by James Smiley
“Yes I can manage from here,” I waved him away.
The boy wandered into the darkness, sans lamp and humming a tune to himself, and I crossed my fingers that I had not raised his hopes unduly. So far, all I knew of the varmint wriggling to reach my face again was that he liked buns, hog pudding and peanuts.
Keen to make capital of our being alone together while I dimmed the platform lamps and fantasised about how I would have spent the Bank holiday with Élise, Mr Troke jockeyed among the shadows for my attention. I did my best to dismiss his attempts to draw me into mindless gossip but the pest would not take the hint.
“I hear tell Snimple spent Harvest Festival with that Higham girl, Mr Jay,” he badgered me, stroking the puppy feebly. “Do you not think the humbug is riding for a fall?”
“Snimple is no Humbug,” I inveighed him. “And I know more of the porter’s activities than you might think, Mr Troke. However, as yet I see no need to interfere.”
“She’s a scarlet woman,” he snuffled, clearing his nose with an uncouth hoot. “Snimple’d be better off with the Postmaster’s daughter.”
“Good heavens, William, what business is it of yours?” I gasped. “Snimple will return to his senses in his own good time, when he realises that capable young maids like Miss Peckham do not grow on trees. Have no doubt, he will requite her affections eventually.”
“All the same, it’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow,” Mr Troke insisted, sorting through his keys.
I stamped my foot and drove him a way.
“Goodnight, William,” I called after him. “We shall speak no more of the matter.”
Mr Troke returned reluctantly to the shadows from which he had graduated and the smell of rancid fish was gone. Alone at last, I confided in my new ward.
“Upon my soul, little fellow, I believe Miss Peckham and I both be foul of this monster they call unrequited love.”
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Chapter Twenty-Five — The trouble with progress
The telegraph instructor dismantled his dummy instrument and hailed a porter to stow it aboard the afternoon ‘up’ train. While the apparatus was being placed in the luggage van the instructor retired to a First class compartment and made himself comfortable by a window from which, no doubt, he expected me to wave him off with ceremony. I preferred to watch his departure from my office doorway, relishing the fact that I would never see him again.
The four-carriage train was scheduled to connect with a London service at Giddiford Junction and got away smartly. With a ball of steam curling skyward and the rear brake van juddering violently it rumbled across Natter lane bridge and snaked over the loop points towards Fallowfield embankment. The crowds upon the platforms dispersed and Élise became visible some distance away, so I waved to her. Having stepped off the Blodcaster train she was struggling with what looked like a heavy picture frame and consequently did not notice my solicitation. As I made to assist I was diverted by the sight of black smoke rising from the track. Hurrying to the edge of the platform I discovered that the departing engine had left in its wake a trail of glowing cinders, one of which had ignited an oily sleeper and the flames looked likely to spread. Unfortunately, by the time I summoned Mr Troke with a bucket of sand, Élise had gone. It seemed that she had been assisted by Snimple, for the porter was looking very pleased with himself.
The telegraph instructor’s departure, though welcome, had tainted me with ambivalence, for whilst I was elated to have passed my telegraphy test, albeit it by whisker, I was unsettled by the expert’s parting remark that lately anyone could become a stationmaster. In Upshott, it seemed, even victory fetched up unease.
Taking a pinch of snuff I concealed myself behind a crate of apothecary’s glassware and peered across a wheel of cheese to watch the ‘up’ train recede towards Upford. Upon its approach to the foot crossing by Fallowfield common the driver complied with regulations and sounded his whistle. As ever, distance parted the resulting tuft of steam from its toot by a good second, the toot fracturing into a string of echoes lasting several further seconds. This musical episode always put a smile upon my face and thus amused I returned to my office to repair a sock suspender that had snapped during my stroll through Upshott Wood to collect wild flowers for a posy.
Earlier in the week, while practising on the dummy telegraph instrument, it had occurred to me that a second operator in the station would be beneficial, and in the belief that the young mind is more receptive than the old I had invited Diggory to join me in my exploration of the Morse key. In the event, however, this young mind had been too preoccupied with an increasingly popular scamp called ‘Spook’ to assimilate very much.
With the company Telegraph Officer intending to take over from the Post Office instructor and tutor me at regular intervals by live telegraph I could no longer ignore the receiver when it activated, and consequently it was not long before I was sitting nervously at the apparatus trying to decipher my first signal. Having over the last week developed an aversion to the peculiar smell made by the equipment, a pungent emission caused by the warming of an inductor coil insulated with a ghastly material called shellac, I managed to decipher only a fraction of the urgent buzzing. However, before my wits were completely overtaken I did grasp that the communication was coming from Headquarters and had something to do with my disciplinary hearing, for which reason I contrived a second chance to decipher it. I disconnected one of the wires and interrupted the signal, a prank which caused a spark and some random chattering from the receiver but did allow me to ask the sender to re-transmit his message more slowly. I told him that his previous attempt had been so rapid that it ‘overtook’ the wires.
When the sender finally arrived at a speed with which I could keep pace I learned that all official complaints against me had been dropped, the poisonous dwarf having withdrawn his troops. So my progress at the Morse key was such now that if a signal was transmitted slowly enough I could transcribe it, even one peppered with personal abuse. Although, soon afterwards I received a second signal, a somewhat longer one from the South Exmoor’s Telegraph officer, and it did not go especially well. This was my first live tutorial and as a post script to the lesson the officer commented that it was people like me who had compelled the company to consider installing a variable current circuit. This was the foolproof ‘alphabetical’ system which the Post Office instructor had denounced as retrograde. Before I could marshal my dots and dashes to learn more of this cheering development the officer signed off, the apparatus fell silent, and I was left squirming with uncertainty.
Consulting Humphrey, who was himself a telegraph receiver connected to the rumour circuit, I learned that my tutor had been up before the Board to answer allegations of equipment misuse. Apparently he had conducted some kind of illegal experiment using the Giddiford-to-Widdlecombe earth-return wire, pray do not ask me what, and now faced dismissal and possible legal action by the General Post Office. Surprised that I was receiving tuition from a discredited member of staff I asked Humphrey why the fellow had not been suspended from duty pending the outcome of an enquiry, and was told that the officer’s duties were of such a technical nature that no replacement could be found at short notice.
As coincidence would have it, Jack Wheeler approached us with a snippet of news bearing uncanny relevance to telegraphy. He was brandishing a discarded copy of The Times and pointed to an illustration describing a new communications marvel that required no training at all to operate. The invention, called the ‘speaking telegraph’ had apparently been demonstrated in America by way of a human voice being forced down a short length of wire! Humphrey found all scientific experiments disturbing but I was more disappointed than discombobulated, for even as a Morse code dunce I found the idea of talking through a wire improbable. Yet, for many people in these times, electricity and magnetism were steeped in mystery. Promises were made that one day electricity would be able to cure diseases, induce mental telepathy, and even safely produce daylight. It occurre
d to me that scientists were empowering the unscrupulous salesman most dangerously.
With Élise heading purposefully in our direction I excused myself and struck away to meet her. Jack returned to his duties but for some reason Humphrey adhered to me. Élise greeted me with disappointing formality.
“I have been meaning to thank you for the coal, Mr Jay,” she said. “Salvaging it was perilous, I hear.”
“Not at all, Mrs Smith,” I breezed, not wishing to aggrandise myself. “Coal loses volatility when it is exposed to the elements, you know, so if we are to avoid waste we must be prompt with its disposal.”
“Oh, I did not know that,” she answered. There was a hint of disappointment.
Wondering if I had blundered, and that she was disillusioned to be just one convenient recipient among many, I fell silent. She turned from me briefly to greet Humphrey with a polite smile.
“Nevertheless we are very grateful, Mr Jay,” she advised me. “No doubt Diggory has told you that we must remain in our draughty old cottage until the New year. Widdlecombe will be our home for a while longer yet, which leaves us in much need of the extra fuel.”
“E’ll need plenty of coal to last out the comin’ winter, ma’am,” Humphrey warned, the accuracy of his weather predictions being famed in the district.
“Is there a delay at the shop?” I enquired, signalling the porter to go away.
“Everything is fine,” she replied stiffly. “His Lordship’s agent is acquainting me with the business and its suppliers, but the rooms above the shop have yet to be cleared out. Much neglected stock remains to be examined and sorted.”
Stifled by formality I tipped my hat and fell silent again. After a few seconds, Humphrey startled us both with a chuckle.
“Arr, that be excellent,” he gusted.
Clearly something was bothering the porter but he was reluctant to voice it, and with my attempts to lift our conversation from the doldrums proving ineffective I sensed that Élise was concluding our conversation with a view to parting company. Humphrey, determined to keep us together, coughed abruptly and startled us both a second time. It was such a disingenuous outburst that Élise and I renewed eye contact in exploration of each other’s response to it.
“I wanted to thank you earlier for the coal, Mr Jay, but you were with a rather important looking gentleman boarding the Giddiford train,” she apprised me hurriedly lest we both speak at once. “Anyway,” she added, “I was preoccupied with a sewing frame for the shop.”
Humphrey took it upon himself to reply in my place.
“Yes, ma’am,” he chortled. “That important gent were the telegraph instructor all the way from the Post Office in Exeter.”
“How is the shop coming along?” I asked Élise, unaware that I was repeating myself.
“You are very kind to enquire, Mr Jay,” she responded neutrally.
Our cocoon of formality seemed unbreakable and I wondered if my magnificent belle in white lace would ever call me Horace again. Certainly I would not find out with Humphrey present, so in an attempt to be rid of him I asked if he had duties to perform elsewhere. The porter did not reply. Instead, and without prompting, he took it upon himself to recount my escapade with the voluptuous Miss Macrames. I thought I should not survive the embarrassment.
“Our new stationmaster here just had a lucky escape, ma’am,” he began with inappropriate joviality. “We were a gettin’ numerous complaints about his bad conduct, e see.”
“Yes, Humphrey, I think…”
“Only they all turned out to be bogus, ma’am,” he put in quickly. “E see, they were bein’ drummed up by a dishonest businessman in Blodcaster.”
Mrs Smith reeled with astonishment.
“Goodness me! Why on earth would anyone do such a thing?” she gasped.
Before I could explain, Humphrey resumed the exposé.
“Arr, that be the crux of the matter, Mrs Smith,” he wheezed. “It turned out the blighter were after keepin’ his missus from a leavin’ him, e see. She be what they calls a siren. They tells I it be a regular pantomime over at Fleckford. The woman sinks her sinful claws into every gent who can offer refuge, and her husband discredits them to get her back. This time she tried to snare our Mr Jay, but bein’ no fool he slipped the net. Mr Jay saw through her feminine wiles and sent her a packin’.”
“Horace, it must have been a dreadful experience,” Élise sympathised with an outstretched arm.
Humphrey bulged with satisfaction while I shrank with shame to have fallen prey to such artful titillations.
“Mr Milsom sells himself short,” I owned up reluctantly. “In truth I have this splendid fellow and another colleague to thank for my deliverance. Left to my own devices I should have been hoodwinked.”
“I cannot believe that,” Élise reproved me softly. “Anyway, Horace, I am glad that all has turned out well. Now, if you will excuse me, I must make haste to the shop for there is still much to do.”
I tipped my hat to the lovely lady, who had pleased me by calling me Horace again, and she smiled back warmly. Her purposeful walk towards the High street captivated me, as ever, with its flowing elegance and I issued Humphrey a knowing nod.
In the languid afternoon air I drifted about the station and fidgeted hopelessly, it being in this dilatory state that I tried to absorb the details of a memorandum from Headquarters advising all stationmasters of the imminent upgrading of our traffic control system to staff-and-ticket. This necessitated changes to most of the signalling arrangements with the division of the railway into two further block sections. Giddiford-to-Widdlecombe was to become a section in its own right, and likewise Busy Linton-to-Blodcaster. The details were difficult for a lovelorn fidget to absorb and my eye preferred to dwell upon my letter of exoneration from the Company secretary which stated that my disciplinary hearing had been cancelled. The original summons had been stamped ‘NFA’ to indicate ‘No Further Action’ and it lifted from my mind a terrible weight.
Shaking off my euphoria I set about explaining the technicalities of staff-and-ticket operation to all the railwaymen in my charge and I knew that some of them would understand the theory more readily than others. Having freshened up I summoned Jack Wheeler and Ivor Hales to my office. Both men had both been employed previously on staff-and-ticket worked lines and consequently required only an outline of the new block sections to complete their knowledge. Everyone else, bar one, came to understand the modus operandi of the system after carefully formulated instruction. Tom Turner was the exception, of course.
My sleepy Stores clerk found the subject of signalling so incomprehensible that mere mention of it torpified him. The following day, therefore, to set matters straight with all possible expedition I peered into the dullard’s cluttered hut and beckoned him to my office for some extra tuition. Such was his lassitude generally that he found most of life’s endeavours beyond his energy, and consequently he tried my patience sorely. However, on this occasion I was mindful of my own limitations, namely telegraphy, and resolved to help the poor fellow understand the basic principles at least. Company rules exempted no one from training, not even the semi consciousness, and I decided that teaching a simpleton the rudiments of single-line traffic management would make an interesting challenge.
Having made myself buoyant about the proposition I looked around my office and salvaged from my waste paper basket an out-of-date poster. Upon its verso I drew a map of the railway, furnishing the artwork with three pencils to represent trains. The result was a graphical aid comprising movable parts which I felt sure would stir interest in my lethargic colleague.
After seating the clerk before the diagram I was vexed to observe his eyes already closing, and there was not a scintilla of interest when I demonstrated how a pencil could be used to represent the progress of a train. Nevertheless, sensitive to the fellow’s apprehension of matters technical I ventured a touch of levity by adding a train sound. This comradely embellishment also failed to work, causing instead
a strangely convulsive yawn, so I cleared my throat and recapitulated the cold facts in the hope that rote would succeed where invention failed.
“What do you say, Tom? Simple stuff, eh?” I cajoled the fellow, suddenly aware that I had never once seen him laugh or even smile.
Mr Turner frowned at me weightily then nodded to indicate that his studies had been arduous but successful. So far so good.
“Well done,” I encouraged him. “Now, each block section has an associated staff, or baton as we used to call it, and only the stationmaster in possession of the staff is authorised to send trains into the related section. At Upshott we shall be at the centre of two such sections, one between here and Widdlecombe and the other between here and Busy Linton. You will appreciate, Tom, that the more sections that a railway is divided into, the more trains it can accommodate at once.”
“How do trains get past each other?” Tom interrupted me with misted eyes.
In celebration of this mental stirring I patted his shoulder.
“This is why crossing loops are being laid at Widdlecombe and Busy Linton,” I smiled.
I paused to see if the technicalities had sunk in and Tom nodded, but he did so with a hesitance suggesting that he was still confused, so I waited for him to confess. At last, scratching his head through a heap of lacklustre curls, the dozy fellow revised his answer and sighed with disarming innocence. At my wit’s end, I went to my drawer and took out a specimen ticket.
“Study this,” I commanded him. “You will see that it contains instructions to the holder, and by reading these you will learn all you need to know.”
