishing my discontented stare with drumming fingers.  His independent
spirit had yet to be dampened to my satisfaction and I would bag the blighter
if it took all day.  The patronising clerk twitched when I silenced my fingers
abruptly.

“I do not expect to find
the sullage spread hurriedly over flower beds and vegetable patches,” I
cautioned him after another extrinsic pause.  “And take your hands out of your
pockets while I am talking to you.  Your hands live in your pockets, Mr Wheeler.”

Finally it dawned upon
Jack that I would release him only when he showed respect.  It took a while but
eventually I gained the upper hand.

When the 7.45am
Blodcaster train clattered into Platform One behind Lacy, Driver MacGregor
stepped off the footplate and pointed to a crane truck appended to his rake of
four passenger carriages.

“Where do ye want the
swinger?” he asked in a tone suggesting that its presence was a hindrance.

A bag of ferrets was
released into my stomach.

“By the way,” he added,
“the Giddiford superintendent apologises for nay sending it yesterday.  T’was
nay available then.”

The two-and-a-half ton
crane, a monument to my previous day’s ineptitude, seemed to be pointing at me
accusingly with its jib.  My nerves were jangled further by the whistle of a
second locomotive entering the station.  The Giddiford train was arriving in
the opposite direction pulling a swinger of its own, an aged Stanhope strapped
to a flat-truck, but as this was not required at Upshott the ferrets settled. 
Wincing at the clitter of brakes bringing the ‘up’ train to rest I arranged for
the unwanted crane truck to be uncoupled from the ‘down’ train, Fireman Jones making
the disconnection.  The shadow of the Giddiford train pulsated through the
windows of the Blodcaster train to vault across my face as I reprimanded myself
for not having cancelled the winch when it was no longer required?

The two trains departed
almost simultaneously, their dense smoke parting like music hall curtains to
unveil the mobile crane abandoned at Platform One.  I ignored the wretched
contraption and retreated to my office to deal with the day’s bulletins.  As
expected, Mr Maynard spotted the forlorn hoist and towed it to a siding behind
one of his horses.

To my further dismay I
found that I had received from Headquarters a directive concerning the
installation of a weighing chair for the amusement of passengers at Upshott. 
Being unenthusiastic about such contrivances I popped it my waste paper
basket.  Just as I did so I heard a knock upon my door, but before I could
respond, Miss Macrames entered.  The purpose of her visit was not difficult to
imagine but I did wonder why she had dressed as if for church.