A Station In Life (9 page)

“Tomorrow, perhaps?” I
suggested.

Still Mr Maynard said
nothing.

I examined the fellow’s
gaunt profile for a clue to his silence and noticed that his milky eye was
fixed lifelessly on the distance.

“Mr Maynard?” I tootled
in his ear to regain his attention.  “I do believe I should like to inspect
your horses tomorrow, if you will.”

The Horse Superintendent
broke his gaze abruptly and turned to me with a willing smile.

“I’m sorry, Mr Jay,” he
apologised.  “I thought you’d gone.  Of course, come tomorrow.”  Pointing a
sinewy finger to the side of his head he explained: “Fraid I’m a trifle deaf in
my right ear, don’t you know.  Ruptured eardrum, apparently.  Touch of
artillery damage during the Crimea campaign when I served as a powder monkey.”

I wondered if he had
suffered a direct hit.

“By and by, Mr Jay, I
should be proud to show you my draught horses.  Ay, and the baton mounts too.”

With the 12.32pm
Giddiford passenger train due, Jack Wheeler began issuing tickets through his
window as if they were sweetmeats while Humphrey Milsom brought his
conversational personality and infectious laughter to passengers as he helped
them across the footbridge with their baggage.

Diggory and Snimple,
assisting a local gentleman bound for London, carried trunks dutifully from a
hackney carriage to Platform Two.  Capital bound trains had an air of
importance about them and would always receive prior ‘right away’, the incoming
service with its mainline connection at Giddiford Junction being no exception.

Observing the railway’s
diversity of patrons, ranging from peasants with chickens to dapper dandies and
pillars of the community succeeded by the usual entourage of baggage bearing servants,
I knew that the loftier strata of society would remain aloof.  They regarded
fraternising with railway staff as unseemly and would converse only with a
stationmaster, sans pleasantries, when his power over their dealings made it
necessary.  While in London I had overheard my vocation likened to that of a
vulgar tradesman living above his shop.

It was while watching
all this activity around the station that I noticed something out of place.  A
balding man, short and well dressed with a pince-nez perched upon his nose, was
loitering with a newspaper spread before him by the Booking hall entrance.  He
appeared to be anxious about something and lowered his paper surreptitiously at
frequent intervals to look around.  During one such reconnoitre he paused and
stared with disturbing intensity in my direction, his focus indiscernible, and
very soon his demeanour changed from anxiety to anger.  I decided to approach
him to see if I could be of assistance.

As I neared the
mysterious man he stepped forward and received Rose Macrames unexpectedly as
she came out of the Booking hall.  It was clear from their behaviour that the
two were acquainted, so I slowed my pace and loitered within earshot.  From
here I overheard an angry exchange of words and saw Rose stare down at the
bookish dwarf, whom I imagined to be a clerk or scribe of some kind, with fear
and disdain.  The antagonist removed his lenses and revealed tiny black eyes
which countered her stare in venomous stillness.  I recall his words well.

“You were quick out of
the trap this time, Rosie; he’s only been here five minutes,” he sneered with
cold, staccato cruelty.  “But don’t worry, he’ll soon be in no position to help
you.”

At this point a gusty wind
picked up, driving Upshott wood into wild undulations, and I could hear no more
of the intriguing conversation, only the distant clatter of the approaching
train tossed playfully as if to make sport of its arrival.  Puzzled by what I
had heard, I returned to my duties.

As I made off I stumbled
over a three-wheeled perambulator which the stonemason’s wife, Mrs Mitchell,
was rocking to sedate her baby.  I fear my clumsiness undid her work, and after
apologising I gazed under the fluttering lace hood of the conveyance and forced
a smile.

“How old is the mite?” I
enquired politely.

“Charity will be three
months tomorrow,” she told me proudly.  “Isn’t she pretty?”

“Delightful,” I sighed.

In truth I had seen more
delightful turnips but honesty is not the best policy of a stationmaster paid
to spread contentment.

It was on my first day
in charge of Upshott that I became acquainted with Doctor Bentley, the village
physician.  He was an appointee of the benevolent Lord Lacy.  The doctor was
standing betwixt his eldest son and Mrs Bentley, grappling with a windswept
copy of The Times.  Glancing up from his tangled newspaper, having recognised
me as the new stationmaster, his glare of frustration yielded to an artificial
smile.  Without hesitation he strutted towards me and introduced himself with a
prolonged and savage handshake.

“We’re off to Blodcaster
market, Jay,” he advised me, his larynx crunching like gravel.

Releasing me from his
clammy grip at last, Doctor Bentley stared into my eyes with a furrowed brow as
if filled with compassion, and for a moment I thought he was going to diagnose
me as incurable.

“Doubtless you are
wondering why my spouse and I are waiting for the Giddiford train?” he
surmised.

The puzzle had not
occurred to me.  Nevertheless, the outrageously pink gentleman broke into a
superior grin and revealed the answer.

“I have a nephew in
Giddiford who wishes to join us,” he explained.  “So we are making the round
trip aboard this train.  My nephew will be waiting with his nanny at the
station.”

“Bravo, an ingenious use
of the railway,” I applauded the doctor, having been forewarned of his peculiar
brand of arrogance.

I doffed my hat to Mrs
Bentley, whom the doctor had omitted to introduce, and prepared to move on.  To
recapture my attention, the fellow waved his copy of The Times before my face.

“So, what do you think
of ‘Dizzy’ then?  If anyone can resuscitate Her Majesty’s interest in State
affairs, he can.  What?”

“I cannot fathom whether
Disraeli is a man with a dream or merely a dreamer,” I responded neutrally.  With
the doctor frowning at me disapprovingly, I continued unabashed.  “Disraeli
would have us overlook the many reforms that have taken place under Gladstone. 
However, I am unqualified to express an opinion on such matters.”

“Dah!  Few people are,”
the doctor agreed robustly.  “Which is why the vote is reserved for men of
substance.  Gentlemen like me, who have ventured beyond the parish boundary and
can spell their names.  Never mind, Jay, you may take my word for it, Gladstone
fights shy of foreign affairs.  An empire does not run itself.”

It was pompous of Doctor
Bentley to suppose that I was unequal to the ballot box.  I was tempted to
remind him that in Parliament just seven years earlier, greater minds than his
had granted all gentlemen of responsibility, including stationmasters, a voice
at the poll.  Indeed, I had only recently cast my very first vote, having
missed the opportunity to do so in Eighteen-Sixty-Six.

Dispensing a perfunctory
smile, I took my leave of the doctor before tempers were lost.  Of greater
imperative, if not importance, was the completion of the platform work. 
Excavations, spoil and loose slab-stones were proving perilous to passengers
and giving rise to complaints from those it did not behove a stationmaster to displease.

While diverting
passengers my thoughts returned to the matter of Rose Macrames and the bookish
dwarf, causing me to wonder what their conversation had been about to effect
such hostility.  Later I consulted porter Milsom about the matter, but despite his
vast local knowledge he knew nothing of the dwarf beyond having seen him
occasionally in Blodcaster.  He did heighten my interest in Rose, however, with
these words:

“I don’t know why, Mr
Jay, but that Macrames woman be in and out all day pesterin’ everyone with
questions about the railway.  Do e suppose she be a studyin’ the subject?”

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Chapter
Eight —
Downhill struggle

Lacy had something of a
face, and an impudent one at that.  The engine’s port-hole style windows resembled
eyes, and its tall chimney looked like the nose of an aristocrat.  With the
regulator shut off, Lacy’s piston rods slapped like tired feet as it trundled
into the station.

The locomotive rested
gratefully while my porters moved in to open the regiment of wooden doors
behind it, most of which were locked.  The practise of locking passengers
aboard trains was a legacy from the days when rustic folk with no understanding
of speed would try to alight between stations.  Company records showed that the
South Exmoor’s very first public train had been blighted by the death of a
woman who, while travelling in an open Third class carriage, had attempted to
retrieve her hat from the lineside after it blew off.  More recently a local
farmer had lost his leg to a signal post when he stepped off a train to speak
with a neighbour waiting at a crossing.

The train’s two guards
handed down parcels, carboys, and cages of domestic fowl from the brake van
while Driver MacGregor, anxious not to miss the starting flag, leaned
precariously from the footplate to see past the crowds milling about upon the
platform.

When all the passengers
had boarded I blew my pea-whistle, its trill painful enough at close quarters
to scatter lingering well-wishers and bystanders, then raised my arm to start
the train.  With my whistle echoing back from Splashgate hill and a green flag
fluttering in the Guard’s hand, Driver MacGregor ‘popped’ Lacy’s whistle and
opened the regulator.  It seemed to me as a railwayman that an excessive head
of steam had been built up for the downhill run to Giddiford, for Lacy’s safety
valve was blowing noisily, but MacGregor lived by his own rules so I kept my
observations to myself.  A few seconds later the locomotive was woofing softly
into motion along Fallowfield embankment, the little carriages in its wake jostling
each other boisterously.

As the Guard rode by in
his cabin at the rear of the train I handed him a wooden box containing a jar
of goat’s milk and a basket of eggs.  These comestibles, which were the produce
of Upshott station, I had marked ‘free of charge’ to be delivered to the
stationmaster at Giddiford Junction in accordance with a custom begun by Mr
Mildenhew.

Now that the train had
removed the outbound passengers, my staff and I were faced with a small but
demanding number of arrivals from Busy Linton and Blodcaster.  By the look of
them, most had been shopping or bartering while others were clearly on more
important business.  All would require handling in strict ‘pecking order’ lest
there be an outrage.

Among those who had
stepped off the train were six railway labourers.  When I enquired of their
purpose their foreman handed me a job sheet authorising his men to dig out
Platform One using tools obtained from the Platelayer’s hut.  With Jack Wheeler
calling me urgently from the opposite platform I returned the document without detailed
scrutiny and left the gang to commence their work.

Making my way across the
footbridge I encountered my Booking clerk coming the other way, smelling as
though he had been embrocated in lamp oil.

“Mr Jay, sir, we ’ave to
record one more drum of oil as ’aving been stolen,” he informed me gravely,
adding with a gurgle of delight, “but it aint been stolen yet!”

I halted abruptly.

“I have no time for
riddles, Mr Wheeler?” I cautioned him.

“Bait,” Jack explained. 
“We’ve put out a drum where it’ll easily be took.  But it’ll be the last one to
go.  The culprit won’t come back for more.  Not after a dose of this one.”

“I cannot sanction the putting
of company property at risk,” I responded gravely.

“This particular drum
aint no good to the company no more, sir.  We’ve spiked it,” Jack confided. 
“You did say we could go ahead, Mr Jay.”

“Regrettably,” I
concurred, pondering the price of Jack’s resourcefulness.  “I think you had
better explain to me exactly what you have done.”

This was a mistake.  At
once I was peppered with the kind of specious scientific twaddle that only another
Jack Wheeler would understand.

“Simple as pie,” he
serenaded me.  “You won’t believe this, Mr Jay, but according to a book I read,
North American savages communicate over long distances using telegraph signals
made of smoke.  And that’s ’ow we’re going to stop our oil ration from being
plundered.  We’re going to smoke the thief out.”

“Jibberish,” I snapped. 
“Savages would have no idea how to erect telegraph poles, even if by some
witchcraft they could make smoke travel down the wires.  You should be more
careful what you read, Jack.”

I waved Wheeler away but
he ducked.

“Wires don’t come into
it,” he advised me tetchily.

“I trust the spiked lamp
oil will not harm anyone?” I cautioned him with resignation gaining the upper
hand.

“Oh no, Mr Jay,” he came
back emolliently.  “Me and Tom ’ave tested it.”

Boasting the complicity
of Tom Turner, a man afflicted with tropical sleeping sickness, did little to
elicit my confidence but there was no stopping Jack now.

By the time Lacy
returned with the 1.08pm ‘up’ train the workmen had reduced Platform one to the
same parlous condition as Platform two.  There were ugly trenches everywhere. 
I was standing over one of them, wondering what to do about passenger safety,
when I saw Doctor Bentley smiling at me knowingly from a carriage window.  His
affectations did not deceive me so I returned him an equally knowing smile of
pointed brevity.  The practitioner, confident that he had gained the
psychological advantage over me, doubtless now intended to recommend that I
refer to him the victims of railway accidents and passengers taken sick aboard
trains.  I suspected that by this patronage he fancied I would seek to improve
upon my standing with him.

Driver MacGregor
approached me and raised his tartan tammy in salutation.

“Theers a carpet o’
mushrooms on Fallowfield common, Mr Jay,” he confided with his orange eyes
bulging.  “Worth a visit, I’d say.  They look like Blushers, they do.”

I thanked him for his
tip but made no plans to have any picked.  Blushers are too easily mistaken for
toadstools.  The Market goods was clearly going to lose time on its return
journey, but I had no authority over footplatemen so I concluded our
conversation tersely.

“You have a copy of the company
rule book, I suggest you read it.”

With a wave over
MacGregor’s shoulder I authorised his train to leave and he raced to the footplate
to set Lacy barking at the gradient.  In the drifting smoke and steam I thought
I could smell freshly harvested mushrooms sizzling upon a fireman’s shovel.

Vexed by my snub,
MacGregor opened Lacy’s regulator too quickly and caused his engine to lose
adhesion on the rails.  With its wheels spinning and its connecting rods
gyrating he applied the sprinkler, but the sand was damp and a volcano of
sparks erupted from the chimney.  Passengers of every social standing scattered
from the falling embers.  Little arsonists disguised as fairies floated down
upon bonnets, hats and wigs and ignited a bundle of newspapers.  Of necessity I
ignored the rapidly growing ring of flames and rushed to the assistance of a
lady whose screams, it turned out, belied the extent of her singe.  Nevertheless
I was obliged to pacify her while burning newspapers threatened an adjacent
wooden shelter.

Despite the terror
MacGregor had caused by his carelessness it was with utter contempt for haste
that he shut off steam to his fruitlessly chugging engine, and with no sense of
urgency did he apply the brake to halt his six carriage train when it began to
roll backwards.  Had the Guard in the rear van not applied the axle-brake
promptly, requiring a large hand-wheel to be spun furiously, there would have
been a notifiable incident.

Humphrey poured a bucket
of sand over the burning newspapers and examined a scorched copy of Trewman’s
Exeter Flying Post to see if it contained anything interesting.  Meanwhile I
hurried to the locomotive to express my irritation.  With an unlit briar-root
projecting from his beard, MacGregor leaned unfussed from the footplate and
absolved himself of all blame, making his fireman the scapegoat.  ‘Morgan the
Fire’, as he was known, was hurling coal into the dangerously overheated
firebox to cool it, his face featureless in the white heat.

“Yeed nay ken he’s from
the valleys,” the Scotchman complained.  “The coof’s blown holes in the
firebed.”

Baffled by the
technicalities and confounded by the driver’s devilish grin, I marched away
leaving Jones cursing in his native tongue and MacGregor casually removing a
blockage from the stummel of his tobacco pipe.

On the second attempt,
Lacy pulled away smartly and was soon pounding Longhurdle, leaving in its wake
a number of angry people to be pacified.  In this endeavour my staff proved
their worth.  Humphrey’s avuncular banter did much to calm the distraught, many
of whom had been showered with sparks at the very moment they were complaining
about the dangerous state of the platforms, and I was hectored with demands for
compensation from passengers whose clothes had been scorched.  Most of the
claimants were unprincipled opportunists claiming the ruination of their
‘Sunday bests’ while able to provide no supporting evidence beyond the odd
smear of ash.  Fortunately the weather took a hand and drove the malingerers
away.

Seeking shelter myself I
settled beneath the ‘up’ platform canopy and there watched the rain sweep
down.  It much reflected my mood, for I could not understand how a station as remote
as Upshott could spawn such tumult.  I had observed more tranquillity in a mainline
terminus.

Borne upon a stiffening
breeze the downpour veered and swept under the canopy.  Driven from my
sanctuary by the storm’s fickle behaviour I tilted my hat lugubriously and
abandoned myself to the deluge, surrendering at last to Upshott’s insistence
upon unbridled disorder.  Truly I was doing my best but on my first day here, a
day which proportioned itself as a year, I was responsible for flooded platform
excavations, damage to the squire’s new carriage, complaints about there being
no market special, arriving late to introduce myself to my staff, ignorance of
the telegraph apparatus, loss of composure over a sticking safety valve, and
quite severally succumbing to romantic diversion.  Thankful that my woes
exceeded my capacity to recapitulate them, I smiled groggily.  When startled
yet again by rock blasting in the squire’s quarry, sending a swarm of drips flying
off my hat, I confess that I uttered a profanity.

For the first time in my
career I regretted not having a secret supply of, shall we say, something
stupefying from which to take the occasional nip.  Indeed, had I done so, my
bottom drawer would not have been the first in a stationmaster’s desk to chink
with a bottle and glass.  I could see now that I had been hasty in my
condemnation of men of responsibility who seek solace in alcohol.

Afraid of my limitations
I formulated a remedy.  From now on, in all things, I would press ahead mindlessly. 
The man who fears consequences, it seemed to me, risks not pressing ahead, and
only in pressing ahead lay the possibility of success.  Having decided that the
bottle comes a poor second to pressing ahead I enlarged myself upon the workmen
and instructed them, against all their protestations, to re-lay half the
slab-stones.

“You may dig up no more
than half a platform at a time,” I told them sternly.  “Passengers must be able
to navigate safely.”

Having heard this, the
disgruntled labourers stared up at me with dripping noses and dared not move. 
I reactivated them by flipping open my fobwatch and tutting.

I reflected gratefully
that no London & South Western excursion trains were due until next month
and consequently I had three hours to recuperate between trains.  During this
time I would be at liberty to seek the identity of the ‘belle in white lace’. 
Whilst frequently reproaching myself for being prone to romantic fabrications I
am bound to confess that the ladies of Exmoor were particularly difficult to exclude,
especially the one whose fleeting presence upon the ‘down’ platform had dizzied
me with her perfume and lace.  Nevertheless I had no doubt that here, as with
everywhere else I had been, I would find no advance beyond fantasy.  Unless, at
last, the attentive Rose Macrames could save my soul.

Before making enquiries,
however, I needed to write two letters to Headquarters.  In the first I would
urge the company to lay on a regular mid-morning passenger train for the casual
visitor to Blodcaster’s cattle and yarn market each Monday, and in the second, doubtless
with shaky handwriting, I would request the services of a telegraph instructor.

Having written these two
letters and tucked them in the Giddiford dispatch pouch I found myself somewhat
depleted for that hour of the day, so I tarried in my office for a while and gazed
at a map of the London and South Western Railway system mounted on the wall. 
This pastime ever induced a pleasant trance.  The ‘belle in white lace’, I felt
sure, would not leave the country while I was in this rejuvenating state of
dormancy.