Authors: James Smiley
A Station In Life (34 page)
“A long time ago, when I
did not know myself, I was engaged to be married,” I summarised the whole
affair. “This ring simply reminds me of a lucky escape.”
“Did not know yourself?”
Élise queried me.
“I am like Spook,” I
explained, forcing a smile. “Overenthusiastic in all things and so best kept
on a leash. This ring is the leash.”
“Horace, I cannot
believe a gentleman of your sensibility has thoughts which require censoring,”
she gasped.
“Oh but I do,” I unburdened
myself. “Consequently I was jilted by a woman who taught me how delusional I
was to believe that I understood the female perspective. My hubris did not spring
from disrespect of the fairer sex, you understand. Quite the reverse, in
fact.”
Upon hearing this,
Élise’s countenance of concern yielded to amused bewilderment, but I did not
mind.
“As far as I can see,
Horace, your only miscalculation has been to renounce yourself,” she remarked
delicately. “Tell me, what is it that you perceive the female perspective to
be?”
Élise’s invitation was too
personal and heartfelt to decline and I found myself answering boldly.
“I had thought that
companionship and fidelity were valued above all other virtues, and that female
principles could not be made malleable by pecuniary gain or self aggrandisement,”
I declared. “Perhaps such qualities are simply rare. If so, they are
certainly too rare to be stumbled upon by a fool like me.”
Élise became haughty.
“If I understand you
correctly, Horace,” she erupted, “you have reached and recklessly discarded an
appreciation of women which few men even strive for.”
Her frosty tone rang out
like a reprimand and shook us both. Spontaneous laughter resulted.
“And as for the woman
who gave you that ring,” she added, steadying herself, “I would venture to
suggest that she would not fall over a gentleman of acuity even if she found
one lying in the street.”
“Lying in the street?” I
puzzled, the punch having dulled both our wits.
Our laughter dissipated
to an awkward silence and we resumed sipping our drinks delicately. At this
moment Diggory returned from the garden and reported that a thaw was well
underway, increasing my unease about not returning to the railway. Élise
stirred.
“Oh, I must check the
mince pies,” she declared and hurried to the kitchen.
Diggory and I attended
to the Christmas tree, which had become lop-sided, then I followed to its
source the smell of beef and apple seasoned with ginger and cinnamon.
“I do hope you like your
mince pies spicy,” said Élise, wrapping a towel around her hand to extract six of
them from the oven.
“Indeed I do,” I lied.
She inspected the pies
and returned them to the heat, closing the oven door with a decisive clunk.
‘So, you think of me as
a gentleman of acuity, dear Élise,’ I reflected privately while admiring her
hourglass figure.
“I beg your pardon,
Horace?” she responded.
Terror struck. Either
Élise was a mind reader or I was unwittingly voicing my thoughts. She
straightened up with a mischievous twinkle and invited me to explain my bold
advance. There was no escape so I braced myself
‘Horace, you must not be
afraid. It is now or never.’
“What did you say just
then, Horace? I did not quite hear,” she teased me.
With a pounding heart I declared
my feelings.
“Élise… there is a gentleman
of acuity, perhaps not lying in the street, who would welcome your hand in
marriage. Should you consider him worthy.”
I felt like a coward who
had lit the fuse of a bomb. Now I could only wait.
Élise disposed of her
oven cloth and waited for me to recover my breath, then she removed her
pinafore with a quizzical smile.
“Why, Horace, are you
proposing to me?” she asked, horrifying me that I would have to light the fuse
again.
Ignoring the ring burning
my finger and the wilting heat of the stove, I finished the job.
“Yes,” I replied stoutly.
Bang! I could have
eaten every spicy mince pie in Widdlecombe.
“Come,” Élise beckoned me
with a businesslike gesture, taking my hand.
A little shocked, I
followed her to the parlour where she halted me beneath the kissing ball.
“My answer is to be
found in yuletide tradition,” she smiled encouragingly.
I do not recall if
Diggory was present, or Spook, but I will never forget the feeling of Élise’s
soft lips pressing fondly against mine. It was a kiss so charged with
affection that afterwards I felt pleasantly peculiar and could think only of this
moment of intimacy.
“Dear Horace, until I
met you I did not believe I could ever feel this way again,” she whispered over
my shoulder as we hugged.
“I realise now that I am
new to love,” I replied.
Élise separated from me
gently.
“It is customary for the
gentleman to give the lady a ring at this point,” she reminded me. “Your
romantic designs leave something to be desired if you have come here
unprepared.”
“Dear Élise, even if my
plans had been this ambitious we should still be talking about the weather,” I confided.
“Nevertheless, we can remedy the shortfall very quickly by taking a trip to
London once the line is clear.”
“Good idea, Horace, but
perhaps there is an interim measure which would betoken our engagement
perfectly, by laying to rest a ghost,” she suggested.
I understood her at
once.
“You would wear this
ring?” I asked, raising my hand.
“I think the occasion
demands it,” she assured me. “Though I suspect it might fit a little loose.”
I transferred the ring
to Élise’s outstretched finger and a symbol of oppression became a symbol of
elation.
“Now I understand why the
betrothed shout their joy from the rooftops,” I said.
Instantly I was
cautioned.
“Horace, we need not be
secretive, but making a fool of yourself on the station roof will serve no
purpose. Our time will be better spent making plans, I think. First I must
write to my sister in Paris, and you must find yourself a trustworthy groomsman
to guard against those strange thoughts of yours.”
I grinned broadly at
this foretaste of the comradely strictures.
Boxing day dawned with a
sparkle and I, having slumbered little, heard the Mail train clattering high
upon Widdlecombe bank. I dressed myself and gathered my belongings to catch it
upon its return from Giddiford. After breakfast I kissed my betrothed upon the
forehead and set off for Widdlecombe station with Diggory and Spook, scarcely
able to believe my good fortune.
Chapter Twenty-Nine — A station in
life
The thoroughfares of
Widdlecombe station had been cleared of slush and the platforms were glistening.
I found Stationmaster Caxton in the Telegraph room with a large broom propped
against his chair, scribbling down a lengthy signal. Caxton had no time for
conversational trifles and did not enquire how I spent Christmas, his interest being
only in Boxing Day and the state of the train services.
“I’m afraid the
timetable isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on today,” he greeted me, his dark
veins and sunken eyes evidence of heavy drinking. “But if you’re going to
Upshott, Mr Jay, you’re in luck. I reckon you’ve only about ten minutes to
wait.”
I nodded respectfully
and returned to the platform where I found Diggory teaching Spook elementary
obedience in the long shadow of a lineman splicing wires atop a telegraph
pole. Between the new platform and the original was the serrated grey channel
that had been gouged out by the Mail train, evidence that the SER’s prompt
commencement of services owed much to Driver Hiscox’s persistence. I opined
thus to Mr Caxton as he joined me in a shaft of pallid sunshine beneath a bare
cherry tree.
There was an awkward
aspect to this stationmaster. In conversation the fellow’s taciturn nature
tempted most of us to fill embarrassing silences with whatever sprang to mind, which
was an ill advised response, and forgetting this I asked if he had enjoyed
Christmas. Unleashed upon me was his every woe, each stemming mainly from having
too many children and too little money, and I was denied the joys of life for a
good twenty minutes of the ten I spent with him.
Relief came in the form
of a column of pure white steam billowing skyward above the greying mounds of
snow produced by Hiscox’s plough. Having bid Caxton a hasty goodbye I strode
to the far end of the platform and met the incoming train, wincing as its short
rake of carriages squealed obstinately to a halt. Boarding a cold, damp
compartment I was compelled by an unpleasant odour to take a seat by a window where
I lowered the glass for ventilation and leaned out to observe Mr Caxton’s
‘right away’ technique. The first thing I saw was the Guard greeting Diggory
and Spook with lively seasonal cheer, after which he looked in my direction as
if snubbed. I closed my window quickly and sank into my seat, for at present I
craved only the company of my private thoughts. Also there was the risk of
propagating my good tidings haphazardly and causing offence to close colleagues.
Not one fare-paying
passenger was aboard this train’s little green-and-white carriages as it
lurched through the wintry countryside, its misted windows making a magic
lantern show of the moor. Meringues of snow thawing beneath gnarled oaks of dripping
glass, pines shedding white cakes in the shimmy of a passing train, milky
undulations ruffled and curled with crystal overhangs decaying into toothy
caverns — all was presented through streaming condensate and falling clods of
steam. An entire world was dissolving like a lover’s solitude.
Upon arrival at Upshott,
where the altitude had extended the snow’s tenure, I was met by Humphrey
crunching the hillside’s icy crust in fur lined boots. To be here at this hour
the porter had clearly risen in the small hours to catch the Mail train.
“Enjoy Christmas over at
Widdlecombe, did e, sir?” he asked, taking my bag with a ruddy smile.
“You shall hear all
about it when I return from my quarters, Humphrey,” I replied crisply.
As Diggory joined us the
porter crouched and patted Spook.
“My, what a splendid
collar,” he remarked. “I reckons ol’ Jack’ll soon have this dapper little gent
posted in the Goods shed a catchin’ rats.”
“Which is how I intend
to justify his presence,” I added.
“It’ll take more than a
few dead rats to justify Jack’s presence,” Humphrey warbled, putting my wits to
the test.
Upon reaching the top of
the stairs to my quarters I chanced to glimpse an open door. I halted and looked
into the unused room beyond it. Standing guard over a realm of broken chairs,
rolls of out-dated posters, carbolic jars and boxes of obsolete tickets, was a
manikin in a moth-eaten porter’s uniform. The hand-painted character appeared
as daunted as I at the prospect of clearing away all the clutter, but it would
have to be done if the room was to be redecorated as part of my married
quarters.
Later on, while
patrolling the platforms in my top-hat and frock-coat, I returned to Humphrey
to impart my good news. Together we watched William Troke and Cuthbert Swain remove
slush from the sidings, and Ivor Hales de-ice points and pulleys with warm
oil. When all the pleasantries were exchanged, I announced my betrothal.
“I have offered Mrs
Smith my hand in marriage,” I declared smugly.
My lack of preamble hampered
Humphrey and he gave me a quizzical stare.
“And what was the lady’s
reply?” he enquired eventually.
“Well now, Humphrey, to
cut a long story short, she said yes,” I replied.
The porter congratulated
me but did not enquire of my needs so I set about dropping the necessary hints.
“You know, Humphrey, it
is at a time like this that a gentleman regrets not having a brother or long
standing friend to whom he can turn. Take myself, for example; I could very
much do with a secondman to guide me to the nuptials.” I paused with a deedy
eye cast upon my colleague. “By the way, dear fellow, what do you think of a
watering resort for the bridal tour? Perhaps somewhere right here in the West
country would suit. Tell me, if you were my bride, would Weston-Super-Mare
appeal?”
The porter exploded with
laughter.
“Well now, Mr Jay, I’d
like not to dwell on that notion, if you please, but I reckons there be a
strong likelihood that Mrs Jay will want to be a crossin’ the water after the
weddin’.”
“I say, Humphrey, your
insight does you great credit,” I replied, flattering the porter and enjoying
his use of the phrase ‘Mrs Jay’. I patted him upon the back. “Of course, my
beloved will wish to introduce me to her relatives. Do you know, this is
exactly the kind of wisdom that one expects from a groomsman. I just hope I
can find one.”
Humphrey affected a
cough and I pretended not to hear it.
“Arr, a solitary man of
your standin’ might find this a vexin’ question, right enough,” he concurred.
“The trick of it is to
find a man I can trust,” I said. “It would not matter how long I had known the
fellow, but I think he should be local. Why, even a colleague would suffice.”
Humphrey coughed again,
and again I did not hear him. This was a most amusing game.
“Mr Jay,” he addressed
me abruptly in a laboured voice, “do e be askin’ I for to do it?”
“Good heavens, what a
capital idea!” I gasped. “Of course, Humphrey, you would make an ideal
manservant for my big day. I cannot think why I failed to see it. You see? You
have come up with two commendable ideas in as many minutes. What say you
then?”
“I would be honoured, Mr
Jay,” he replied, adding sardonically, “as long as you think a mere colleague
would suffice.”
The porter lured me into
an exchange of cat-like grins then shook my hand.
Later in the day, Élise
knocked upon my office door and entered with plans for our wedding day. She
was not as excited as one would have expected, her demeanour being somewhat
melancholic, so I enquired if something had upset her.
“Oh, I am just being
silly,” she replied.
“Well, if you will
furnish me with all the details I should like to be silly with you,” I
commiserated and ushered her to a seat.
She complied with a
faint smile.
“It is my harp,” she
explained. “I had intended to have it repaired before moving into the station
but I found it to be riddled with insects. Woodacott is so very damp and the
instrument is quite ruined.”
While I struggled to
find words of comfort, Élise took a deep breath and removed her gloves in
businesslike fashion.
“Now, Horace, how about
June?” she suggested. “I have given the matter much consideration and I
believe the perfect date is the Ninth of June. What do you think? Is June not
a calm month for Channel crossings?”
I cast my eye towards
the ring upon her finger and smiled anxiously.
“Well then, it is
settled. The happiest day of my life is to be the Ninth of June,
Eighteen-Seventy-Five,” I replied, consulting my calendar and noting that it
was a Wednesday.
“I shall invite my
sister and her husband, of course,” she advised me, “and Diggory shall give me
away.”
Having set aside a date
for us to go to Hatton Garden to buy a more appropriate engagement ring, which
I wanted to be a surprise, I prepared to divert our conversation to other
matters should it become necessary.
“If we are to marry in
Upshott, Élise, then you shall have to join the congregation of Saint Martha,”
I advised extraneously.
“Of course, Widdlecombe has
only a chapel,” she nodded, perplexed that I should so stridently state the
obvious. “Now, Horace,” she recovered airily, gathering her gloves, “the shop
has proved very popular so I must hurry back at once.”
I escorted Élise to the
forecourt where she halted unexpectedly. Having planned to sub let Woodacott
until the wedding, using it to accommodate her sister and family, she now
proposed an alternative arrangement.
“Oh, and Horace,” she
gusted, “I have calculated that it will be cheaper to pay for Dorine and Claude
to stay at the Lacy Arms for the wedding. The new rent makes Woodacott too
expensive to retain.”
It was a joy to see
Élise so filled with designs for her future, and by the third reading of the
banns we had formed a most capable alliance.
The day of our wedding
dawned with a blush and wafting summer breeze, the stone children atop
Splashgate Hill playing hand-in-hand as ever. After passing my keys to a
relief stationmaster from Barnstaple, sleep deficit tugging my eyelids, I
handed myself to Humphrey. Clearly prepared for all eventualities, the first
thing the porter did was fetch me a tumbler full of what looked and tasted like
muddy water. This I was advised to sip slowly.
“My misses invented
this’un,” he boasted. “It’ll liven up your mind while a sluggin’ down your
nerves.”
Imbibing such a contradictory
formulation caused me a little apprehension but I was too effete to argue with
the fellow.
To my surprise,
Humphrey’s ghastly remedy worked. Simultaneously it lifted my eyelids and lowered
my apprehension of the ceremony. Indeed it induced a detached state of mind
close to euphoria and rendered me entirely dependent upon the Senior porter’s judgement.
So agreeable was its effect that had I left for church with my shoes pointing
backwards I should have thought it funny. The potion affected its zenith while
I was at the altar waiting for Élise, all manner of fantasies diverting me. It
occurred to me that I was dreaming, and I whispered to myself that I was a
buffoon to dress so lavishly while in bed; the next that I was delusional,
Élise never having agreed to marry me, causing regret that the people of
Upshott had turned out to witness my disappointment yet amusement at their
futile camaraderie.
The stout stone pillars
and little arched windows of Norman origin came to the rescue, the gravitas of their
masonry, cold as moonlight, causing me to look over my shoulder. The small
church was a meadow of bonnets and expectant faces, shafts of dusty sunshine
lifting them all from the Masonic gloom. Thus I comprehended that the Belle in
White Lace would leave here as my wife, my life changed for ever.
My heart summersaulted when
the organist turned a page and began playing
Mendelssohn
's Wedding March, the pedals and
bellows of his instrument voicing louder than the pipes, and I dared not look
when Humphrey remarked how ‘handsome’ was the bride. Instead I fixated upon
the vicar in his world of stained glass light, the sniffing harlequin who would
make my dream come true.
Of the matrimonial
ceremony, all I recall is the Reverend’s intermittent drone and nudges from
Humphrey when I failed to reciprocate in timely fashion, and shivering when I
learned that I would answer for all my sins upon the ‘dreadful day of judgment’
when all the secrets of the heart are disclosed. During the words
‘Wilt
thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance
in the holy estate of Matrimony?’
I received a particularly severe nudge for
answering prematurely.
‘Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep
her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others keep thee only unto
her, so long as ye both shall live?’
“I
will,” I answered a second time.
Élise
made no such mistake while taking her vows.
“Who
giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?” the Reverend asked aloud, causing
Diggory to step forward nervously.