by James Smiley
This night, unhinged by the hog pudding mystery, I simply could not sleep. Lying awake in my bed, my nerves jarred by the shrieking of a barn owl imitating a lost soul, I wondered if perhaps my dinner had been stolen by a jackdaw or some other bird with the collecting instinct. However, there was precious little comfort in this theory. Quite apart from the sheer bulk of the pudding my window had been closed at the time of the snatch and the labyrinthine innards of Upshott station house would have confounded even a jackdaw preferring a hog pudding to a bald head. For this reason my mind tumbled onwards in search of a more plausible explanation and in the end settled for the possibility that an abnormal rodent had taken up residence beneath my floorboards.
Clinging to this ridiculous theory, sleep continued to elude me and as my eyes sank into my face my denial of Miss Blake’s evil spirit lost ground. In the early hours I was menaced by the scratch of every mouse, the squeak of every bat, and the howl of every dog, but my final undoing came with a disturbance which defied all rational explanation.
Generally speaking, rigor mortis is not a state which one describes with the benefit of personal experience, but a very loud thump and prolonged groan coming from downstairs gave me a unique insight to the condition. My limbs became numb to their extremities and my ears flattened like those of a frightened animal. In short, a useless object was cluttering my bed. Despite the fact that a break-in might be in progress, albeit by a very clumsy burglar, my duty to investigate was subsumed by an obsessive desire to lie still and listen for the next sound. Though not normally so cowardly, on this occasion the small hairs of my neck would not lie down any more than I could stand up, and thus stricken I decided that making mental notes of all that I heard was the cleverest course of action.
After a while of hearing no further noises my perspective shifted, for if the quiet of the night amplifies an unaccountable sound, thereby intensifying one’s apprehension of it, then so does the passage of time lessen that sound, thereby emboldening one to take action. Thus eventually was I able to quantify the disturbance as a trifle and go to sleep. After all, the grounds of Upshott station were home to enough livestock, and thoroughfare to enough wild animals, to account for a bump in the night.
Unfortunately another sound, a much louder one resembling the scratch of fingernails upon wood and accompanied by heavy breathing, robbed me of my slumber. This was not the rummaging of a nocturnal forager. No hedgehog or fox, or even an asthmatic badger was the cause of this disturbance, and thus I knew that I was in the uncompromising presence of the inexplicable. My heart pounded like a drum at a mediaeval hanging.
Overcoming paralysis again I propped myself against my pillow, flicked the bobble of my nightcap from my face, and set about lighting my bedside candle. With my hands shaking like gelatine I did not meet with success until the very last match, by which time the noise had grown louder. I calmed myself with a few whispered words.
‘Have no fear, Horace, it is only a burglar stealing company property. There is no cadaver clawing at a coffin lid.’
In case I was wrong, however, I unhooked the walnut rood that I kept above my bed and uttered a short prayer before setting forth. It was upon opening my door very slowly to prevent its hinges from creaking that I discovered how opening a door slowly makes its hinges creak all the louder, a fascinating discovery which energised my fear as I looked downstairs into the well of darkness below. Who, or what, had joined me in the station house, I wondered . For even straining my eyes I could see nothing suspicious. No flicker of an intruder’s lamp, no carpet bag stuffed with stolen property, no discarded jemmy. Not one sign of a burglar.
Clutching my rood in one hand and my candle in the other I embarked upon a hesitant descent to the ground floor, reassuring myself with each exploratory step that my holy cross would protect me from any intruder, be he spiritual or temporal. After all, with this weighty artefact I could supplicate repentance in the name of the Lord or, if necessary, deliver a corrective blow.
My stealth was betrayed by a creaking timber underfoot and the station house reverberated maddeningly with my presence upon the stairs. I halted sharply. Creaking hinges. Creaking floors. Upshott station was by far the creakiest building I had ever had the misfortune to occupy. I muttered furiously.
‘In this place one could not stalk a dead man without waking him.’
Serena Blake’s voice entered my head.
‘Why, Mr Jay, but that’s what yer be doin’, Lord help us.’
A shiver ran up my spine.
This shiver reversed and sprinting back down my spine when an inexplicable draught wobbled the flame of my candle and caused a mob of shadows to dance around me like savages. Now, to halve my dread, I resumed my descent of the stairs with one eye closed.
At the foot of the stairs I cocked an ear to identify the direction of the scratching, but I was too late. Now only the wheeple of the barn owl drifted lethargically through the darkness. With both eyes open wide I advanced towards the Booking hall, keeping my back to the wall lest I be set upon from behind, and ventured into each shadowy office in turn with my feeble light. With my rood raised aloft I challenged every cupboard and recess, but not a burglar did I find.
To complete my reconnaissance I unlocked the main door to the Booking hall and stepped outside. Here, upon the platform, the whispering breeze reduced the flame of my candle to a useless blue droplet and chilled me as if my cotton bed-frock was but a wisp of lace. Nevertheless, feeling still more vulnerable, I walked briskly to the east end of the platform to see if the goat or chickens had been disturbed, but under tonight’s moonless sky I could not tell. The darkness was total, save for a small rash of stars in the zenith and a sprinkling of glow-worms in the grass, and once again I was compelled to resort to my ears for hint of what lurked abroad. All I registered was hooting from the rustling ash tree overhanging the footbridge and the soft, squeaky rasp of crickets. To this, nature’s night time lullaby, mankind had added only the steady clunk of a platform clock and the chatter of my teeth.
Shielding my candle from the fickle breeze I widened my search to include the goods shed, casting a suspicious eye about its endless jigsaw puzzle of nooks and crannies, concluding that any intruder had either done his business and taken nothing or was invisible. I locked the shed and returned to bed.
Reporting for duty Sunday morning, Humphrey asked me how my new recruit was faring.
“If you refer to Miss Blake, I am looking for a replacement,” I told him bluntly.
“Oh, be her a wrong’un for the job?” he asked. “Down at The Pheasant they tells I she be a splendid cook and most reliable.”
The porter dealt me a baffled look and began winding up his fobwatch. I grimaced.
“I dare say she is a splendid cook,” I replied, “but I would not know about that.”
Forcing his fobwatch into a tightly stretched waistcoat pocket, Humphrey dealt me a second baffled look. I dealt him a second grimace and began winding up my own timepiece.
“The spinster’s presence is having a disturbing effect upon me and it causes sleepless nights,” I confided.
Humphrey blinked, then broke into a smile.
“Arr, I see,” he acknowledged knowingly.
“You do?” I asked. “So you have noticed it too?”
“Well, in truth, Mr Jay, I wouldn’t have known if e hadn’t told I,” he answered, then conceded grudgingly, “but I suppose she aint unattractive in her own way.”
“Humphrey, you shame me, ” I gasped. “It is not what you think. Of the matter I can reveal only that the woman’s influence is disruptive, her effect upon the station being confoundedly difficult to explain. Let us just say that last night she fetched me garlic and my dinner disappeared.”
“Jingo,” Humphrey replied, then fell to a perplexed silence.
I stared at him in dismay.
“I should have thought it obvious that a man of my calibre would not yield to lustful fantasies,” I reproved the fellow. “And even w
ere I to view Miss Blake romantically favourable her garlic would repel me.”
In the pensive silence that followed, my tongue found a voice all its own.
“Humphrey, irrational though it may seem, I have come to the conclusion that Miss Blake’s return to the station is causing a disturbance,” it said. “By her very presence she seems to have aroused some kind of sinful entity.”
“A natural urge b’aint sinful, Mr Jay,” Humphrey attempted to appease me.
“For goodness sake, Humphrey, I refer to a satanic stirring which would otherwise have remained dormant,” I explained.
Humphrey’s silver eyebrows lifted with incredulity. Indeed, as I spoke, they rose by degrees until hidden by the peak of his cap. Expecting never to see them again, I extended my reasoning.
“Truth to tell, Humphrey, I think it has something to do with the heathen burial.”
It occurred to me that the porter’s incredulity was caused not by the possibility of a station ghost but that a stationmaster of my standing should believe in such a thing.
“Arr, e wants to see the vicar of Saint Martha,” he warbled confidentially. “This be a church matter.”
“I intend to,” I confirmed. “This very day!”
I had hoped that Humphrey would dismiss my concerns as unfounded, but instead he tutted grimly and wandered away to receive the 10.04am Giddiford train.
“I always knew her’d rise up one day,” he mumbled.
Staggering out of the Parcels office I stumbled over Diggory’s canvas bag, which for some reason he had left crumpled in the corridor. I summoned the lad to my office and, as ever, he stood to attention like a foot soldier.
“I do not reprimand you,” I opened, handing him back his unsightly bag. “Although you might take more care with this in future. Now, tell me, how is your mother? Does she find the extra coal useful?”
“Oh yes, sir,” the lad nodded energetically. “She wants to thank you in person. On Monday. She’ll be coming here to buy a season ticket.”
“Your mother is to become a commuter then,” I surmised. “Presumably she will be using the railway until the accommodation above the shop is ready. Well, I look forward to seeing her.”
The lad nodded energetically again and this continued until I dismissed him.
Sunday traffic was light, with but three passenger trains and no freight, so the station was generally closed around 5pm, this being half-an-hour after the last train. Today would be different, however, for I would lock up immediately and visit the vicarage for advice.
The vicarage was a small, square building almost completely overgrown with ivy. Its front was concealed from the High street by a row of mature chestnut trees and a mossy brick wall, its rear overlooked by the tower of Saint Martha. I passed through a wrought-iron gate into the garden and paused briefly by a neatly trimmed holly bush to check my timepiece and straighten my collar. Here came to pass my first great twinge of doubt.
‘Can I really be a stationmaster who fears ghosts?’
Wondering what the minister would make of me I moved on, parting the powder-blue fronds of a faded wisteria that had devoured the porch. Now came my second twinge of doubt, but as this did not differ from my first I was left with a trepidation implacably at odds with my surroundings. For here was I, in the bright light of day, dwarfed by the stout masonry of a peaceful, country vicarage, gleaming in the gentle sunshine a polished brass bell upon a studded oak door, and my dim purpose was to report a ghost! Alas, before I could turn and leave I was spotted. A curtain moved. I reviewed my position quickly and decided that I did not necessarily believe in Miss Blake’s ghost. Instead I would hold that my presence here was merely to seek impartial advice regarding her claim that one existed. My rehearsal complete, I cleared my throat and pulled the bell chain to seal my fate.
I was greeted almost immediately by a chambermaid wearing a pale blue apron and lawn cap, to whom I explained that although I had made no appointment with the minister I wished to speak with him on a matter of urgency. With a sweet smile the young servant took my hat and stick and invited me to wait in the study.
Now, whilst I am not nosey by nature, for I consider myself to be a gentleman, given that I was in a room called a ‘study’ I took leave to study it. After all, should I be kept waiting, a few wry observations would pass the time harmlessly enough.
This diversion proved unsettling, however, for I found in the vicar’s possessions a certainty of life that made me feel strangely distant, as if evacuated from reality. This, I reflected, was a curious place for uncertainty to overthrow certainty, frequently though it does elsewhere, for in a minister’s study where life’s tenor is regulated by the reassuring tick of a carriage clock and the acuity of one’s senses sharpened by the redolence of cut flowers and beeswax polish, the peace of the bible ought to have been felt as deeply as in the church itself. Yet, for some reason, the room spoke of spiritual evasion rather than spiritual engagement. I curtailed my irreverent observation lest I be undone.
Perversely, my scepticism persisted. For although I have never travelled the world, and all I knew of its troubles was that they are legion, it seemed to me that a tranquil vicarage with its cultivated garden, attentive servants and copious stipend, was a questionable place from which to step into the pulpit with moral teachings for the poor and wretched. It perplexed me that folk whose misery stemmed mainly from domestic overcrowding and uncertainty of income should seek salvation through words conceived in a comfortable enclave of serenity like this, rather than the more honest Ecclesiastes which reminds us: ‘All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.’
Perhaps Miss Blake’s evil charcoal burner had possessed me to think such a thing but my observations made me uneasy that the good Book had been misinterpreted.
It was 5pm and the delicate chime of a Swiss carriage clock that twinkled upon the mantelpiece competed feebly with the deep toll of a grandfather clock in the hall. Even in this mechanical uproar did I find allegory. To wit, that I was that fragile carriage clock and the church the dominant grandfather clock, and in the business of evil presences my tentative dinging would be overpowered by resounding clangs.
I had met the Reverend Gittings before. He had visited me during my first week in Upshott to welcome me to the fold, and I had disappointed him with news that I was no church-goer on account of my hours of duty. Whilst I had expected the parson of a railway parish to understand the stationmaster’s predicament regarding worship, and had told him that per force I nourished my faith in my own way, he had not been persuaded. But then, of course, a stationmaster is fair game in the building of a congregation.
The lethargic clunk of the grandfather clock grew louder as the vicar entered the room. I was deep in thought at the time, gazing through the mullioned window at red a squirrel flitting about upon the lawn, and so my reception of the clergyman was more a flinch of surprise than a smile. Nevertheless he greeted me with outstretched arms.
The Reverend Mr Gittings, whom I estimated to be in his late forties, cut a short figure but would have been good exercise to circumnavigate. He stared at me with eyes magnified by a pair of small, oval spectacles which gave him the appearance of a tired fish, and succumbed to an attack of rapid sniffing, perhaps suffering from hay fever. Scarcely had I risen to declare the purpose of my visit than he took both my hands and shook them so vigorously as to drive me back into my seat.
When I recovered my balance he invited me across the room to a pair of facing Morris chairs which, by the look of them, he kept in reserve for private consultations. Here he opened our dialogue with a penetrating drone which I imagine he had cultivated for delivering sermons to inattentive ignoramuses. He listened patiently and without interruption while I described the strange effect Miss Blake was having upon me, and did not flinch when I spoke of the unearthly noises that had beset my station. He did react, however, when I made reference to the alleged heathe
n burial. An eyebrow twitched.
Essentially calm though the minister had remained while audiencing a report of his parish’s inexplicable happenings his countenance drifted towards outright indifference while hearing of the hog pudding incident. Yet this, at least, could provide him with tangible evidence to consider, for afterwards there was no pudding where there had been one before. The vicar’s lack of alarm made me wonder if he had investigated such unimaginable stirrings in his time that, to him, a vanishing hog pudding was little more than an All Hallows fright.
Upon completion of my unburdening the vicar emitted a long, quavering hum and polished his spectacles. His demeanour remained one of disinterest for some while, as though the solution was too obvious to bother with. The solution may have been obvious to him but not to me, so I applied patience while he poised himself to cast judgement upon the matter. While enduring the vicar’s lengthy protractions I came to perceive how little he understood my need of his verdict, for instead of speaking he simply stared at me through his dense lenses and erupted into another burst of sniffing. This episode lasted, by design, until it dawned upon me that his nasal nutations had nothing to do with hay fever.
The clergyman’s sniffing, I realised at last, was a form of communication rather like Morse code, and currently it conveyed a question. You see, unlike Morse code, sniffing code was easy to decipher and I interpreted his signal thus:
‘Since you attend none of my sermons, by what right do you seek the benefit of my wisdom away from the pulpit?’
I had been warned of the cleric’s wiles and so dismissed his coded eructation with a bold yet simple request:
“If you please, Reverend, I require only a glance at the parish records to put my mind at rest.”
More sniffing followed, but this faltered when I held my ground with a stony face. Eventually, having realised that in the arena of awkward silences I was his equal, the taciturn clergyman deigned to give counsel.
“Hmmmmya,” he began. “Since being the parson here I have tried to impress upon the directors of your railway the profanity of running trains on the Sabbath. As yet I have had no success.”
