by James Smiley
Once the banking engine had pushed the empty timber trucks forward into Platform One, various signals and points were set and I was able to give the ‘up’ passenger train its ‘right away’. Heads turned as the locomotive’s departing whistle spawned a string of echoes. With these tooting among the hills like a shepherd’s flute I watched the boxlike carriages clatter and sway onto Fallowfield embankment. They stamped their feet like ill disciplined soldiers until there was nought left of them but a smear of steam upon the highway crossing at Rington Road. The train finally plunged into the precipitous Upford cutting and I heaved a sigh of relief that the worst was over.
Alas, not only was my sigh premature, it was doubly misplaced.
Intending to steal a few minutes to make enquiries about the ‘belle in white lace’, as I had come to think of her, I was heading towards the station offices when a wizened old lady intercepted me claiming that her eyesight was too poor to read the train times. Like most simple souls hereabouts she was more probably illiterate, but I felt it wise to play along while beneath her raised walking stick. To my consternation the lady thrust the full edition of Bradshaw’s Universal Timetable into my hand and insisted that I read it aloud. All of it! Explaining that such an exercise was impractical I delved into the appropriate section for her and prepared to voice its contents.
Before I could utter a word I was distracted by a series of impatient whistles coming from the coal dock. I had forgotten about the pilot engine with the cabriolet in tow! Ivor Hales made one of his rare excursions from the signalbox to remedy my forgetfulness.
“What do you want done with that private horse carriage, Mr Jay?” he called.
I nodded to the signalman and shied away from the engine driver’s glare of disapproval, then looked across the platform sheepishly at the squire’s coachman who was still watching me with a deedy eye.
“About my parasol, Horace?” I heard Miss Macrames ask as she tapped me on the shoulder with singular persistence. “I can see you’re busy but I want something done the moment you’re free, please.”
Oddly, her brusque manner melted spontaneously into an enticing smile animated by fluttering eyelashes.
Returning my attention to the wizened old lady, whose ill contrast sobered me before another fantasy could take hold, I handed back the railway timetable and suggested that she consult Humphrey Milsom. This settled, though little else, I trudged across the ballast to the waiting locomotive. This was Number 205, bearing the bronze nameplate ‘Lacy’, and was a Beattie well-tank engine of the 2-4-0 wheel arrangement. The locomotive was on extended lease from the London & South Western and its driver, a stocky fellow with flame red hair and an explosion of a beard, was scratching his head through a tartan Tam o’ Shanter while staring at me quizzically. From his pose I sensed that I had overlooked something important and it caused me great foreboding as I approached the footplate. To mask my doubts, I smiled upwards innocently.
Although I could see no movement in the driver’s jaw, from somewhere beneath the flaming bush upon his face came a question clipped to melodic curves by a Highland accent.
“Have ye no crane?”
By now my mind was perforated. Having served only in large stations it had not occurred to me that Upshott would have no yard crane of its own for unloading light cargo.
My memory thus jolted, I recalled that in such circumstances on the SER it was customary to request in advance a mobile crane from Giddiford. Had I done this, the crane would have arrived behind the very item of cargo it was required to lift.
“I shall be back in one minute,” I told the incredulous driver.
Upon returning to Platform One, the squire’s coachman apprehended me. I crossed my fingers that his fractious master did not require the cabriolet immediately.
“Mr Albury requires his new carriage immediately,” the servant told me anxiously. “He has important calls to make this morning.”
I turned and saw the evidence standing in the station forecourt; a team of fine white horses waiting to be harnessed.
“The conveyance cannot be made available just yet,” I told him bluntly, aware that I was inconveniencing the valley’s second-most powerful family and certainly its most hostile. “We do not have a crane with which to unload it from the railway truck.”
My candour disarmed the coachman briefly.
“Surely you can requisition one by telegraph?” he suggested with begrudging civility.
“This I have already done,” I bluffed, shying away from his suspicious squint.
Since his arrival the coachman had been watching me like a falcon. He knew that I had not entered the Telegraph room but such was the mystique of railway communications that he did not challenge me on the matter. As luck would have it, Lacy’s whistle tooted again, the driver being required to perform many duties while in Upshott, so I exploited the distraction and slipped away.
“A pretty state of affairs, I must say,” the coachman called after me.
Had I anticipated needing a crane, even belatedly, I could have asked driver Hiscox to deliver a written requisition to Headquarters upon his arrival in Giddiford, but it was too late now. Hiscox’s ‘up’ train had departed several minutes ago.
As if to mock me, the two bright new telegraph wires above my head twanged loudly and caused me to look up. They were playing host to a band of rooks which, it seemed, could find greater use for the telegraph system than I.
The next ‘up’ train that could convey my request for a crane would not pass through Upshott until 10.48am, three hours from now. In any event, no matter how I made the request, and even assuming the crane was available, the earliest ‘down’ train by which it might be delivered to Upshott was the 1.08pm passenger. Far too late to avoid conflict with Squire Albury. The best I could do now was to give my requisition to the driver of the next ‘up’ train, surreptitiously if I wished to remain a stationmaster, and place telegraphy tuition atop my list of priorities. Although this was a workable plan it did not rid me of my immediate embarrassment.
“One o’ clock is far too late, Mr Jay,” the coachman insisted. “My master will not countenance such a delay. I think you do not appreciate Mr Albury’s influence in the district.”
While listening to the uncompromising servant’s rant I heard the whistle of a locomotive only a mile or so distant, and turned to look. A plume of steam was rising from Upford cutting so I summoned Jack Wheeler.
“The Giddiford train appears to have stopped on the line,” I queried him.
“She’ll be at Fallowfield crossing,” he confirmed. “Driver ’Iscox often stops there to take on pottery from Bessam. The potter reckons we break too many pots ’ere at the station.”
I was taken aback by hearing of this unofficial activity, and suspected that the practise had more to do with handling charges than breakages, but I recovered quickly and marched over to the porter’s boy who was weeding a flowerbed nearby.
“Diggory,” I commanded the lad loudly, “I want you to take a horse from the company stables and ride down to the ‘up’ train with a message to pass on to the Giddiford yard superintendent. Hurry now, you must catch the train while it stands at Fallowfield crossing.”
While the lad saddled a horse I scribbled a note requesting urgent use of the mobile crane, suggesting that it be despatched to Upshott at once using any motive power available. ‘The customer is extremely important’, I added.
The boy took my note, engaged the stirrup, and looked down at me with a guileless frown.
“You want me to ride up to the ‘down’ train,” he confirmed erroneously, pulling his sluggish mount in a circle. I fancied he was being impertinent.
“Well you may act the fool, lad, but this is an emergency,” I berated him. “You will ride down to the ‘up’ train.
Truth to tell, I was very nearly as amused as annoyed by the lad’s pun, but contained my mirth lest he be encouraged to overstep the mark habitually. At sight of him galloping along the edge of the ra
ilway towards Fallowfield my spirits were lifted wonderfully.
I returned to the coachman, whose colourful green tunic piped in gold was something of a focal point on the now deserted platform, and reassured him that everything possible was being done to release his master’s conveyance. He removed his black, plush top-hat and mopped his brow anxiously, then rounded on me.
“Nevertheless, this is quite inexcusable,” he snarled. “Quite unprecedented. My master simply will not countenance delay. He requires his new carriage immediately.”
Had the station not been bounded by cast-iron fencing and furnished generally with decorative seats, lamps and other obstructions I might have considered unloading the cabriolet laterally onto a platform, but given the situation I could think of no alternative to suggest. Jack Wheeler came forward with an idea.
“There’s a big crane up at Bessam forest,” he proffered.
“For lifting logs,” I retorted with a high degree of irritation. “It is merely a log hoist, as I recall. Hardly suitable for setting down a finely burnished carriage.”
“But if we use sacking and broad leather straps we can get ’er on the ground inside twenty minutes, and without a scratch,” Wheeler insisted.
“Twenty minutes!” the coachman seized upon the estimate. “That will do… just! Please, go ahead with your plan, sir. Go ahead immediately.”
The coachman donned his hat proudly, but only after adjusting its silk cockade by an imperceptible degree.
I felt uneasy about this solution but took comfort from the fact that the squire’s personal coachman had sanctioned it. Mr Wheeler reminded me of another important point.
“Also, Mr Jay, the old squire ’as a foul temper and likes to lash out with ’is riding crop.”
“Perhaps your idea is workable,” I concurred. “But in all earnest, Jack, that cabriolet must not receive the slightest score.”
“I know that, sir,” Wheeler responded with a facial twitch.
I took a deep breath and in an act of supreme blind faith gave the nod. Jack Wheeler bounded across to Lacy, scrambled aboard the footplate, elbowed the driver aside, and raised his arm as if leading a cavalry charge against the Ashanti.
“Precisely where is this crane?” the coachman enquired.
“Beyond the marsh,” I told him. “It is served by a tramway running into the forest. You can see where it branches off at the Dairy siding and crosses the swamp. From the causeway it climbs up to a clearing where the Ondle Timber company has a steam-saw and sundry other machines. I think it is of the first moment that you lead your horses up to logging station in readiness to bring the carriage back. The sawyers’ trail is well signposted. In the meantime I will prepare the necessary documents for your signature.”
I left the coachman to his preparations and hurried through the Booking hall to the forecourt. Here I found Jack Wheeler opening the tramway gates for Lacy, his face darkening at my approach.
“You are quite safe, Jack,” I comforted him. “I do not contrive to rob you of your footplate ride, but did we not speak of sack-cloth and straps?”
Mr Wheeler blushed like a fine old port and scurried away to the Stores hut to get the items he had forgotten. The locomotive driver snorted with exasperation, shut off Lacy’s regulator and applied the handbrake. The engine, having crept forward onto the forecourt rails, squealed to a halt. Preparing Lacy for its climb up the spur the fireman plied his shovel vigorously, hurling coal into the far corners of the firebox with the skill of a marksman. Afterwards he inspected the fire-bed with a ruddy squint while his crewmate stared down at me enigmatically, once again scratching his head through his tartan tammy. It was some while before the Scotchman broke the uncomfortable silence that had developed between us.
“If you’re gunny witness this event you’ll be needing a stiff drink,” he announced with a wry grin.
The driver produced an earthenware costrel, removed the cork with a squeak and a pop, and offered it to me. Truth to tell, the aroma of a mature malt whisky did tempt me but I declined demonstratively. Company regulations forbade the drinking of intoxicating liquors while on duty, particularly by locomotive drivers. Nevertheless this driver considered himself to be above the rules, for not only did he carry liquor at his hip he felt free to offer it to stationmasters! I was singularly distracted.
“I have no intention of witnessing the unloading of this conveyance,” I informed the footplateman. “I wish only to be notified when the deed is done. Once you have pushed the cabriolet to the logging station you must return to collect the timber empties. I want Platform One cleared as soon as possible. After this you may go about your usual shunting duties on the tramway. I will take full responsibility for your lateness.”
“Aye, that ye will,” the driver quipped emphatically. MacGregor opened Lacy’s cylinder cocks and drowned all further conversation with a deafening hiss. I waggled my finger and strode away through the swirling steam, beyond which I glimpsed Miss Macrames waving to me from the platform.
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Chapter Five — Reverie on the footbridge, then bang!
Whilst crossing the footbridge to search for the missing parasol I chanced upon Humphrey Milsom lumbering in the opposite direction carrying a stack of pigeon baskets.
“Ah, Mr Milsom… Humphrey!” I serenaded my Senior porter and offered some assistance.
“Perchance you saw the woman on Platform One earlier this morning? Just after the departure of the Market goods?”
“I did not, sir,” he replied with a baffled gaze.
“She was wearing a good deal of lace. White lace,” I added helpfully.
“Missed her, did e?”
“I believe she wished to speak to me but I was engaged at the time,” I said, and added with a pinch of indifference: “Never mind, it does not matter.”
Humphrey’s face contorted.
“It don’t worry e then?” he asked.
“No, it is of little consequence,” I assured him.
“If e say so, sir, but the squire’s carriage won’t look pretty with gashes in her,” the porter opined enigmatically.
“Gashes? I beg your pardon?”
“Where they’m a sunk grapplin’ hooks in her, yon up at Bessam,” he elaborated.
I drew breath stiffly.
“Humphrey, why do you think railway companies only hire stationmasters with square heads? So that they do not roll off the plate when served up after a mishap.”
Humphrey chortled unsympathetically before continuing.
“Even if Jack don’t wreck the cabriolet he’ll get her plastered with mud. Arr, and the squire’s team of thoroughbred horses too. Ol’ sawyers’ trail will be a morass after last night’s deluge, I reckons.”
Mr Milsom was right, of course, and I wondered if I had taken leave of my senses. Truth to tell, my superior calm was merely an illusion.
“If necessary we shall wash the carriage with hot water from Lacy’s slack pipe,” I advised the porter through a grinning mask of optimism.
“Talkin’ of Lacy, they’m got trouble with her,” he responded with a discombobulating rumble.
I lifted my top-hat and scratched my head. I had noticed that conversations with simple country folk tended to lack focus, and clearly Mr. Milsom was no exception. Having lost the thread of our conversation I prompted the porter to expand upon his digression.
“Trouble? What trouble?”
“A stickin’ safety valve, by all accounts, Mr Jay. Her aint blowin’ off all the excess pressure. I tell e, sir, I never heard a boiler groan like it. Apart from my misses when rain be due, course.”
Visualising Humphrey’s spouse of similar proportions to himself, groaning with pain, I heaved a feckless sigh. This turned to a gasp when the significance of his words registered.
“Saints preserve us!” I jumped. “A sticking safety valve is the most dangerous fault a steam engine can develop. Are you sure the footplatemen have not simply tightened down the knurled nut? T
hey do this to get extra steam on a difficult run, you know. It is quite against the rules and extremely hazardous, but these drivers think they are a law unto themselves.”
“I knows that, Mr Jay, but Lacy don’t have the Salter type valve so her be tamper proof,” Humphrey advised me.
“Well, if the safety valve really is sticking then the crew should throw out the fire at once and have the engine towed back to Giddiford,” I said.
“Arr, e don’t know Driver MacGregor, sir?” the porter wheezed. “That man be too stubborn to admit defeat.”
“Driver MacGregor, is it?” I fretted, returning Humphrey his pigeons. “I shall have a word with this MacGregor fellow.”
The porter struggled away with his consignment of feathered gossipers warbling noisily.
With no sign of the persistent Miss Macrames about I remained atop the footbridge to settle my nerves and study the layout of the station. Beneath me, simmering quietly alongside Platform One, was the locomotive that had banked the troublesome timber train from Giddiford, this being a visitor from the London & South Western railway. In front of it was a rake of goods vans, and in front of the goods vans were the empty timber trucks awaiting return to Bessam.
The axle loading of the LSWR four-coupled locomotive was too heavy for the lightly constructed tramway so its footplate crew, having no work to do, had settled upon the wheel-splasher to play cards. Beyond the marsh, above a dark apron of deciduous trees covering the foot of Bessam tor, was a column of steam rising from Lacy’s place of toil.
On my left I could see the river Ondle meandering like a silver sash through the valley’s turquoise haze, and on my right I could see the village of Upshott manifesting itself bashfully through a plush canopy of chestnuts and oaks. At a glance the village appeared to be no more than an assortment of sagging stone roofs but with careful observation one could see one or two of its shops, the display windows of the pork butcher and the candle-maker, and the occasional passing of a horse and cart along the high street. The one thing I could not see from the footbridge, or elsewhere for that matter, was Miss Macrames’ parasol. Which was a pity because its owner was heading in my direction again with great purpose.
