by James Smiley
“Only because he got in the way,” Mr Troke complained.
“But you reckon it was Smethwick the sewage hit?” I sought confirmation.
“He should be more careful where he loiters,” came the reply.
“Smethwick, eh?” I mused. “Well, no harm done then.”
I dismissed the two miscreants and turned my attention to some pressing paperwork.
The remainder of this warm, breezy afternoon passed uneventfully, at least as far as I was concerned. The presence in the Goods shed of some uncollected rolls of fabric was explained by news from the village that the draper had fallen off his son’s horse with fatal consequences, and the weekly coal train had failed to turn up. Neither mishap was of concern to me so I tidied my office and read some lengthy company bulletins. Actually I did have one interruption. Humphrey, ever keen to maintain his reputation as the railway’s grapevine, paid me a visit and we stepped outside to gossip in the sunshine.
“Strictly speakin’, Mr Jay, that uncollected fabric belongs to Lord Lacy, for he owns the shop,” he advised me, picking one of Snimple’s flowers for his buttonhole. “The draper, Mr Packard, was only an employee of his Lordship, e see.”
“Do you know what happened to the coal train?” I diverted him. “I see the gas house is low.”
“I do, sir,” Humphrey replied. “It derailed. Didn’t e know? Likely as not ’twer them badgers again. The blighters be underminin’ the track up on Widdlecombe bank. The whole area be riddled with setts. Word has it a truck toppled on its side and shot the best part of a ton down the slope into a drainage ditch.”
“A terrible waste, Humphrey,” I lamented.
“Indeed so, sir. A recovery engine went by earlier on its way to Blodcaster to pick up the mobile crane. Although there seems to be some confusion over the crane’s whereabouts at present. Still, once they’m a got her rigged up I reckons they’ll have those wagons re-railed in the blink of an eye. Often as not they has toppled trucks upright before the next train be due.”
“Fingers crossed then,” I replied. “Otherwise I shall be reading letters of complaint by oil lamp.”
“Like you say, Mr Jay, it’ll be a pitiful waste if they don’t recover all that lost coal,” Humphrey reflected.
“Do you suppose they will?” I asked.
If the coal was abandoned I might recover it and redeem myself for misdirecting the station’s unofficial ration.
“Well now, that ditch be a long way down, and as a rule they don’t bother salvaging spillage from inaccessible places unless it be of particular high value,” he replied, giving me hope. “But between e, me, and the gate post, Mr Jay, I reckons the Civil engineer and his crew will snaffle the lot when they comes through to clear the drainage courses. Unless the local scallywags glean it first.”
We stood back while an untidy little engine called Ondle trundled through the station, its bodywork latticed with rusting pipes and buckled control rods. Behind it was the mobile winch. The driver wagged a finger at me accusingly.
“Hide and seek,” he remonstrated as he went by.
Before I could make sense of the remark, a scruffy man in overalls leaned from the Guard’s van and croaked another.
“We’re taking possession, Stationmaster.”
And that was that. The line south of Upshott was closed.
It was not until late afternoon that the recovery crew relinquished possession of the line, allowing Exmoor to come through the station hauling a rake of milk empties. Services being back to normal, Julian Maynard set off along the spare track bed to Giddiford with the single-line baton and I instructed Snimple to apply a little tallow to the hinges of the Waiting Room sign to prevent squeaking. An unwelcome wind had picked up and was causing the sign to sway noisily in chorus with two telegraph wires terminated upon porcelain insulators above the Telegraph room. These wires howled eerily with each gust, but about this I could do nothing.
By 5pm the station loop was again occupied by an ‘up’ train and a ‘down’ train. Although my staff and I were kept busy meeting the demands of self aggrandising swells whose summoning of porters to their beck and call seemed a matter of rivalry, events ran smoothly. With but one exception. This was a poorly fastened Saratoga trunk that had haemorrhaged samples of crockery all over the Booking hall floor, an occurrence for which I assumed all blame to spare the blushes of an embarrassed salesman. However, in order that the fellow could resume his journey to the Lacy Arms after repacking the trunk I found it necessary to have Mr Milsom sit upon it to close the catches. To place the commercial traveller out of earshot should anything break under my Senior porter’s great bulk, I hastened the fellow to the forecourt to secure a comfortable seat aboard the road coach.
After this I found it necessary to admonish Snimple for leaving milk churns in the sun, his knowledge of the planetary motions apparently flawed.
“Snorry, Mr Jay, the snun moved,” he complained.
“It does. From east to west if I am not mistaken,” I explained.
Beyond these minor irritations the afternoon was, as I have alluded, blissfully uneventful. To avoid baton difficulties, the returning milk train was combined with the Giddiford passenger train as far as Upshott, the duo of workhorses befogging the village with their sweeping halitus upon arrival. One of them took to marshalling dairy stock on the tramway, the other preparing for its descent to Giddiford Junction.
As I patrolled the station the wind veered and drove off Lacy’s sulphurous breath briefly, whereupon I caught sight of Humphrey resting his haunches upon a pigeon basket. The basket’s inquisitive occupants were blinking at the world from between his legs, unaware of the dangerous pressure bearing down upon their temporary accommodation.
“Humphrey!” I called. “Do you not realise that loafing in the presence of the great British public is unseemly.”
I believe he understood my remonstrance to be in jest, and together we watched a thick set woman in her early twenties descend the footbridge steps. Her footfalls were noisy on the timbers and for some reason she tilted her head to one side periodically with a square smile. A plain girl with dark, intense eyes, and by no means voluptuously favoured, she gave the impression of being a caring soul.
“Tis Miss Peckham,” Humphrey advised me. “The village postmaster’s youngest.”
“Big bones,” I observed idly.
It appeared to me that the maid’s most attractive feature was her wavy brown hair. This flowed as if from a fountain beneath her small bonnet before contracting into loose curls upon her shoulders. And these were broad shoulders, barely concealed by the voluminous cascades decorating them.
“Amelia be in trainin’ to become a nurse over at Yeovil,” Humphrey informed me with a comradely wheeze. “I tell e, Mr Jay, her’ll make a fearful medicine bully one day. A dragon matron to make any invalid’s blood run cold.”
“Really?” I replied, the young lady looking too pleasant to warrant such an appraisal. “From what I have read, we shall see nursing become a recognised profession before long. And Miss Peckham looks young enough to see it happen.”
“Haply so, but not at Yeovil,” Humphrey warbled. “They’m given her a week to take a pair of scissors to that hair. And by all accounts her’s refusin’. Her don’t want it cut short because of Snimple.”
“Because of Snimple?” I rebounded incredulously. “Why Snimple?”
“Don’t e know, Mr Jay? Her be after him. I reckons her’ll have him too. She be a mighty big rock-fall to dodge.”
I could scarcely believe my ears. Not for the first time today had I heard reference to my Second porter being the object of immodest female desires, and I wondered if there was another Snimple at large besides my butterfly chaser. Perhaps there was a Snimple in the village? The Snimple at whose feet the maids of Upshott were apparently flinging themselves would have to be chivalrous, urbane, and wealthy. Not a railway porter with a speech impediment.
“I knows what e be thinkin’, Mr Jay. Tis S
nimple her be after right enough. That Higham girl be just a tease. Between e, me, and the fence post, if ol’ Snimple got half a smidgen of sense he’d sweep Miss Peckham off her feet and be done with. If nothin’ else, her be plentiful. A fellow like Snimple can’t be choosy.”
I shut my eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, to imagine Snimple sweeping a young lady off her feet. The buxom wench I had observed lumbering across Platform One would not even notice him trying. Indeed, quite the reverse had taken place. The porter had passed within a few feet of his admirer and paid her no attention at all. Miss Peckham halted abruptly, turned, and became a portrait of dejection.
“Tis a case of unrequited love,” Humphrey observed mournfully.
“What we have just witnessed, Humphrey,” I reflected, “is not the face of determination you ascribe the young lady.”
Humphrey was compelled to recant.
“I don’t know what be wrong, I’m sure. Normally her comes up in blotches and ticks him off for bein’ rude,” he said. “Tis a sight, I can tell e.”
Personally I thought the girl quite pretty in a singular sort of way, and I was incensed by Snimple’s bad form. I set about cornering the porter for a word, but he caught my scent and went to ground.
A spell later I came across a gaggle of women on Platform One, at the centre of which was the very character whose love life I was finding so extraordinary. The delicate ladies were fussing over Snimple’s thumb. It was bleeding and had been enswathed temporarily in a handkerchief. Retribution, I thought as I dispersed the gathering.
“I forgot I had a pruning blade in my pocket, Mr Jay,” he whimpered. “I’m very snorry.”
“You know where we keep iodine and bandages,” I railed him. “You’ll make the journey without dying, methinks.”
Just then a mellifluous voice floated across my shoulder. Miss Peckham had observed the incident from the forecourt and returned to assist Snimple in his hour of need. It surprised me that so rugged a girl should emit such dulcet tones, and I wondered how well she could sing.
“I have medication in my bag,” she hushed with a broad Somerset accent and, to murmurs of approval from the other angels of mercy, pulled out a cotton swab and miniature bottle of bright yellow salve. Snimple cooed like a pigeon and smiled sublimely.
“Poor Snimple,” Miss Peckham responded with what I perceived to be thespian sincerity.
I guessed what was to succeed. The porter offered up his wounded limb pathetically and Miss Peckham applied the unction to it. A determined grin set upon her face as, with her free hand, she pulled a length of bandage from her bag. Her grin, now broadening fast, was tempered with anticipation.
As expected, the medication took effect and stung, and Snimple yodelled with shock. His innocent eyes bulging, he tried to retrieve his enraged thumb but Miss Peckham held it fast. With the swiftness of a loom she wound the bandage around the enraged digit and secured it with a knot, thus preventing the porter from quelling the fire. I could not quite see the label on the bottle but I fancy it read: ‘Serves You Right’.
“Dutch drops would have sufficed,” Humphrey rumbled ignorantly from behind me.
Snimple had a better understanding of the medication and looked offended by it. William Troke, on the other hand, was visibly confounded by Snimple’s popularity with the fairer sex and spat on the ground with disgust. It did little to appease him that Mrs Mitchell kissed the porter daintily on the cheek.
“Poor, harmless Snimple,” she breathed.
By now one could see Mr Troke visibly contemplating the rewards of being harmless.
Having disbanded the angels of mercy I returned to patrolling the platforms, determined to enjoy my surroundings. High in windswept Upshott wood the rooks were cawing noisily while in the headshunt Exmoor sizzled away its idle time in quiet privacy. Departure of the Giddiford train had revealed the presence upon Platform Two of a cluster of milk churns and cheese barrels waiting to be loaded aboard the milk train after its return from the dairy siding. Also visible was a young scullion who had come from the Coach House. The boy was staggering across the footbridge with a dozen hands of freshwater fish in his arms, unaware that they were dripping. After he had gone I made Snimple scrub the timber decking to remove the smell. There was always an unpleasant chore on hand to reward the deserving.
Shortly after 6pm, Julian Maynard caused a minor interruption to the station’s tranquillity when he rode jauntily across the forecourt with the baton from Giddiford. I was applauding his efficiency when he drew my attention to a pair of crows nesting in one of the station chimneys.
“You’ll have a sooty bird flapping around your office, Mr Jay,” he warned as he dismounted Hildebrand. “Mr Mildenhew always used to send Diggory up the stack to clean out the pots.”
“And I imagine the lad did not need asking twice!” I replied.
In the absence of my Junior porter I instructed Jack Wheeler to do the job. There was always an unpleasant chore on hand to reward the deserving. Feeling unaccountably lenient, I held the ladder for the clerk while he ascended, and even offered words of reassurance as he traversed the gutter with the blood drained from his face.
“If there are any leaves in the gulley, Jack, you can remove them while you are there,” I called up.
Glancing at my fobwatch, assuming it to be correct, I noticed that the Directors’ Special was due back from Blodcaster and so I released my hold upon the ladder to see Ivor Hales. After some discussion with the signalman we agreed that the only way the milk train could make Giddiford exchange sidings in time to connect with the Metropolitan Goods was by amalgamating it with the Directors’ Special. Visualising the illustrious special with milk trucks attached, Ivor wished me luck with the proposal and made his excuses. Truth to tell, my main concern was that arranging this might involve a telegraphic communication.
I need not have fretted. Not only was no telegraph signal necessary, Mr Crump agreed readily to my suggestion, pointing out that having to amalgamate his Special with a milk train illustrated the need for a second track to be laid, if only as far as Upshott. However, another anxiety came to the fore. During his luncheon in Blodcaster, Mr Crump had heard more grievances voiced against me. Apparently someone was now lodging a formal complaint. The manager was sympathetic but explained that should any of my alleged discourtesies reach him in writing he would have no alternative but to investigate.
At 6.29pm, perplexed and agitated, I watched Exmoor and LSWR engine number 231 work out of Upshott jointly hauling a most curious composition of rollingstock.
Many hours later, after the passing of the ‘up’ Mail and the evening Giddiford train, the final movement of the day pounded into Upshott with a crisp moon making ghosts of its steam. I watched Humphrey tramp the primrose squares of light cast by its pot-lamps, booming his late tidings to all and sundry, and observed that all and sundry was no one at all.
‘Last train, Blodcaster. Next one Shanks’s pony.’
Feeling gloomy that my best efforts had achieved so little, I retreated to a gas lit nook and indulged myself a pinch of snuff while watching Mr Milsom’s shadow stalk him to and fro like a dumb assassin preparing to pounce. Its technique was to prance hither and thither among will-o’-the-wisps of steam, stretch elastically across flagstones, and spring up walls unpredictably. So low was my ebb that I beckoned the rotund black phantom to close upon me instead.
Driver Hiscox slipped away from the volcanic glow of Briggs’s fire to speak with me and I wondered what further bad news awaited. With Humphrey bellowing so loudly we had to remove ourselves to the quiet of the Booking hall where the driver took my arm with a disapproving frown.
“The pot-lamp mystery remains unsolved, Mr Jay, for I have seen another,” he confided.
“Another?” I queried him.
By now I had learned the art of participating in conversations that made no sense, and smiled confidently.
“Yes, another,” driver Hiscox confirmed unhelpfully. “I have just seen fa
rmer Smethwick on the bank between the cutting and the viaduct. He was buzzing around in circles like a blowfly with one wing, and for some reason his hand-lamp was sparkling. What’s more, he appeared to be badly splattered.”
“Most curious,” I concurred.
“Often as not I do see Smethwick of a Tuesday,” Hiscox continued. “He lingers on Ondle common until dark, taking a lantern with him for the long walk home.”
Too tired to engage even in conversation of such intrigue I held my tongue, causing the driver to return to his hissing serpent with slumped shoulders. Suddenly Jack Wheeler was at my side, a nearby gas-lamp glimmering in his eye as he conjured a sinister grin.
“Sounds like we’ve identified our burglar then,” he breathed. “The drum containing the spiked lamp oil disappeared last night, Mr Jay.”
I stepped back. There were times when Jack caused me to feel queer.
“We must not be hasty in our conclusions,” I cautioned him. “Mr Smethwick has a feudal mentality so we must not stir up unnecessary nastiness.”
“Oh yes, ’e can turn nasty,” Jack agreed. “But surely we ’ave to confront the weasel to find out ’ow ’e came by the doctored oil?”
Ex officio, it was I who would do the confronting.
The last train of the day barked into the darkness, sending a cloud of noctule bats aloft above the water tower. The creatures disappeared among the stars then reappeared as a swirl of dots around the moon. Anxious to close the station and retire to my quarters, the damp night air having lifted with a sickly odour of oil and straw, I turned up my collar and prepared to dim the gasses.
Now shivering, I hearkened to the pleasing rattle of the last train distancing itself from Upshott, and found myself wondering what manner of distraction had caused Diggory to step in front of an advancing locomotive. Further, I was curious to learn what had made the young porter leave so late for work in the first place. It seemed likely that Mrs Smith and her son were in some kind of plight.
Climbing the stairs I made a decision. The next day I would ride out to Widdlecombe to see if I could be of assistance. Time was short, however, for if I was to render useful application to the Smiths I needed to act before losing my job.
