A Station In Life (7 page)

As the locomotive passed
beneath us, having returned from Bessam, I glimpsed the fireman refuelling its
hungry firebox.  With each shovelful of coal he tossed through the fire-hole
the engine’s exhaust turned from white linen to dirty sacking, a rhythm which
drove Miss Macrames to the foot of the steps while I held a handkerchief to my
face.

With shouts and
gesticulations reverberating from its footplate the iron beast rumbled up to
the timber trucks and crashed into them mindlessly.  Couplings jangled and wheels
chirruped, then clouds of glistening ivory engulfed me as Lacy reversed to the
headshunt with its rake of followers.  As foaming steam curled about me and
spread away into nothingness the crew of the visiting engine cut short their
card game and returned to their own, much larger footplate in readiness to run
around the vans remaining on Platform One.  By this manoeuvre did they make up
the 8.46am goods for Blodcaster.

“Shall I wait in your
office, Horace?” Miss Macrames called to me.

Foolishly I was tempted
to grant her permission for this but company rules forbade unsupervised access
to places where confidential documents were filed so I shook my head.

“The Waiting room will
suffice,” I called back without interrupting my vigil.

Suddenly Miss Macrames
waved to me as if we had only just met and tricked my eye into lingering on her. 
With the advantage of height I could not resist forming a greater appreciation
of her attributes and the sensually confected dress that contained them.

“It’s unusual to see
Herod pulling a goods train,” she observed.  “They usually put her on the fast
Mail.”

These words cast an
immediate spell upon me, for it seemed that the Heavenly Miss Macrames understood
railways!  Cupid had joined the fray and was clearly not bound by the
Queensbury rules.

“The Bristol and Exeter
sorting train,” I confirmed with boyish excitement.

Miss Macrames emitted a titter
of triumph and left for the Waiting room.

I settled myself and
glanced at my fobwatch, noting that with Herod’s truncated goods train ready to
depart, workings were back to schedule.  Lacy’s task now was to shunt the
twenty or so timber empties to Bessam forest for loading with pine so that they
would be ready for Herod’s next visit.  Timber, most of it destined for a large
sawmill in Salisbury, was an important source of revenue for the railway.

I descended the
footbridge steps and peered around various office doors to make enquiries about
the lost parasol, then scrutinised numerous dusty nooks and crannies into which
it might have fallen.  Unable to return to Miss Macrames with good news I
widened the search beyond the station, and drafted a letter to the Lost
Property clerk at Headquarters.  Miss Macrames’ approached me again, apparently
no longer interest in her parasol.

“So how are you finding
Upshott station, Horace?” she enquired keenly.  “I know railway work is very
demanding.”

“Indeed it is, Miss
Macrames, but it is something in which a man can take great pride,” I
responded.  “I would rather serve a railway than till a squire’s land or turn
an industrialist’s wheel or claw minerals from a speculator’s pit.”

Miss Macrames gave me
another of her knowing smiles, suggesting that she found me a trifle pompous.

“I’ve told you, Horace,
call me Rose,” she reproved me mildly before regaling me further with her
knowledge of railways.  “Do you know, I read in the Cornhill that the London
& South Western railway company has negotiated purchase of the Devon &
Cornwall’s new line from Lidford to Devonport.  I expect you approve of that,
Horace?”

“I do, Miss Macrames,” I
confirmed.  “An act of Parliament approving the change of hands is in its final
stages, and is the prelude to the London and South Western’s long anticipated
London to Plymouth line.  I believe an alternative route to Brunel’s broad
gauge is much vaunted by the businessmen of Plymouth.  Broad gauge is an
inconvenient legacy to say the least.”

“Hoorah!  So the Great
Western’s monopoly over trans-Atlantic traffic is doomed,” she celebrated
unexpectedly.

Was I dreaming?  I had
not enjoyed a conversation like this since Elisabeth, back in the days when I
did not have to conduct both sides of the conversation.

I was about to applaud
Miss Macrames for her appreciation of railway affairs when a pretty young milk
maid from Harvey’s farm was ushered into the Waiting room by Humphrey Milsom.  A
freckled little thing, she curtsied dutifully and waited while Humphrey asked
me, on her behalf, if I knew of a complaint about a leaking milk churn.  Before
I could declare my ignorance of the matter, Miss Macrames rounded on her furiously.

“Can’t you see the
Stationmaster’s busy,” she squawked.

Judging by the
expression on Humphrey’s face as she shooed the timid young maid away I believe
the porter thought he was witnessing a predator chasing off a rival.  Lacking
the conceit for such a notion myself I settled my nerves and allowed Miss
Macrames to seize my attention again with a sweet smile.

“The new link will also
put an end to gauge transhipment losses at Saint David’s,” she opined
knowledgeably.

“Indeed so,” I agreed
with my wits insufficiently recovered to add anything of interest.

Humphrey rumbled a
private observation and left.  Having composed myself, I cleared my throat.

“Without the blight of
transit damage,” I said, “Ondle valley can look forward to a new era of
prosperity, for it is pitiful to see so much produce failing to reach the
markets intact?”

Had Miss Macrames been my
Elisabeth I should have made her captivating lips say that places like Ondle
valley had little to complain about, its inhabitants enjoying the benefits of
progress without the growing pains.  Railways may have brought to every class
of citizen the opportunity to travel faster than the pull of a beast but the
foundries which cast them had sundered not one soul hereabouts from the light
of day.

Once again the
imperative of railway life rented me from my thoughts.  Tipping my hat to Miss
Macrames and stepping out onto the platform I observed Herod storming
Splashgate embankment noisily, apparently having been delayed by the late
arrival of its baton rider.  I watched the engine’s thundercloud spread through
the telegraph wires and deposit a wintry snowfall upon lineside trees before
descending to erase the cattle that grazed beneath them.  Snow never thawed so
quickly, for in no time was Herod barking under Three Arch bridge and into the
deep cutting where the portal of Splashgate tunnel would turn it into a worm.

To me, this spectacle epitomised
railways, for even our humble branchline cut through nature’s toughest
obstacles to bring people together along with the fruits of their labours.  How
easily I could visualise Herod bursting into daylight at the far end of that
tunnel with its ensemble of trucks joggling undulantly alongside the dazzling,
glassy expanse of Splash lake while making its steady climb to lofty
Blodcaster.  Passing through each hamlet in turn its wagons would tap out their
steely folksong of liberation in lyrics recalling tortuous roads and highway
robbers, to remind the moorland folk of their debt of gratitude to that
despised conqueror of the wilderness, the railway navvy.

Something happened and my
blood ran cold.

I felt my bones lock as
the report from a powerful explosion bounced to and fro among the hills and
died away reluctantly, leaving me unsure which direction it had come from. 
Along with the birds in the trees and the livestock in their pens I held still
with apprehension, and into the crevice of silence so formed tumbled Mr
Milsom’s words of warning about Lacy’s sticking safety valve.

The footbridge steps seemed
impossibly steep as I floundered up them, at the top observing a giant balloon
of steam curling skywards from the treetops of Bessam forest.  I called
Humphrey.  I called so loudly and with such trepidation that my voice cracked then
failed altogether, causing Ivor Hales to throw open his window to investigate
the disturbance.

“Humphrey!” I yodelled. 
“Lacy has exploded!”

It chilled me to recall
that in my youth I had witnessed the aftermath of a boiler explosion in
Southampton and consequently understood how extremely injurious to footplatemen
such accidents were.  As a Junior clerk I had leapt from the Goods office upon
hearing that same fragor and encountered a shunting engine with its middle
section disembowelled in a mass of splayed boiler tubes.  Everything within
fifty feet had been blasted with the boiler’s scolding contents, leaving at the
centre of the swirling, eerie scene a lifeless driver and his mate.  Both men were
twisted so grotesquely by the discharge that the sight of them caused me
nightmares for months.

I hurried back down the
footbridge steps to meet Humphrey, whose normally ruddy face was now drained of
colour.  He too had been running, and at such a pace that the poor fellow
required several seconds to regain his breath before he could speak.

“What be the matter, Mr
Jay?” he wheezed at length.

“Lacy’s boiler has
burst!  Did you not hear the bang, Humphrey?  It must have been that faulty
safety valve.  We must summon helpers to the scene immediately.”

Humphrey’s colour
returned instantly and the fellow began to rock with subdued laughter.  His
face contorted, and contorted further until, finally, he convulsed openly. 
There was nothing I could do but wait for him to recover from his
uncontrollable hooting.  Obviously I was mistaken about Lacy.  Nevertheless the
matter required an explanation.

“Steady on, fellow,” I
cautioned him.

“Forgive I, Mr Jay. 
Most reprehensible,” he choked at last.  “But they’m a blastin’ over at
Splashgate quarry today.  They does it every Monday.”

Humphrey choked again
and pulled out an enormous handkerchief to blow his nose.  Too flustered to
speak, I returned to the footbridge to take another look across Bessam forest. 
A plume of steam further along the tramway revealed that Lacy was still busy
marshalling trucks at the logging station.  Relief overtook me to the extent
that I slumped against the handrail.

Another blast from the
squire’s quarry thudded and echoed back off Upshott down, causing my nerves to
knot a second time.  When I straightened up I was embarrassed to observe Ivor Hales
staring at me with a restrained grin.  However, such was my deliverance that I
began to laugh myself.  Louder, even, than Humphrey.

Back to contents page

Chapter
Six —
Woe overload

I explained to Miss
Macrames that I had been unable to locate her parasol but had alerted the Lost
Property clerk at Giddiford.  During our intercourse I heard the clatter of
wooden wheels upon cobblestones and the snort of eager horses outside the
station and realised that the squire’s coachman had returned from Bessam
forest.  I bade Miss Macrames good day and hurried through the Booking hall to
enquire how the unloading of the cabriolet had gone.  Before I could reach the
double-doors at the far end of the hall, Jack Wheeler sprang out in front of me
and blocked my way.  Ignoring the clerk’s feeble attempt to explain his rude
behaviour I squinted into the dazzling daylight of the forecourt beyond his
shoulder and beheld the silhouette of the splendid timber carriage with its
four white horses.

To improve my view, I
bypassed Wheeler and stepped outside.  Here, while waiting for my eyes to
adjust to the light, Jack resumed his dodging about with unwanted excuses and
ignored me when I clicked my tongue with irritation.  I looked at the cabriolet
a little more closely and noticed for the first time how artfully was its wood
grain exterior enhanced by pale varnish, but the persistent bobbing of my
Booking clerk’s head prevented me from seeing the entire vehicle at once. 
Although it glistened like amber in the sunshine, the horses were a different
matter.  Just as Humphrey had predicted, the team’s fetlocks and hind quarters
were caked with mud.

“Mr Albury’s coachman
would like a word with you,” Wheeler informed me furtively, settling down at
last.

“Is the cabriolet
damaged?” I enquired with a degree of resignation as to the likely reply.

“There’s a slight mark,”
Wheeler answered with a twitch.

I dismissed the clerk
and crossed the forecourt towards the carriage, lured by the coachman’s angry
stare.  After studying the vehicle at close quarters, finding the valence
scored severally, I resolved to discuss with Wheeler the meaning of the word
‘slight’.

“I will arrange to have
the conveyance cleaned and repaired at once,” I apologised to the coachman,
mindful of the claim against the company that would inevitably follow.

“I think you’ve done
enough for Mr Albury today,” he rebounded stiffly while taking to the box, and
with a crack of the whip the defaced carriage was receding.  Not greatly
pleased, I invited Wheeler to my office for a word.

With the exception of an
incoming baton rider from Giddiford, Upshott station was blissfully quiet until
the return of Herod with the local goods train.  The driver steamed Herod
through the station slowly to enable Ivor Hales to exchange batons from the
balcony of his signalbox.  Being in the box at the time I witnessed the
signalman at work and it amused me that a large off-cut of calico accompanied
him to every lever.  With this he would enswathe each handle before pulling
it.  This was a phenomenon I had seen before.  Time-served switchmen were
inclined to become very house-proud once installed in a cabin, none of them
wishing to tarnish their highly polished levers with the touch of a bare hand. 
Indeed, apart from an occasional whiff of musty air rising from the
ground-frame beneath the floorboards the cabin was thick with the smell of
polish.

Verily the signalbox was
a shrine to modern railway practise, the switching apparatus that had
previously been distributed around the station being centralised under one roof
to protect it from the elements.  The instruments seemed to be made only of
materials that could be polished to great effect; copper, brass, teak and
glass, lending the place a very scientific appearance.  Nevertheless, many of
Ivor’s instruments were new and yet to be connected.

The location of the
signalbox was such that its right-hand window overlooked the station platforms
and, this being the case, I asked Ivor if he had seen an attractive,
middle-aged woman standing upon Platform One this morning.  He had not.  He had
been sitting at the opposite window repairing Dr Bentley’s long-case clock.

“It sounds as though she
could have been anyone,” he rambled unhelpfully.  The clock chimed and he
checked it against his pocket-watch.  “Lace is popular with the ladies.  It is
a cottage industry in these parts.  Ask Diggory’s mother.  Mind you, since the
Government shut down the lace schools, foreign lace has become the more
commonplace.  I expect you don’t know which she was wearing, Mr Jay.  It would
be a clue.  Locally produced lace is far more delicate.”

“Then I believe it was
local lace she wore,” I reflected.  “For it was as fine as a dawn mist.”

“Mmm,” Ivor quavered
with a raised eyebrow.

I believe the fellow was
amused by my romantic turn of phrase.  Or perhaps, being a signalman, he was
not enamoured of the analogy.  Mist caused accidents.  A further possibility
was that he had observed Miss Macrames’ frequenting the platforms and wondered
if I was a rake, perhaps being stalked by a secret admirer.  Little did he
know, I was more likely to become the secret admirer than to inspire one.

Lacy had until 10.48am
to entrain the heavily laden timber trucks with the ‘pick-up’ goods vans to
make its return journey to Giddiford Junction, double-headed with Herod.

Rather than oversee this
operation I decided to retire to my office and deal with some paperwork, much
of which was tangled inextricably in the web of Mr Mildenhew’s incomprehensible
filing system.  I was unlocking the door apprehensively, the room beyond still
largely unfamiliar to me, when I heard the voice of Miss Macrames addressing me
from behind.  I turned and found her just a short distance away gazing at me
with a feline smile.  I doffed my hat.  Taking this as an invitation, she
closed in on me.

This time, alone with
the woman in the confines of a narrow corridor, yet another aspect of her
beauty manifested itself and again I was most agreeably struck.  Her hour-glass
figure and china blue eyes were by now quite familiar to me, along with her
swanlike neck accentuated by a black lace choker, but with her bonnet removed I
became privy to her dainty ears curtained by honey-blonde ringlets.  Against such
an explosion of intimate charm I was defenceless and yielded to a wobbly smile.

“Horace,” said she
lingeringly, “if I am to rely on railway Headquarters to recover my parasol,
should I not fill out a Lost Property form?”

“A simple letter via the
internal post will suffice, Miss Macrames,” I replied.  “And I have already
drafted one to save you the inconvenience.”

“Now Horace, I told you
to call me Rose,” she chided me playfully.  “My close friends call me Rosie. 
You may call me Rosie if you wish.”

“Rose,” I replied, selecting
the option which reminded her of my status in the community.

“But I do think I should
fill out an official form,” she insisted, intoning her request with spontaneous
frigidity.

“Then I shall fetch you
one,” I replied, wondering if I had offended her.

I opened my office door
and surveyed the filing cabinets before advancing, wondering where Mr Mildenhew
kept the forms.  Before I knew it, Rose was in the room ahead of me.  Taken
aback, yet relieved to see a warm smile returning to her face, I unseated my
top-hat and hung it upon a coat-hook.  Rose gazed blithely around my office and
remarked how grand was my desk, then complained that there was nowhere for a
visitor to sit.  I called Mr Wheeler and instructed him to fetch a comfortable
chair.

“Perhaps Mr Mildenhew
ruled like a schoolmaster,” I quipped.  “Preferring naughty porters to prostrate
themselves before him in contrition.”

Rose laughed at my
witticism, I think, although I am not entirely sure because by now I was myself
prostrate, searching the lower draws of a crammed filing cabinet in search of
Lost Property forms.  Having found them and extracted one I straightened up to
return to my desk and was astonished to behold Rose, large as life, sitting in
my seat!  Invested of harmony I cleared my throat and pretended not to notice, extending
the charade to include Jack Wheeler when he flung open the door and dragged in
a padded chair.  I ignored the clerk’s twitch of disbelief and relocated my pot
of Indian ink nonchalantly so that I could reach it from my place of exile, then
settled upon the padded chair.  The clerk backed out of the room creased with
amusement.  Feeling somewhat dysfunctional facing a beautiful woman who had enthroned
herself as a stationmaster, I dipped my pen to take the details.

Scarcely had I applied
myself when Rose, finding nowhere to set down her bonnet, handed me the
elaborately feathered accoutrement as though I should have no difficulty
dealing with it.  I did have difficulty and was compelled to hold it at arm’s
length to avoid being tickled, eventually shunting it into a siding behind Mr
Mildenhew’s aspidistra.  During which operation, truth to tell, I had a change
of heart and allowed the feathers to tickle me a little.

When I returned to the
Lost Property form, Rose responded to each question as if it were a conundrum,
exhausting me on every detail.  By the end of the exercise I was more
knowledgeable about her affairs than of my own.  I had learned that she hailed
from Blodcaster and never married.  Also that her brother had been a fireman on
the LSWR and driven the Exeter Mail train, but was now firing locomotives on
the Caledonian railway after marrying a Glaswegian, hence her understanding of
railway affairs.  Further, she described herself as an artist, but I make no
comment about this, for it was her knowledge of railways which excited me
most.  Consequently I extended our conversation in this direction somewhat at
the expense of my other duties.

I noticed Rose’s eyes
dwell upon the heavy crate that I had imported to my office after Mr Mildenhew
vacated.  I had got only as far as prising off the lid and exposing its
contents.

“I shall display it upon
my mantelpiece when I have time,” I explained when she presumed to peer inside.

“Is it a Bloomer?” she
enthused.

“How clever of you,” I
delighted.  “It is a 2-2-2 built by McConnell for the London and North
Western.  Yes, a Bloomer.  A magnificent locomotive.”

“Does it steam?” she
enquired swiftly.

“It needs but water and
crushed coal,” I boasted.

“It must be all of three
feet long.  Did you build it yourself?”

“Heavens no!  That was
an engineer in Birmingham.  But I fell in love with it, and because it had
leaking tubes and a broken firebox stay he sold it to me for a fraction of its full
value.  The poor fellow had grown too ill to fettle it, you see.  Even as a static
display its value increases annually, so you see it is both a thing of beauty
and an investment.”

“I think your
mantelpiece will collapse under the weight of it,” Rose warned me, echoing my
own concern.

After a most enjoyable
twenty minutes of conversation I completed the form and dropped it in the
Giddiford despatch pouch to indicate that our meeting was over, for I had much
to do.  However, Rose was not so easy to dislodge and resisted several polite
hints to vacate my desk.  Taking to her feet at last, she requested the return
of her flamboyant hat.  This time, when its feathers stirred me, I found remedy
in visualising farmer Smethwick pursing his lips for a kiss.  As I escorted
Rose towards the platform, another sensual female arrived to beguile me. 
Standing in the corridor much as Rose had done, but attired more seemly, was my
beloved Elisabeth.

“I’ve come to say
goodbye, Horace,” she hushed with a note of finality in her voice.

Before I could respond,
the idol of my childhood blew me a kiss and was gone beyond the corner of Mr
Phillips’s office.  I tried repeatedly to conjure her return, but she never
appeared again.

I retreated to my office
to untangle my thoughts and, it being a sultry day, I opened my window to let
in some air.  By this I was reminded of unfinished business and closed it again
promptly.  Afterwards I marched to the platforms to make an enquiry, the
business to which I allude being, of course, microbes.  The smell about which
everybody knew nothing and nobody knew everything had become more pungent than
ever and presently resembled rotten eggs.  I called out impatiently.

“Mr Wheeler, what in
Heaven’s name is that stink?”

Indecorously loud though
my enquiry was it educed no response.

I had noticed that while
it was not uncommon to see staff tending flower beds and vegetable plots during
quiet intervals there was a less common atmosphere of skulking abroad.  Most
notably, Ivor Hales was raking over some bare soil and seemed alarmed by my
interest.  Within seconds he became engaged in a struggle with a heavy sack,
appearing intent upon lodging it beneath the signalbox steps.  My suspicion was
further aroused by Jack Wheeler pretending not to be within earshot and
absconding to the coal siding.  Meanwhile, elsewhere, suddenly no one was
about.  Only the Second porter held his ground, this because he was busy
mulching a bed of bright yellow flowers with his head among the bees.

I had been unable to
ascertain this particular employee’s name, save that he answered to the
appellation of ‘Snimple’, so I addressed him thus.