A Station In Life (27 page)

Glad to have dipped my
pen for the last time, my lucubrations completed, I sealed my ink pot, applied
some blotting paper to my figures, and peered out of my office at the sky.  All
above was prismatic with electricity, the muggy air caustic with ozone, and
through the ever present whirlpool of moths around the gas-lamp above my door I
witnessed the dark rump of Upshott wood flicker.  The trees there became a bleached
mosaic lit by a writhing snake-pit of lightning.

Now began the music of
the storm, its symphony opening with pinging milk churns and the growing patter
of fat raindrops striking the platform.  Then, with a precipitous roar, the
occasional glint became one glossy curtain and I agitated the vortex of moths violently
as I dashed back to my office.

Upshott village was
situated about five-hundred feet above sea level, within an arc of tors
reaching a further five hundred feet, and in this location the electricity in
the air was palpable.  Even in my office, with the sash window open a storm’s
electrical charge could raise the hairs upon the back of my hand.

I cannot relate how
thankful I was that I did not have the company of the spinster woman just now. 
In a tempest of this magnitude the presence of a scaremonger spinning
diabolical yarns among cloves of garlic would have frightened me out of my wits. 
Indeed, so violent was the storm that in the pulsating light I thought I saw
her prancing to and fro, laughing hysterically as puddings disappeared.

Upon retiring for the
night I found my bed unaccountably lumpy, and despite my best efforts I could
not adapt to it.  When eventually I did fall asleep I was woken immediately by
a clap of thunder the like of which I had never heard before, and my search for
a comfortable repose began again.  This, however, was nought compared to what
lay in store, for I discovered that Miss Blake had the power to visit dread
upon a stationmaster even in her absence.

You see, as I lay there
curled up like an infant I sensed that I was not alone, and compelled by this
feeling I opened one eye to the twitching darkness.  What I beheld, to my utter
disbelief, was the spinster woman dancing around my bedroom cheek-to-cheek with
her heinous corpse, the charcoal burner.  Contrary to all reason, she was
gliding about as effortlessly as a sprite while he, with the obvious
disadvantage of being dead, was dragging his feet clumsily, scarcely able to
keep up.

With my bed shaking I
opened my other eye, hopeful that full scrutiny of the apparition would dissipate
it, but instead found the detail of my uninvited guests all the more stark.  In
a multiple flicker of light I observed that Miss Blake was wearing ballet pumps
and the risen charcoal burner, with all the style of a peasant, a tattered,
fustian waistcoat with dyed horsehair trousers.  Another twitch of light
revealed the ill mannered corpse to be cavorting about my bedroom in his muddy
boots.

Until now I had not been
entirely convinced of the couple’s physical reality, but the charcoal burner
had matched his trousers to a gaily coloured Glengarry soft-cap and I knew that
not even in my most fevered imaginings would I have conjured up such a
tasteless phantom.  I prepared to bolt before the romancing intruders could
react to my presence, but suddenly there were three of them, making evasion
look impossible.  Alas, as the couple’s circulations accelerated to the jarring
strains of an accordion, its odious player established beside my wardrobe, I
succumbed to hopelessness.

Later, with the benefit
of hindsight, I could see that I had fallen asleep and was dreaming.  However,
I did not know this at the time and consequently let out a pitiful wail. 
Unfortunately my cry for help drew only the attention of the cadaver and he
turned upon me with startling malevolence.  Shrinking from his towering
presence, his grisly face resembling crinkled paper scribbled with charcoal, I controlled
my voice sufficient to reminded him that I was a stationmaster.  Unimpressed,
he glowered at me and raised an axe high in the air.

I had no idea where this
axe came from, for I kept no such tool in my room, but dreams have little
respect for logic and it shames me to say that I screamed like a woman.  Next,
through vision blurred by perspiration, I saw the axe begin its descent and was
spurred to jump up like a marionette and fight back.  Quickly overwhelmed by my
assailant’s superior strength I fell back to the bed and there prayed aloud, saddened
that I would never see Mrs Smith again, and curious that I felt no pain when
the axe sank into my face.  Nevertheless the sickening crunch caused me to
yodel, and although my noisy demise was only a small part of the nightmare it proved
sufficient to make ornaments rattle, which in turn woke me up with a start.

Composing myself I lit
my bedside candle, shook my head to halt the sound of the accordion, and
surveyed my room.  The axe and its user had gone, and to my even greater
relief, when I looked in my mirror I saw that my face was intact, although it
now resembled snow melting over a rusty drain.  Feeling no better than I looked
I lay in bed afraid to go back to sleep.  For if Serena Blake could enrage my
imagination to this fevered pitch then the charcoal burner would be waiting for
me.

Next morning, not
surprisingly, I forgot to report to the Blodcaster constable the more corporeal
intruder of the previous night, and a decline towards nervous debility took
hold.  During one loss of reason I even became convinced that my staff were
behaving abnormally.  Humphrey, for example, had become distant.  Jack also. 
And Mr Troke appeared stranger than ever, if the margin for this existed.  As
for Diggory, well, the young lad simply could not look me in the eye, as if
something was so badly wrong that he dared not speak of it.  And at every turn
I interrupted whispered conversations about a curse.  To deepen my anxiety, in
the station house each night I was kept awake by unearthly noises; scuffling,
scratching, whimpering, heavy breathing, and rapid tapping.  Something very
peculiar was abroad, of this there was no doubt, and I was the one it wanted. 
Most baffling of all was a remark made by Mr Troke one morning after I had
forbidden him utterance of the word ‘curse’ while on duty.

“Don’t turn a blind eye
to it, Mr Jay,” he cautioned me.  “I’ve seen stationmasters dragged away from
their sanity while pretending it never happened.”

Two further developments
added to my misery.  My appointment with the Disciplinary panel was imminent,
and I had seen nothing of the adorable Mrs Smith just when I most needed the
sunshine of her presence.  I had reached such ebb that I even missed the
disingenuous affections of Rose Macrames.

Having put away a glass
or two of ale at The Shunter, perhaps three or four, I concluded that the
station house had been colonised by rats.  I made a note to myself to purchase
a wedge of cheese and a vial of poison to snuff out the nonsense once and for
all, and by bedtime the station was a death-trap for rodents.  Despite the
rumblings of another storm my bed seemed less lumpy, my eyes closed more willingly,
and my thoughts slipped the shackles of logic to play silly games.  Within
seconds I was in a sunny meadow picnicking with Mrs Smith.

With the blow of an axe,
lightning split the darkness, thunder shook my window, and I was wrenched brutally
from a sweet kiss.  The storm was passing directly overhead, its cloudburst now
pounding the station roof with the roar of a rapturous audience beneath an
ebony sky fizzling with electricity.  Yet despite this tumult I heard another
sound, a quite indescribable one which did not, heaven forefend, come from a
rat.  It was more like the wail of a banshee or the drawing of a bow across an
out-of-tune violin, and it followed each clap of thunder like an encore. 
Beginning as a moan it would rise sharply in pitch then fall again to become an
uncanny, wolf-like howl.  I prayed this was a nightmare.  Alas it was not.

To promote consciousness
I sat upright and regulated my breathing, and when the ringing in my ears had
stopped I whispered a short prayer before lighting the oil lamp that I had
swapped for my bedside candle.  In its orb of sallow light I steeled myself and
climbed out of bed to face this dreadful thing, whatever it was, to end my
misery.

Leaving every lamp in my
wake at full gas and carefully avoiding the creaky timber that had betrayed my
presence last time, I made my way to the ground floor.  Here, at the foot of
the stares, my advance ended abruptly in horror.  A stark, white face stared out
of the wall at me with such sorrow that I felt the need to console it.  It was
a repentant soul, a spectre grim with misgiving, its eyes rimmed with scarlet
remorse and dilated like black pebbles.  Yet also it was a familiar face.  Indeed,
had I not caught sight of myself in the hall mirror I should never have
realised how repentant I was at not having appointed a station dog when I had
the opportunity.  An alert, four-legged friend would have been mightily welcome
just now.

Before resuming my
advance I studied my reflection a little further and it struck me that my
diabolical appearance vouchsafed me against any malevolent entity.  Even should
I come face-to-face with a hoard of marauding goblins it would be they, not I,
who fled.  Nevertheless, being a man of a practical disposition I had also
equipped myself to face adversaries of a more corporeal nature.  For upon
leaving my quarters I had collected my shotgun and loaded both barrels with
rock-salt.  This time, should anyone or anything menace me I would administer a
dose of medicine.

The thunder was abating,
and with it the uncanny wailing, so that by the time my search was underway I
could barely detect a whimper.  Most of the time even this feeble sound was
masked by rain stampeding upon the platform canopy, and gurgling rones. 
Eventually the whimpering ceased altogether and once again, wondering if my
torment would ever end, I was forced to retire empty-handed.  Leaving every
gas-lamp in the house at full hiss I huddled beneath my blanket and reviewed
all the advice I had received.  Perhaps my salvation did lie in garlic and
mixed metaphors.

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Chapter
Twenty-Three — Morse code sickness

Mondays were always busy
at Upshott station.  The treadmill of events would begin at 5.05am with the
arrival of the ‘down’ Mail, and to commence this recollection I shall
synchronise the chime of the station clock with the chime of a distant train whistle
and draw your attention to several empty pitchers.  These enamelled vessels,
waiting to be filled with water for the station at Busy Linton, were set out
upon Platform One like a line of expectant ducks.  Mindful of the last time
they were neglected I became tetchy and called for Diggory, my patience having
been eroded by sleep deprivation.  I was joined only by Humphrey.

“Why does that boy not
attend to his duties?” I snarled at the porter.  “Where does he get to lately?”

“I don’t rightly know,
sir,” Humphrey replied melodically.  “Arr, here be the lad now.”

Diggory, red faced,
emerged from the station house, saw me watching him and set about loading a
luggage trolley in a feeble attempt to look busy.  I summoned him and
transferred him immediately to the empty pitchers.

The two-van train,
spurred by an uninterrupted descent through Widdlecombe, was now climbing
Fallowfield embankment under dense coils of steam dyed shocking pink by a low,
morning sun.  The locomotive’s urgent thudding grew steadily louder with its
echo bouncing back off the surrounding hills and its exhaust expanding
dramatically across the water-meadows to create a ceiling of red plaster.

All went quiet and the
train coasted politely into the station, halting with its two grimy
footplatemen doffing their caps to me.  Above our heads the blushing canopy of
mist shredded into wisps and filaments and finally nothingness, whereupon
Upshott regained its peaceful blue vault.

“Her’s goin’ to be a
fine day,” Humphrey observed cheerily.  “I reckons we needed that storm.”

“Upon this, sir, we do
not agree,” I replied, dealing the porter a sour look.

Humphrey stared at me
wondering what he had said wrong.

“I have a telegraph
instructor coming today,” I advised him.  “Therefore I shall not be at liberty
to enjoy this fine day of yours.  And since you will be in charge of the
station while I receive my tuition, neither shall you.”

“Why need e a telegraph
instructor?” Humphrey blinked incredulously.

I left his question
unanswered.

Twice had the telegraph
instructor postponed his visit, eventually arranging to travel with the
passenger and timber empties of the 7.46am mixed train.  Much daunted by the
prospect of being tutored in the manner of a schoolboy I retreated to my office
to ponder my fate.  Here, after a little constructive thought, it occurred to
me that should my tenure of Upshott station be terminated prematurely then a
knowledge of Morse code might avail me access to an alternative career, perhaps
in the Post Office.  Resolving, then, to master the code at all costs I became
at once less bleak, and in this triumphal mood squared myself to deal with
another important matter.  Accordingly I summoned Diggory.

“Master Smith, your
habitual absence is increasingly troublesome,” I opened while he stood to
attention before me.  “Whilst I take account of your recent domestic
distractions you must remember that the railway has a strict tempo of its own
which must be adhered to.”

“Yes, sir,” he agreed
solemnly.

“Now, boy,” I continued,
“you are paid a total of seven shillings and sixpence per week for your
responsibilities, and presently you are not permitted to handle cash, which
means that you are not expected to sell tickets to the public.  However, we
both know that on occasions you do, and that you have demonstrated an ability
to make out tickets promptly and give the correct change.  I see also that your
writing is legible, even if your vocabulary requires expanding, and that you
have the rare gift of spelling place names correctly.  Moreover, it has not
escaped my attention that you frequently assist Jack with clerical work behind
the ticket window.  Most important of all, you have gained a reputation among your
colleagues for being both honest and trustworthy.  Therefore I am promoting you
to the grade of Junior porter
with
cash responsibilities.  I believe you
will this find helpful.”

In the fluctuating light
of the departing Mail train the contours of Diggory’s long, dimpled face reshaped
to form a smile.  While smiling back I wondered if this was the last assistance
I would be able to render the Smiths.  Since Élise had no guarantee of success
in her new venture I decided to afford her what help I could while still able, 
Although, in truth I had little doubt that she could survive one of Lord Lacy’s
famous probation periods with credit to spare.  Indeed the Smiths’ future now
looked more secure than mine!

“As you probably know,
Diggory,” I continued, “this means an increase of one shilling and nine pence
in your pay.  In return for this I shall expect improved availability.  Indeed
I do not know what commands so much of your time lately but you will need to
reconsider your priorities if I am not to regret my decision.”

Registering my caution, Diggory’s
lineaments regrouped into a frown.  However, he recovered quickly and asked a
question.

“Will I have to wait
until January to get my increase, Mr Jay?”

Handing him a form for
his mother to sign, I answered favourably.

“As yet the London and
South Western railway plays no part in SER staffing arrangements so your
promotion will be effective from next week,” I replied.  “Now, we have a
consignment of semaphore signal arms from Saxby and Farmer which need
separating into stacks.  Some of them are ‘Home’ signals and others are
‘Distant’.  You will consider which is which by referring to this manual.”

I handed Diggory a copy
of the latest ‘Signals and Telegraph’ handbook, and when he left my office he
was already studying it and continued to divide his attention thus throughout
the day until colliding with the Telegraph Instructor striding purposefully in
the direction of my office.

Within twenty minutes of
my first lesson I had confounded the instructor, a tall and swarthy fellow,
with my complete inability to absorb abstract information.  At first this
fascinated him and he rose boastfully to the challenge, but as the novelty wore
off he became abusive.  For despite my best efforts, the dots and dashes of the
universal electric telegraph system continued to perplex me.  Indeed, in
desperation I suggested that we abandon Morse code and wait for the South
Exmoor to install a Cook and Wheatstone circuit which, being alphabetical,
could be operated even by a fool.  To my disgust the lanky didact, who was
clearly the progeny of two telegraph poles, laughed openly and pointed out that
the old alphabetical system required too many wires.  I had no understanding of
this remark, and upon this sultry, humid day with my shirt clinging to me, I
was told that I was lucky to have attained the rank of stationmaster without
the power of comprehension.  Simmering with humiliation, at last I understood
the purpose of progress.  It was to identify and weed out sluggards like me.

Of course, today’s
tribulations had been inevitable.  During my time on the London & South
Western I had needed no knowledge of long distance communications because I had
always worked at major stations employing skilled operators, or locations where
there was no telegraph at all.  Therefore my ignorance of the technicalities
granted the instructor no leave to be impolite, and had he not the means to
make my life still more miserable I should have struck him on the nose with the
knob of my walking stick and made his eyes water.

The balance of power not
being in my favour I had no choice but to demure, and this I did by way of a
trick I had learned from a colleague earlier in my career.  I retreated to my
imagination where a fishing rod and pleasant spot on the breezy banks of
Upwater awaited me.  An insolent form of absence, I know, but by now I was past
caring, and as the minutes advanced like a drowsy slug I improved upon the fantasy
by adding a picnic basket.  Of course, this was fetched by the adorable Élise,
her female form in the dappled sunshine beneath a tree flattered by a lace
dress of gossamer immodesty.  It was now that I enjoyed an unexpected
dividend.  For as my lips drew closer to hers, our affection for each other
energised by the hum of dragonflies hovering in the reedmace, I sensed that my conjured
excursion irked my overseer to the same extent that it titillated me, for beyond
the melody of birdsong and the babble of the river I could hear him clearing
his throat.

At the end of the lesson
the instructor prodded me back to life for the last time and shook his head
with gloom.  I followed him to the cool evening air as he stepped outside to
recover, and bade him goodbye with a vigorous handshake.  Recovering his limp
hand from my grasp he boarded a train, mumbled something about seven days being
long enough for the intelligent man to learn Morse code, then decided to extend
me fourteen.  Perhaps he was inclined to make sport of all his pupils in this
way but his words churned my stomach nevertheless, for I did not know if I had
fourteen days service left upon the railway.  My wounded pride had me insist
that I be given seven days like everyone else and a lugubrious shrug of the
shoulders was the result.

It so happened that
Élise was boarding the same train as the instructor, but before I could
intercept her for an exchange of pleasantries the carriages lurched into
motion.  Stumbling to a halt betwixt twirls of steam scudding turbulently about
the platform my face tingled, and whilst this was normally caused by vapour
ejections from the engine, on this occasion I assumed it to be my numb head
returning to life.

With the train
clattering away in the distance I went to the Parcels office and gazed upon the
dummy instrument that my tutor had installed there.  It shared a dimly lit corner
with the scales, alongside it the instruction book and a scribbled note to the
effect that I should practise every day for a week.  After its removal, stated
the note, I would commence exchanging live messages with Head Office until my
speed improved.  Now my days were set to become as miserable as my nights.

 Jack Wheeler sped into
the room and gave me a shove.

“Urry, get behind the
door,” he blurted.  “I ’aven’t got time to explain.”

“I beg your pardon?” I
resisted.

I received another push
and the door was swung back to conceal me.  As much intrigued as affronted, and
bewildered that a rural backwater like Upshott could spawn such mayhem, I
remained hidden to see what would happen.

Humphrey entered the
room and took a nod from Jack in understanding of my whereabouts but seemed
unable to settle.  Succumbing to temptation he pulled the door forward and
peered at me with a plump smile, dealt me a respectful nod, then returned the
door to the end of my nose with a cluck of amusement.  I was losing patience
and about to break cover when Jack blurted another warning and the porter hurried
across the room to adopt a suspiciously idle stance by the window.

“The weasel’s nearly
’ere,” the clerk hissed contemptuously, then joined Humphrey.

“Who is nearly here?” I
asked.

“Clive Bannerman,”
Humphrey whispered, adding under a squeaky breath: “He used to be an impresario
but sold his provincial theatres to buy the brewery in Blodcaster.”

There was no time for finish
our conversation and satisfy my inflamed curiosity.  Jack stepped into the hall
to greet the intriguing Mr Bannerman and invited him into the Parcels office. 
Shortly I heard the visitor’s footfalls upon the floorboards halt abruptly as
if something was amiss.  Jack stepped forward and offered reassurance.

“Don’t worry, Mr
Bannerman, this is our top porter, Mr Milsom, who I was telling you about.”

I squinted through the
gap by a door hinge and observed, to my surprise, the bookish dwarf who had
argued with Rose Macrames and been watching me.  With my curiosity close to combustion
I maintained cover and waited patiently, for it looked as though the valley’s
most artful trapper was about to spring a trap.  Jack beckoned Bannerman
forward to parley.

“I wrote a letter to the
company like we agreed,” he began slyly.  “And I told ’em the Stationmaster
’ere is rude and unreasonable and upsets everyone.”

“And I’ve just posted
off a complaint myself, sir,” Humphrey put in.  “I believe the sooner we gets a
new stationmaster here the better.  We’ve all just about had enough of this
twerp.”

Bannerman was pleased by
this news and swung the door closed to avoid being overheard.  Perhaps he did
not see me because he had removed his pince-nez, but I stood stock still and
hoped that his blindness would continue.

“Well done, gentlemen,”
he gloated.  “Common passenger grievances on their own will not do the trick
because everyone knows the public is never satisfied, but complaints from time
served employees like yourselves should expedite Jay’s dismissal nicely,
especially if you warn that he’s upsetting important people.”

Shrinking into my corner
I prayed that Jack’s daft idea of a hiding place would serve at least until I
learned the plot of this vile man, but then in a mirror on the wall I saw his
smirk and realised that I was likewise visible to him.  I bent my knees until
the mirror reflected only the ceiling, and from this ridiculous position
watched the dwarf remove his pretentious tweed hat and hold it behind his back
as if respectful of Jack’s resourcefulness.