A Station In Life

by James Smiley

  Humphrey closed his shopping bag furtively and studied the sky.

  “Well?” I barked.

  “They tells I she be an epicurean cook,” he commented evasively.

  “And what is all this about a curse, Humphrey?” I enquired with a heavy heart.

  My Senior porter was not a slippery fellow by nature but clearly he was squirming to avoid this particular subject.

  “Hey ho, Mr Jay, I see your eye’s healed up nicely.”

  The bruise had long gone. I dealt him the squint of an inquisitor.

  “Humphrey, is there a curse upon this station?” I persisted. “Speak up, fellow. You shall not scare me with it. I do not believe in such flapdoodle.”

  “Then why be e askin’?” the porter turned on me with a face of stone.

  I shivered.

  A whip cracked in Natter lane and Humphrey responded with exaggerated excitement.

  “Here her comes!” he chortled joyously.

  At sight of a four-horse omnibus clattering over the cobbles I gave up the inquisition. The bus turned sharply into the station forecourt, slid to rest on the gravel outside the Booking hall entrance, and brought to an abrupt end my Senior porter’s invented mirth. With his face humourless again, he stepped out from beneath the station awning and handed his bag to the driver. The driver lifted the hemp monstrosity to the roof and placed it between the legs of a platelayer who was sharing a cheap seat with two others.

  “T’is daft to see railway employees usin’ a rival mode of transport like this,” the porter complained as he opened a door.

  “Feel free to wait for the next train, Humphrey,” I invited the fellow, knowing that the Saturday timetable had been formulated to accommodate the peregrinations of fare-paying passengers, not company minions with free travel passes, and staff who overstayed their hours at the station were obliged to work without pay.

  The corpulent Mr Milsom boarded the conveyance and tilted it with his weight, its shabby interior in a trice becoming a coven of gossip.

  “Have you heard the latest, Humphrey? A lady from Widdlecombe has taken over his Lordship’s shop,” I heard someone say. “Oh, really?” another replied on Humphrey’s behalf while he settled. “And did I mention it, my eldest is back at death’s door. I reckon it’s the vapours from that lime kiln again.”

  I stepped back from the tittle-tattle to think, for I was surprised by what I had just heard. I had not yet spoken to Lord Lacy’s land agent about Élise’s interest in the drapery. I returned to where my eyes met the words ‘DIE.ET.MON.DROIT’ printed across the side of the omnibus, revealing that it had been a mail coach before the railway usurped its business.

  “Do you know the name of the lady who has taken tenure of the fabrics shop?” I asked, addressing no one in particular.

  “I believe her name is Smith,” someone replied from behind Humphrey.

  To see him I peered around my Senior porter, whose personal magnitude occupied the equivalent of two seats in the tight confines of the omnibus and whose conscience appeared untroubled by it, and saw only a monocle glinting atop a chequered waistcoat. The door was shut, and surrounded by resentful faces, Humphrey re-seated himself. Now he began mouthing words at me through the quarter-light, his efforts aided by a peculiar sign language for which his stubby fingers were deficient. Unable to make sense of his gesticulations I jabbed a finger of my own at the lowered glass.

  “You may speak normally, Humphrey, the window is open,” I mouthed back.

  Realising that his exertions were unnecessary, the porter gurgled with amusement and finished what he was saying.

  “… perpetual bad luck, Mr Jay, but they found human remains here right enough.”

  “What was that about perpetual bad luck?” I asked.

  “T’appened when they were excavatin’ the drainage courses prior to track-laying,” Humphrey replied. “But bless me, Mr Jay, all else be hearsay.”

  “Just a minute,” I queried him. “I did not quite hear what you said about perpetual bad luck, Humphrey?”

  Before the fellow could utter another word the station wall reverberated to the crack of a whip and the overloaded omnibus carried him away. The bus circled the forecourt, swerved right into Natter Lane then left into the High street, and was gone. I shook my head despairingly and retreated to my office.

  Awaiting my signature were Mr Hales’s Train Register and Mr Phillips’s coal receipts. My backlog of paperwork also included bulletins detailing the commencement of excursion trains through Upshott. I braced myself for many more such developments and went into a trance thinking about them. Since the introduction of the Bank holiday the country’s social and religious traditions had faced a challenge. Working class folk were now joining the middle class in their expectations of leisure time, albeit on a more modest scale, their excursions to the brine funded institutionally rather than privately, and consequently huge numbers were descending upon the sands of England’s watering resorts. Personally I found it uplifting to see hordes of ashen faced factory workers enjoying the freedom of a day trip, delivered, of course, by train. Famed for its fresh air and fishing, Blodcaster would doubtless share in this bonanza.

  One of the envelopes in my mail pouch bore the stamp of the company Claims clerk and this I opened with trepidation. As expected, it was a claim against the company for damage done to a local dignitary’s private carriage. The carriage in question was, of course, Squire Albury’s magnificent cabriolet, and the damage referred to was a dog-hook gash in the bodywork and several abrasions to its felloes and spokes. An accompanying report paraphrased the squire’s dubiously colourful account of a ‘misguided unloading operation’ at Bessam logging station, the reading of which turned my stomach and flushed my face with schoolboy shame.

  I was puzzled that whilst the claim had been submitted weeks ago it was only now being dealt with. Equally curiously, according to the clerk’s covering letter, I was not to be called to account over the business. A footnote revealed all. It appeared that, fortunately for me, Squire Albury had no friends on the South Exmoor railway and in the words of the Claims clerk was ‘wont to complain rather too freely’. Therefore the claim had been regarded as at best inflated but more probably a work of fiction, consequently the company had automatically engaged the squire in a dispute over the figures.

  After a little thought, indeed very little thought, I decided not to disabuse the clerk of his conviction. Since I was required only to recall if the condition of the cabriolet merited the squire’s outrageous bill for fettling it, I drafted an evasive reply pointing out that any damage to the vehicle was probably incurred upon the South Western or Metropolitan railways and that proving otherwise would be difficult. Expecting to be troubled no more by the matter I called Diggory to my office for a word.

  “I hear your mother has secured tenure of Lord Lacy’s shop. Perhaps you will convey my felicitations, for she wastes no time in seizing an opportunity,” I opened while perusing a letter from the company Telegraph officer, the man apparently leaving the SER to advance himself upon the Cornwall railway.

  Diggory appeared keen to speak so I set aside the letter and smiled at him. Smiling was not easy, for a General Post Office telegraph instructor had now been appointed to teach me Morse code.

  “She wrote a letter of application, sir, and I borrowed a horse to take it to the estate office at Splashgate,” the lad apprised me. “Mother had two good references from lace customers.”

  “I presume she is presently in Upshott making arrangements,” I sought confirmation, educing a nod from the boy.

  “That will be all, Diggory,” I dismissed him. “Oh, Diggory, one more thing. Perhaps you would ask your mother to drop by the station when she has a moment. Indeed, you have leave to go and find her straight away.”

  The lad hurried out of my office.

  Somewhat distracted I returned my attention to the letter upon my desk and noted that I was to receive two visits from the telegraph instructor. Upon his
first visit he would install a dummy instrument and demonstrate how to key Morse code, leaving me a copy of the Morse alphabet to learn, and upon his second visit he would test me for speed and accuracy. When I was deemed adequate he would remove the instrument and award me a certificate of proficiency. What worried me was the training regime, which was to be no less than four hours a day. Quite where this amount of time was supposed to come from I had no idea.

  Thumbing through the letter again I noticed on the second page a proposed date for the telegraph instructor’s first visit. This was the coming Monday, and attached to the page was a copy of the SER’s telegraphic shorthand to learn in the meantime. Looking at the list I found the oddest compilation of abbreviations I had ever seen, which included names like ‘Hup’ for Upshott’s horsebox, ‘Twinch’ for the company’s two-and-a-half ton mobile crane, and ‘Pong’ for the gas house siding. Wondering if I had stepped into a fairy tale I was disenchanted to learn that I had been ruthlessly reduced to ‘J’ and was Stationmaster of a place called ‘Ups.

  While reciting the abbreviations in an attempt to learn them by rote I heard a delicate knock at my door. I braced myself, expecting to be exposed as the stationmaster who self communes in jibberish, and discovered that my visitor was Élise. While making her comfortable I explained my strange behaviour, but she seemed reluctant to listen. With her bonnet upon her knee she smiled with patient indifference.

  “I have heard the good news, Élise,” I attempted to warm the atmosphere. “Many congratulations.”

  “Mr Jay, I cannot thank you enough for alerting me to the vacancy,” she said. “Moving into the rooms above the shop will overcome many difficulties for Diggory and me.”

  “And I know you will make a great success of his Lordship’s business,” I encouraged her.

  Élise ventured a hesitant smile. I believe she wished to tell me all about her new venture but an unnecessary sense of formality was constraining her to the basic facts.

  “His Lordship wishes me to broaden the range of merchandise,” she reported primly. “He has asked me to include a range of small accoutrements. He even permits me to sell my own lace should I rent the space occupied. Oh, Mr Jay, I cannot tell you how greatly relieved I am about my new circumstance,” she confided in an unguarded moment. “His Lordship is a very kind man, is he not? He has offered to introduce me to some very reliable textile millers and in the first instance will assist me with shipping arrangements.”

  Truth to tell, I was a little envious of his Lordship.

  “Élise, I could have advised you on shipping arrangements,” I remarked. “But if there is anything still to do, please ask.”

  Élise donned her bonnet and tilted her head politely. Afterwards, sitting alone, I wondered if perhaps Rose’s uninvited show of affection had caused this reverse in our relationship. Of course, another possibility was that I had been deluding myself from the start and that no harmony of spirit had ever existed between me and the lovely ‘belle in white lace’. With much to do, I was compelled to forget the matter and press ahead with my work.

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  Chapter Twenty — Spoiled Bloomers

  To lift myself from the doldrums I discarded the telegraph book and stepped outside for a spell of fresh air. While standing in the sunshine beside the long-case clock upon Platform One, serenaded by its harmonious chimes floating upon a melody of birdsong, I was hit by a dirty lump of something. The projectile struck my shoe and exploded, showering my trousers with what looked like fragments of dried mud. Soon afterwards a second projectile found me and cocked my topper to a drunken angle. I looked around to discover who was using me for target practise, expecting to see a schoolboy or Diggory with a catapult, or even Smethwick, but no culprit was in sight.

  Recovering a remnant of projectile I recognised its curved and mottled surface as part of a martin’s nest. Sure enough, looking up, I counted six cobbles attached to the soffits of the stationhouse. These nests could have been left stuck to the hip of the roof with little consequence but Jack Wheeler had undertaken to remove them and was leaning out of a first-floor window knocking them off with a broom handle. Those who ranked above him, it seemed, counted for little while standing below him.

  “Who gave you permission to enter my private quarters, Mr Wheeler?” I called up.

  “I always do this,” came the reply. “Otherwise we get droppings all down the wall. Mr Mildenhew used to complain about the crust on the platform.”

  “Very well,” I replied, “you may prevent your crust, but clear up this mess or we shall be no better off.”

  I returned to the musty confines of my office, opened a window, and applied a brush to my hat and trousers. By the time Jack had removed the detritus of his activities I was counting waybills and nibbling a piece of cheese. Without knocking, a brush and pan dangling limply at his side, the clerk entered my office and sniffed the air to gain my attention. By now I was familiar with his whistling nostrils.

  “Do you have hay fever, Jack?” I enquired without looking up.

  The impudent employee advanced to my desk and prodded my lunch with a dirty finger, then grunted with revulsion. I placed my pen to one side and enquired of his purpose.

  “Perchance you crave a piece?” I asked, wondering what I was doing in a railway backwater where stationmasters command no respect.

  The fellow’s top lip quivered. It was evident that partly eaten food disgusted him, especially when it was mutilated by the curvature of a superior’s teeth.

  “Peculiar smells don’t bother me,” he remarked.

  I waved the offending wedge of cheese beneath his nose to increase its pungency, and waited for his nostrils to whistle with shock.

  “A large wheel of this cheese was found in a cobwebbed wagon one moonlit night,” I told him. “And whoever eats it becomes a stationmaster whether they deserve to or not. I do hope I am not detaining you.”

  Confounded by my jest, the ill mannered oaf forgot the purpose of his visit and feigned interest in my figures instead, craning his neck to get their measure.

  “These look tricky!” he said, his face crumpled with workmanlike concern. “You ought to let microbes do that, Mr Jay. Apparently they can do arithmetic.”

  “How commendable,” I responded drearily. “There are some who would say that your obsession with bacteria is unwholesome, Jack. Nevertheless, if microbes think they can add up this lot they are welcome to try.”

  The amateur scientist developed a lop-sided frown and paused to think. Wiping his nose with his cuff he then prodded my papers authoritatively

  “On second thoughts, it could all go wrong,” he reversed his opinion. “The trouble is, microbes can’t add or subtract, and to make matters worse they multiply by dividing.”

  “Then I shall just have to do the job myself,” I humoured him. “Touché,” I added, realising that I had been trumped, then pointed to the staff roster on the wall. “Be warned, Jack, I do not need microbes to subtract a clerk from the payroll.”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders and left with a hopeless sigh.

  By 1pm the rattle of an approaching train was among the hills, and because this was a special on its way to London I mounted a snap inspection of my platform staff. While the porters assembled outside the ‘up’ waiting shelter I furnished myself with a pot of metal polish and a biscuit tin containing a buffing cloth.

  “This train is something of an experiment, a precursor,” I addressed them. “The South Exmoor company honours its ‘running powers’ agreement with the London & South Western and shall host excursion trains such as this throughout the summer. Now, whilst most of these trains will originate from London and Birmingham and not stop here, the one approaching is an exception and will call here to see if the exercise proves worthwhile. Its twelve carriages passed through Upshott early this morning so you know what to expect.”

  “No one got off,” Mr Troke pointed out.

  “That’s because her didn’t stop,” Hu
mphrey put in.

  “It was supposed to,” said Jack.

  “There are bound to be teething troubles,” I explained. To quell the rebellion I popped open my biscuit tin and allowed everyone to see that it contained no biscuits. The resulting disappointment was very calming and I stepped forward. “I see that it is high time you gentlemen polished your B’s,” I declared.

  The term B’s referred to buttons, boots, buckles and badges, and as the porters passed around my buffing cloth I sensed revitalised passion for our little railway on the cusp of this portentous occasion, a passion which could languish in the face of mundane branchline life. Indeed, as fingers became black with metal polish I observed immeasurable pride in appearance, but then I did not have a microscope.

  In truth these fellows were not work shy, they simply did not appreciate how important their appearance would be under our new masters.

  Having for many years been an employee of the LSWR company I looked forward to seeing its modish rollingstock grace Upshott. Long wheelbase carriages of metropolitan livery, lower halves crimson, upper halves cream, their windows detailed with pencil thin line-work, would contrast pleasantly with the rudimentary green and white ‘boxes’ that lurched through my station each day. It was well known that a ride in a South Exmoor carriage was like descending a hill in a barrel, so I cocked my ear willingly to the smooth rhythms of six-wheelers cruising Longhurdle embankment.

  Even if the train stopped as it should, it seemed unlikely that anyone would alight, save perhaps a commercial traveller or journeyman, and with only a solitary foot-soldier returning from furlough having purchased a ticket I envisaged little engagement. However, I could not allow my staff to gawp idly at the excursionists so I moved quickly to occupy them.

  “I am disappointed that you gentlemen present dapper only on sufferance,” I complained. “Since a shabby porter declares himself to be a drudge then the incoming excursionists shall be entertained by country drudges engaged in dreary chores. Occupied thus, you shall become agreeably lacklustre and regard me favourably again.”