A Station In Life (3 page)
Authors: James Smiley
It occurred to me that
I, the new Stationmaster, was being tested and needed to impose my stamp of
authority quickly.
“They are all accounted
for, Mr Milsom,” I warned the porter. “If they are to be destroyed, lamentable
though this may be, the carcasses will be counted carefully by the Inspectorate
and no meat shall be spirited away to anyone’s table.”
“No, sir,” came a
mournful reply.
To have my authority
compromised so soon would have been inexcusable so I changed the subject promptly
lest I hear another improper suggestion.
“According to today’s
traffic book the 7.45am is bringing down from London a private horse-carriage,
the property of one Lawrence Albury,” I revealed. “The conveyance is a
somewhat splendid cabriolet, I am told, so I want to see it set down on its own
wheels without incurring so much as a finger mark. The price of it I dare not
enquire. However, that said, I am bound to add that we shall need to uncouple
it smartly. The diagram allows precious little time for additional operations
and I do not wish to see trains delayed. For a branch-line the South Exmoor
has an envious tradition of good time-keeping, and I expect every man, however
humble his station, to respect this. Most rural railways are infernally slow,
do you not agree, Mr Milsom?”
“Indeed I do,” the
portly porter chortled proudly. Then, eyeing me deedily, he added: “Between e,
me, and the fence post, Mr Jay, old Mildenhew experienced a lot of trouble with
squire Albury. The squire did not welcome the comin’ of the railway and almost
prevented its construction. Luckily the Lacy family, upon whose estate stands
the village proper, were entirely in favour of the line. Twer Lacy money and
influence that got the Act through Parliament, and twer the re-surveyin’ of the
line through Lacy property that ultimately defeated the squire. Squire Albury
be a mean and unreasonable man, Mr Jay. The earthworks along the new route
nearly bankrupted the company before the line were even completed. There’d
have been no need of a lengthy tunnel if…”
“I am familiar with the
history of this line,” I interrupted the fellow.
However, Upshott’s font
of local knowledge was not to be suppressed.
“Yet as soon as the line
were open the crafty ol’ weasel expanded his quarryin’ business and laid a
mineral line out to Splashgate,” he persisted. “Now the hypocrite sells stone
to masons as far afield as Lincolnshire, all via the very railways he
despises. The blighter even accuses this railway of bringin’ unwanted
strangers into the valley.”
“Disrespect for one’s
superiors is unbecoming,” I cautioned the porter.
“Well, sir,” he replied
complacently, “with respect to e, if Squire Albury be ‘superior’ then I be glad
to be inferior.”
I tutted and eyed the
porter deedily, not that my reproach did much to deflect him from his discourse.
“Supposin’ I tell e we
be a platelayer short, Mr Jay,” he persevered. “Ol’ Albury’s game-keeper shot
him in the foot. Pure vindictiveness if you asks I, for the poor fellow were
back on the railway when the shots were fired. E can’t expect navvies not to
poach, no more than e can expect them not to quaff cider. Tis a pity the
railway runs hard by the Albury estate, that’s all I can say.”
“I am not surprised to
hear of your malevolent squire,” I replied. “Upshott is a beautiful place. In
my experience beauty is an ointment and quite incomplete without a fly in it.
Nevertheless, we must be careful. This fly is highly influential.”
I sensed Mr Milsom
rocking inwardly with laughter.
“How far away is this
Longhurdle farm?” I enquired as we tarried by the pig pen, seeing no sign of
either my Booking clerk or farmer Smethwick.
“Well now,” answered Mr
Milsom, “funny enough it be on the dreaded Albury estate, which might account
for Smethwick’s sour demeanour. Tis about half a mile down the lane on the
other side of the stream. Jack should have returned b’now, right enough.
Still, we must count our blessings, Mr Jay, for I’ve heard no shots from
Smethwick’s scattergun. His fowling piece do make a very distinctive noise, e
see. It be a kind of toot followed by a snort. The cove loads her with rock
salt to make the injury sting.”
I gazed upon the sloping
furrows beyond Natter brook and saw nothing stir, save the odd swooping peewit
and a peppering of crows, so with time to spare I taxed my Senior porter a little
further on a matter to which he had already alluded. In the interest of a
cordial relationship, I address him by his forename.
“Humphrey, pray tell me
more about this disappearing lamp oil,” I asked.
Humphrey cleared his
throat to reply but before he could speak I noticed the Stores clerk gazing through
the cobwebbed window of his wooden hut by the sidings.
“Perhaps I should have a
word with Mr Turner while I am on this side of the track,” I ventured.
“Arr, t’would be a waste
of time today, Mr Jay,” Humphrey rattled. “Tis best if I asks Tom to see e
tomorrow.”
“Come now, Humphrey, how
might a Stationmaster be wasting his time consulting a Stores clerk?” I levied
the fellow.
Mr Milsom hesitated to
reply, and once again I found myself waiting for his mental penny to drop.
“Well, sir, quite
easily,” he explained at last. “Tom Turner be goin’ through one of his sleepy
spells. You’ll get a quicker uptake on him tomorrow. Tis not the dullard’s
fault, sir. Word has it the moon takes him.”
“The moon?” I roared.
“Sleepy spells have nothing to do with the moon, dear fellow. Has Mr Turner
ever been in the tropics?”
The porter ignored my
question, changing the subject briskly.
“Arr, talkin’ of
tomorrow,” he said, although I could recall no mention of it, “we’m a gettin’ a
surprise visit by an unexpected train.”
“How so?” I quavered,
baffled by this enigmatic reverse in our conversation.
“Tis true, Mr Jay,” Mr
Milsom confided. “Between e, me, and the fence post, our top brass be
entertainin’ bigwigs from the London and South Western Railway. The London
swells be payin’ our line a visit, but the pity of it is they aint told no one
they’m a comin’.”
I stared at Mr Milsom
blankly. If this visit was a secret then how did he know about it? It
occurred to me that the porter was baiting me so I held my tongue.
“Percival Hiscox told
I,” he declared at last, revealing his source of information. “Driver Hiscox
has connections in the company hierarchy, e see. Perhaps e can discover more
by eaves-droppin’ on the telegraph, Mr Jay.”
By now I was becoming
familiar with Mr Milsom’s use of the word ‘e’ when he meant ‘you’ but his habit
of lingering on the word ‘telegraph’ unsettled me so I nodded grimly and made
off to Platform One.
Chapter
Three — Threats from a pig farmer
I decided to have a word
with Driver Hiscox, with whom I was already acquainted. He was a dedicated
footplateman and, like me, an ex London and South Western employee. It was
widely believed that Mr Hiscox had, as a young man, assisted Joseph Locke in
firing up the rocket in preparation for the Liverpool-Manchester Railway’s
inaugural service nearly forty-five years earlier. I refer, of course, to the
same Joseph Locke who had been a pupil of George Stephenson and gone on to
become the London and South Western’s Chief Mechanical Engineer.
The taciturn Percival
Hiscox was too modest a man to boast of past glories and so his humble silence
upon the matter was generally taken to be confirmation. He had certainly been
an engineman during railway infancy, and because of this become one of the
‘kings of speed’ without first having served as a cleaner or fitter. Whilst
inscrutable by nature, old Hiscox was a man of his word and known personally to
the directors of both the SER and LSWR. I anticipated, therefore, that he
would make a useful connection.
I tarried awhile on the
lower steps of the footbridge and surveyed the vegetable garden surrounding the
signalbox. Mr Hales was to be congratulated on his lineside plot, for it was
usually only the two-trains-a-day signalman who found time to cultivate so
much. A dozen or so rows of sprouts had been earthed up, next to which some
carrot tops and lettuces were breaking through the rich red soil. Beyond the signalbox
was a goat tethered to a stake to provide milk for the station. The beast’s
tugging had created a circle of baize-short grass blemished only by the tall
clumps of hemp-nettle for which it had no taste.
To this day I could not
observe a vegetable garden without being transported back to an event in my
life which reshaped my outlook miserably. I had been working just such a plot
when my betrothed, having appeared quite unexpectedly, rode her gelding through
my vegetables and declared that she had grown tired of me in favour of
another. So thrifty had she been in disposing of her unwanted goods that she
did not even seek to recover the eternity ring that she had given her devotee.
I was stunned with disbelief and rendered inconsolable for months. I simply
could not understand how I had been so insensible to the warning signs, for her
assignations with a schoolmaster, I learned later, had been long standing and
much observed by others.
I had grown up believing
that in the heart of every woman lies a lifetime of love, the man who wastes this
being a fool, but now I was purged of all such romantic notions. The
thunderbolt had taught me that a woman’s heart can be just as indifferent to
companionship as a man’s. As a result of which, lest my delusions cause
further distress, I thereafter confined myself to admiring the fairer sex
remotely and would be charmed by female company only in the absence of
commitment. Further, to keep myself mindful of this new stratagem I continued
to wear the eternity ring. What token of folly could better deny nourishment
to fancy than this? Delusions about my appeal to women stood no chance against
such a sour souvenir.
In further evidence of
Mr Hales’s beaver-like nature, sundry bicycle machines were propped against the
signalbox steps. Manifestly these were awaiting repair. From his vantage
point in the box, Mr Hales acknowledged with a proud smile my interest in his
activities. He had noticed me studying a row of strange plants.
“Are these love apples
per chance?” I called up to him.
As a boy I had been made
to eat them boiled with honey and found them quite beastly.
A commotion prevented Mr
Hales from replying. Mr Wheeler had sprinted out from behind the Weighbridge
office and was trying to warn me of something. A dozen or so chickens, which
had been pecking quietly upon the railway track, were now squawking and running
amok.
Farmer Smethwick
appeared and began waving his crook angrily at the clerk whose patronising
attempts to calm him proved infuriating. I watched the two antagonists circle
the grain shed then come to rest gesticulating at each other across the pen of
pigs.
Curiously, Mr Hales
ignored the fracas as if it were an everyday occurrence and stepped out onto
the signalbox balcony to continue our conversation.
“That’s right, Mr Jay,”
he called down. “Tomatoes! You shall have one or two when they are formed.”
“Thank you,” I replied
with a sickly grin.
“Everyone hereabouts
calls me Ivor,” he informed me then retreated to his levers.
My attention was drawn
to further uproar from the cattle pens where I observed farmer Smethwick
marching towards me, his colour as high as a ripe plum, grunting with each step
as if kicked in the stomach. He seemed unaware of Jack Wheeler following him
skittishly at a safe distance. Mr Wheeler froze in horror as Smethwick and I
met nose-to-nose, whereupon the pig breeder’s gritty voice became a drill in my
ears. Yet for all his loudness, the strange fellow could not articulate
himself clearly, delivering his words with the incoherent drawl of a drunkard.
Trying to understand the
rustic I cocked an ear and listened intently, indicating with my hand that I
wished him to lower his voice. In defiance, the pig breeder raised his voice
and adopted a menacing tone. I held my ground, narrowing my eyes and holding
my tongue.
The farmer, whose
tallowed black hair lay across his sweaty forehead in menacing spikes, peered
at me with half closed eyes as if doubting my credentials. Not to be
intimidated, I continued my silent stare of authority.
Unfortunately my
steadfast pose was undone by the unexpected appearance of Elisabeth behaving
strangely upon Platform One. A vision of loveliness as ever, she was gazing
pensively at the sky. When I squinted to improve my view of her, for it was a
bright day, I became aware that the figure was not Elisabeth at all. Indeed,
this was a different vision of loveliness, one such as I had never seen before,
and it did not hail from my imagination.
My own age, or
thereabouts, the beautiful woman standing outside my office had brunette curls
and inquisitive brown eyes which distance could not diminish. And she was
wearing a most charming outfit. As a result I stared at her unashamedly,
admiring her pale green dress shaped most fashionably by a large bustle
flounced-trimmed in lime, the whole fabric being contrived to tease the eye
with a hue of fine, white lace. I knew at once that my reverie would not be
kept in check by a mere ring.
Fortunately an
alternative remedy was at hand, and it required only that I transfer my gaze.
When the beautiful lady’s exquisite little bonnet dissolved into a pig
breeder’s huge, matted beard my malaise and my blood curdled simultaneously.
Had a stray eye not returned to the woman and caught sight of a dimpled smile
quite clearly directed towards me, indicating that my presence was required
upon the platform, my focus would have remained with Smethwick. But my eye did
stray and I was lost.
Just as I was about to
respond to the woman’s most charming summons, Jack Wheeler, providing yet a
third remedy, captured my attention with a series of wild hand signals. It
occurred to me that the message he was transmitting through the flailing of his
arms was much like Morse code, being more hypnotic than informative, and I was
quite unable to decipher it.
Lapsing into another
trance I was startled by the pig breeder’s harsh voice registering his presence
a second time. His belief, I fancy, was that sooner or later I would be
shocked to attention by mere mention of his name. Of course, it was too late
now, for my eyes were to be drawn by him no more. Consequently, twice further
was he disappointed. Although, in the end, I was disappointed too, for in the
wake of a blink the platform was deserted.
I wondered if this
latest vision of loveliness had been another figment of my imagination. Then I
realised that fantasies do not leave behind a lingering fragrance, and there
was most definitely a sweet scent drifting across the station. Thus persuaded,
and believing that the ‘belle in white lace’ wished to speak to me, I rallied
my thoughts and resolved to discover her identity as soon as possible. Alas I
knew that the task would be tricky because I had only two clues to go on; her
appearance, and an elusive aroma, but to hamper me further I now held the rank
of stationmaster and would have to apply discretion. Polite society allows
little latitude for private investigation.
It was not long before
the belle’s delightful bouquet was supplanted by the vile breath of a
work-stained pig farmer, a man so determined to cause me apprehension that he
interposed my gaze with his rutted face, point blank.
“My name is Smethwick,”
he grated even louder, causing his latest recitation to reverberate off the
goods shed wall.
I stood back. The
cove’s mantra, uttered thrice and now painfully loud, had become the pluck of a
taut wire. Nevertheless I continued to demonstrate that the magic word
‘Smethwick’ invoked no terror. In truth it invoked great terror but I held my
ground.
Begrudgingly, and quite
suddenly, Smethwick lowered his voice and became bent. At last he appeared amenable
to civil dialogue, the matter of our relative social standing being settled. Yes,
his local stationmaster had got the better of him.
“Why are my pigs still
here?” he asked. “I have a buyer expecting them in Blodcaster.”
“Well, Mr Smethwick,” I
replied stoutly, “the company is not at liberty to convey your pigs out of the
district until the swine fever alert is over. Therefore I advise you to remove
your livestock forthwith so that we may disinfect the pen.”
Somewhere beneath the
congealed tufts of Smethwick’s beard was a chin. It lifted with hastily
gathered pride and I could see that the farmer was loth to cooperate with an
imposition of such inconvenience. So pugnacious was he that my stance rekindled
his anger and induced him to fisticuffs. As I peered through his raised
knuckles I observed perspiration gathering like gnats, and eyes growing
obsidian with rage. Should he dare to punch a pillar of the community such as
I he knew that he would have to explain his actions to a magistrate so he
moderated his anger and body-barged me instead. Unharmed, but calculating him
to be infested with fleas, I took a precautionary step backwards.
“Swine fever be damned,”
he railed me. “Stationmaster Mildenhew would have known better than accuse me,
a Smethwick, of taking sick stock to market. Just who do you think you are?”
“Horace Ignatius Jay,” I
replied loftily, after an extrinsic pause.
Smethwick reached into
his waistcoat and produced a crinkled company docket. He staggered forward
with it and I stepped back again. He staggered forward a second time and I
stepped back a third time. This cavort continued until the equal of a minuet.
Then, as if startled by something, the belligerent cove halted abruptly and became
slumped with defeat. Realising that he was finally beaten he librated
pathetically. Quite irrationally, I felt sorry for him and wondered if perhaps
my decision would ruin his livelihood.
“I had a buyer!” his futile
voice punctured the stillness of the station one last time.
Again the farmer’s
protest twanged back from nearby brickwork, but this time I found him so
pitiful that I extended my hand in sympathy.
This was a mistake. The
cur boiled at my condescension and spat in the direction of my boots.
“This docket constitutes
an agreement and you have reneged on it,” he warned me. “You’ll pay for this,
Jay. I’ve a long memory.”
His venom discharged,
the contemptuous Smethwick collected his crook and stormed off. When there was
a safe distance between us I hailed him a few home truths.
“You have advanced no
monies to the company, Smethwick, and I have no doubt you were warned that your
ticket might be rescinded. Own up, sir. You attempted to break the law. Take
your pigs and go, and next time see to it that you conduct your business while
sober.”
It appeared that my last
remark was a mistake. The pig breeder turned and glared at me with furious
astonishment, his colour rising as quickly as Jack Wheeler’s was draining, and
all in a silence so intense that I could hear the fellow’s bronchial wheeze a
good twenty yards away. The farmer stuffed the nullified railway docket into
his waistcoat, somewhat theatrically to demonstrate his intention to pursue the
matter, then turned unsteadily towards the cattle pens. As he drove his pigs
into Stoney Way I wondered what I had said to devastate him so. Mr Wheeler
sidled up to me to explain.
“You shouldn’t ’ave said
that, Mr Jay,” he confided ruefully. “You shouldn’t ’ave told ’im ’e was
drunk.”
“Why ever not, Mr
Wheeler? The scoundrel is manifestly intoxicated.”
“No ’e isn’t,” Mr
Wheeler came back. “I was trying to warn you, sir. Smethwick’s got something
wrong with ’is ’ead.” The clerk delivered these words with a series of
compulsive winks after which his face collapsed into a slanted frown.
Recovering from the seizure, he explained: “What you didn’t take into account,
sir, is that Smethwick’s a twisted man. ’Is wife ran off with a master mariner.”