A Station In Life

by James Smiley

  The Mail train’s Senior Guard threw open the double-doors of the trailing van and revealed Diggory squirming upon the floorboards. The young porter was manifestly in distress and I rushed to his assistance immediately, whereupon I learned that he had been struck by a train while crossing Widdlecombe viaduct.

  “How badly is he hurt?” I asked, taking the boy’s head in my hands.

  “Hard to tell,” the Guard replied. “According to the driver it were a glancing blow at worst, but engines and boys don’t mix.”

  I instructed Snimple to fetch Doctor Bentley while Humphrey and I set about carrying the gangling lad up to my private quarters to make him comfortable upon my bed.

  “In truth I think the young gent is only bruised, sir, but he’s badly blighted by shock,” the fireman told me as we struggled across the platform. “Shock’s a funny thing,” he added with a squint.

  The squinting footplateman retired to a bench to recover from a dizzy spell. His driver approached to render assistance in his stead.

  “This porter of yours veered straight across the line with no hint of caution,” he told me sternly. “You’d have thought he was in one of them Doctor Braid’s mystical trances.”

  Doctor Braid, I should explain, was a pioneer hypnotist who had made a name for himself mesmerising suggestible fools for the entertainment of gullible audiences.

  “Mark me well,” the driver continued as we wrested Diggory through a door leading to my quarters, “there’s something weighty on this lad’s mind. I’ve two young’uns of my own and I know how distant they become.”

  “Perhaps so, but the boy has mentioned nothing significant that I can recall,” I replied. “However, this is only my second day here.”

  Not surprisingly, the struggle to convey Diggory up the narrow flight of stairs to my quarters stalled upon the landing where respite was sought by all and we lowered our burden to the floor. My hopes dashed that a less helter-skelter day lay ahead, I handed Jack Wheeler my keys and instructed him to look up the lad’s home address.

  “Send Mr Maynard to inform the boy’s mother of the incident,” I said. “And tell him to be tactful. We must not alarm her.”

  Finding himself in possession of all my keys, Jack appeared startled by my level of trust.

  “Step lively,” I waved him away.

  The clerk twitched mechanically and set off for my office.

  Having made Diggory comfortable in my room I set about examining him. His face was besmirched with the culm of his rescuers, his dark hair matted with grease and clotted blood, and his delirium suggested something worse than shock. Also I was bothered that no one had taken the trouble to recover his company cap from the viaduct, though quite why such a minor matter should agitate me I did not know.

  Leaving Diggory’s side, I asked Humphrey to invigilate while I accompanied the driver and his mate back to their locomotive. Upon reaching the platform the fireman handed me a small vial of smelling salts, obviously home-made, and guaranteed confidentially that it could be relied upon to return the lad to consciousness. I sniffed the concoction to gauge its potency and with my nostrils ablaze decided that it would probably kill him. Thanking the fireman, I slipped the lay medicine in my pocket for disposal down the privy.

  Observing that Snimple had placed the pitchers for Busy Linton aboard the Guard’s van I gave the Blodcaster train its ‘right away’. A few minutes later the drumming of the locomotive had faded into the hills, but the tingle of gossip lingered.

  Back in my room with Diggory I heard a knock at the door and received Doctor Bentley whom, I noticed, was wearing a nightshirt beneath his overcoat. Ushered in by Snimple, the doctor examined the patient thoroughly and diagnosed that in addition to shock the young porter was slightly concussed. Otherwise he was unharmed save for a few minor cuts to the head which had bled disproportionately. There were no broken ribs, thankfully, but the lad would develop some tender bruises later. I ventured an opinion.

  “It is fortunate there is a severe gradient on the viaduct, Doctor. As a result the train was advancing slowly.”

  “Has he been sick?” the doctor interrupted me.

  “Not as far as I am aware,” I replied.

  Doctor Bentley dabbed the boy’s wrists, which I had noticed were cold and clammy.

  “Mmm, he’s sweating a little and his pulse is weak,” he observed brusquely. “Be so good as to bring me some fresh water, Jay, would you.”

  This I did at once and the doctor moistened Diggory’s lips. In response, the boy rallied and reached out for the tumbler. This was denied him.

  “Perhaps he would like a drink,” I ventured, mystified by the doctor’s behaviour. “Or better still, a tot of brandy. I believe we have a bottle in the medicine chest. I shall go and…”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Jay,” the doctor halted me sharply. “The patient will have a thirst but he must not be allowed to drink while in this condition. Least of all liquor. Just keep him on his back with his legs raised thus,” he instructed me and placed my pillow under the boy’s muddy boots. “Master Smith will be disassociated for some while yet but the malaise will pass. When he responds to his name, fetch me and I will check his lesions and renew the dressings. He’ll live!”

  “I am greatly relieved to hear it, doctor,” I replied as Doctor Bentley prepared to leave. “And so shall his mother be, I’ll warrant.”

  Thereafter, I left Diggory alone only when unavoidable. One such occasion was to have a word with Mr Swain, the PW ganger, who had escorted a recent absentee to my office.

  “How is your foot?” I asked the sad-eyed platelayer, exchanging a wink with Mr Swain. “In future I should keep a sharper lookout for the squire’s gamekeeper. Either that or leave his pheasants be.”

  My advice was wasted on the poor fellow, of course. No permanent way man would waste his occupation’s advantage over the gamekeeper, and loss of a day’s pay would serve only to increase his need to poach. Mr Swain doffed his faded straw boater and escorted the limping gang-hand out of my office. I returned to Diggory’s side and found him asleep.

  I had become drowsy myself and was gazing dully out of my bedroom window when three events roused me to attention in succession. First I saw Rose Macrames at the bottom of the High street walking purposefully towards the station, next I glimpsed the belle in white lace passing beneath my window, and finally I heard a knock upon my door. After my unpleasant encounter with Mrs Goadby, and despite a lingering desire to introduce myself to the sylphlike belle, I was disinclined to give chase. So I ignored the two sightings and I went to my door.

  ‘You must curb your delusions, Horace,’ I told myself. ‘Why, next you will be seeing the sylph in fat old Humphrey!’

  I opened the door and there stood fat old Humphrey beaming at me with a friendly smile.

  “Boy alright now is he?” he enquired loudly, causing me to shush him. “His mother be here. Send her up, shall I?”

  “Please do, Humphrey,” I replied, pushing the door ajar.

  Humphrey clumped down the stairs and invited Mrs Smith up, whereupon petite footsteps made their way to the landing. I poised myself to greet Mrs Smith and comfort her with well chosen words, then stepped forward to deliver them. But before I could utter my piece I lost my tongue, for facing me anxiously was the most unexpected visitor imaginable.

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  Chapter Thirteen — Dream or reality?

  Gracing my landing with her presence was the elusive belle in white lace. Although presently not in lace she was every bit as enchanting at close quarters as she was from afar. Not only this, by Jove, she was the mother of my Junior porter! After all my fruitless investigations I pinched myself to test the reality of the moment, for I had been troubled by some pretty peculiar dreams lately and it was perfectly possible that waking up had been one of them. Yet despite the pain of my pinch, and Mrs Smith’s fragrance of wayside flowers rendering me insensible, I remained incredulous. Indeed, for so long did I gaze
in astonishment at her that I must have appeared ill bred. And when I finally recovered my wits and attempted to greet her I found my feet glued to the floor, the cause being her pretty brown eyes.

  “Why, how do you do?” I stammered, my trifling welcome polite but insensitive given the circumstances.

  I suspect that Mrs Smith was too distracted to notice my gauche behaviour. She reciprocated my greeting anxiously then entered the room where I settled her alongside her son and recounted such details of the accident as I had been able to glean. After this I roused the young fellow and left him alone with his delightful mother while I kept my appointment with Mr Maynard to inspect the company stables.

  On my way to see the horses I stopped outside the Booking hall entrance to steady my nerves and take a pinch of snuff, and here overheard a conversation which proved beyond all doubt that in Upshott station there existed no such thing as a normal day.

  It seemed that not only I, the Stationmaster, was smitten with a paragon of the fairer sex. Mr Troke, whose voice was reverberating from Mr Phillips’s office window, revealed unwittingly that any scheme I might devise to familiarise myself with Diggory’s mother without appearing improprietous would pale into insignificance beside the bizarre romance of one of my porters. I could scarcely believe my ears and recall the conversation vividly.

  Mr Troke: “It grieves me, Edwin, that a fulsome woman such as Emily Higham should pick Snimple to trifle with. But then she is a coquette who enjoys flirting with working class men. She’d give a tinker the glad eye if it passed an afternoon. Does she not realise how perilous this is?”

  Mr Phillips: “Perhaps not, William, but I am bound to point out that whilst Snimple may speak a different language to the rest of us he is quite a decent fellow. If anyone is in peril it is Snimple, I fear. However, with any luck, it is only his knowledge of horticulture which fascinates her so.”

  Mr Troke: “But I’ve got fascinating knowledge too, and I can be discreet. What’s more, I wouldn’t be so daft as to fill my head with notions of wedlock. A Higham marry Snimple? Huh! It’s unthinkable! Absurd! He’s whistling in the park.”

  Mr Phillips: “Just so, but be truthful now, William. What miffs you is this ‘fulsome’ woman’s choice of trifle. It is Snimple’s peril that you covet.”

  Mr Troke: “I don’t covet Snimple. I just don’t like waste. I’d trifle back, not make nosegays and talk of butterflies.”

  Mr Phillips: “You would do no such thing, William. In any case, how old are you? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? Snimple may be Snimple but he is ten years your junior and about the same age as this Higham girl. No, I am sure the fellow does not yearn to be spliced. He has the misgiving to stay on the leeward side of the nuptials. I say let Snimple have his day, for the poor fellow is bound to have few of them.”

  Mr Troke: “Well, maybe, but unless Snimple learns to keep his assignations unbeknown, the Brigadier will be after him with his regimental sword to make alterations.”

  Mr Phillips: “You are right, of course. The ruling classes have a lamentable habit of allowing their progeny to learn of life at the expense of common folk, then rounding on us when the lessons prove unsatisfactory.”

  Mr Troke: “You’re right, Edwin, you can’t win. The knobs are all the same, every each and one of them.”

  At this point the inimitable Mr Phillips demonstrated his boredom with the subject by bursting into song, and I heard Mr Troke leave the room.

  Thus forewarned I braced myself to face yet more lunacy, for I knew that Mr Troke would be looking to step into the breach should Snimple’s forbidden romance run off the rails. Indeed, I had no doubt that Mr Troke would actively set out to derail it. Somewhat distracted by the prospect I moved on and inspected Mr Maynard’s horses. Doubtless the stables were immaculate and the Horse Superintendent’s tour highly informative, but I returned to my quarters scarcely able to recall a word he had said.

  Diggory was sitting upright and complaining of a thirst so I arranged hot drinks for his mother and me, after which I sent Snimple to fetch Doctor Bentley. While the doctor renewed Diggory’s dressings I explained to the charming Mrs Smith that her son would not be required for duty until he had made a full recovery.

  “I think we can overlook Diggory’s absence for a while,” I said, somewhat boldly given company rules regarding sick leave. “This is just between you and me, of course,” I added confidentially.

  If kept unofficial the Junior porter would lose no pay, and I chose this course of action because I had been told that Mrs Smith’s circumstances were meagre. I consulted my fobwatch. With over two hours until the next Widdlecombe train I wondered what alternative travel arrangements might suit the boy and his mother. One thing was clear, Diggory was too shaky to ride or walk home. Doctor Bentley came to the rescue.

  “May I offer you a lift, Mrs Smith?” he grated. “I have my chaise outside and I am sure I can squeeze you both in.”

  Not a little envious I shook the divine Mrs Smith’s hand and partook my leave. You may accuse me of wishful thinking but I felt sure that I detected a twinkle in the woman’s captivating eyes that was missing for Doctor Bentley. Even wearing a simple cotton dress she had bewitched me, and although our meeting had been a brief and strained affair brought about by an unfortunate event I was invigorated to know, at last, the identity of the haunting belle in white lace. Other matters did not please me so much.

  Tom Turner, William Troke, and Jack Wheeler filed into my office.

  “Explain,” I commanded them.

  The torpid Mr Turner and the mercurial Mr Wheeler exchanged looks, seemingly unable to articulate their doubtless well rehearsed excuse.

  “Come now,” I prompted them. “I want no humbug. The fizzling pot-lamps on driver MacGregor’s train last night have something to do with your scheme to catch the lamp-oil thief, do they not?”

  “What thief?” Mr Troke asked stupidly.

  “The one who pilfers our lamp oil,” I answered him deedily.

  Jack muttered something inaudible then wiggled a finger through his matted curly hair to locate an itch.

  “Speak up!” I pounced.

  “Me and William spiked a drum of oil and put it in a prominent position to make it the most likely took,” he spoke up. “Tom reckons it’s the locksmith’s boy from Penpool, Mr Jay. The Stores shed lock ’asn’t been forced and that boy comes ’ere regular to get pig-iron. I reckon…”

  “A bird in hand is worthless,” Mr Troke interjected with one of his maffled sayings.

  “Never mind all that. With what did you spike the oil?” I interrupted.

  “Well, Mr Jay,” Jack explained, “we broke open one or two of them self-detonating fog signals and emptied out the black powder…”

  “Gunpowder!” I exploded. “I’ve heard enough.” I switched my gaze to his accomplice. “So, in all the confusion last night, confusion which you caused, Mr Turner, you filled the pot-lamps aboard the night Giddiford train with an explosive concoction. I can scarcely believe it, even of you two cretins.”

  Much to my surprise my outburst caused contrition.

  “Will there be disciplinary action?” Mr Turner enquired feebly.

  “I shall think hard upon it,” I told him.

  I decided to leave these two fishes on my hook for a while. Unfortunately I would have to throw them back eventually because my own position was more precarious than theirs. As the Stationmaster I had been the one to authorise their dangerous trap and so, naturally, Head office would deem me responsible for any resulting mishap.

  “We might catch the weasel yet,” Jack purred seductively with a hollow grin.

  “Leave,” I snapped with feigned disgust, at risk of seeing the funny side of the affair.

  Before the bungling trio could get through my door I recalled Jack for further questioning.

  “One minute, Wheeler,” I rumbled with stern brevity, catching his eye to unnerve him.

  Economy of words, I had discovered, disadvantaged the cl
erk psychologically. Although on this occasion the technique was slow to take effect.

  “Sewage?” I queried him.

  Jack stared at me with counterfeit innocence that almost fooled me.

  “Two people are responsible for what takes place in the sidings, apart from myself,” I opened. “They are the Rollingstock superintendent and the Goods clerk. Yet strangely both resemble puppets. Let word filter through to the puppeteer, Jack, that only the Stationmaster pulls the strings here. Mr Phillips seems to think there will be a power struggle but I can assure you he is wrong. The puppeteer will acknowledge my authority by having the treated sewage removed at once. He will then have the truck sullied by it flushed out at the water tower. Will he not, Jack?”

  Jack’s defiant stare would have lasted until Judgement day had his face not puckered involuntarily. To my dismay, however, after this convulsion came a self assured twinkle. Another pucker, sans twinkle, showed that the impudent clerk had at last registered the perpetuity of my own defiant stare.

  “Anything you say, Mr Jay,” he acquiesced with a suspiciously deferential nod inflected with condescension.

  At this point Jack expected me to dismiss him, for which reason I detained him further, embellishing my discontented stare with drumming fingers. His independent spirit had yet to be dampened to my satisfaction and I would bag the blighter if it took all day. The patronising clerk twitched when I silenced my fingers abruptly.

  “I do not expect to find the sullage spread hurriedly over flower beds and vegetable patches,” I cautioned him after another extrinsic pause. “And take your hands out of your pockets while I am talking to you. Your hands live in your pockets, Mr Wheeler.”

  Finally it dawned upon Jack that I would release him only when he showed respect. It took a while but eventually I gained the upper hand.

  When the 7.45am Blodcaster train clattered into Platform One behind Lacy, Driver MacGregor stepped off the footplate and pointed to a crane truck appended to his rake of four passenger carriages.