by James Smiley
“I don’t understand,” the clerk interrupted me with a pitiful mask of confusion still upon his face. “If they get rid of the horses, what will Mr Maynard do?”
“Just a minute, Tom,” I poppled. “If you give me a chance I will explain that Mr Maynard is to keep his shunting horses. Shunting engines are too much of an extravagance.”
Perhaps I should have nurtured this uncharacteristic spark of curiosity in my colleague but by now I had my eye cast towards the clock, so I concluded the lecture and comforted myself that a Stores clerk with an emulsified brain was unlikely to be called upon to authorise a train departure. I tore up the improvised railway diagram and steeled myself with a nip of liquor to tell Mr Maynard that his beloved fast horses were to be sold.
Much to my consternation, and in the face of my most earnestly expressed regret, Mr Maynard did not see fit to take the blow like a gentleman. He lost his temper and cut up rough, my attempts to calm him serving only to fuel his anger.
“You can hardly be surprised, Julian,” I responded. “These improvements were inevitable.”
“Improvements? What improvements, Mr Jay?,” he railed me. “My horses have served the South Exmoor railway effectively and cheaply for nigh on fourteen years now. What improvement is there room for?”
“I think you know what I mean, Julian,” I parried the fellow sternly. “You cannot stand in the way of progress. It is the march of time.”
“It is the march of the London and South Western!” he snorted with uncharacteristic bile. “And unlike everyone else here I will not disgrace my family by cowering to imperious edicts like a court jester. We must stand together and fight these faceless administrators. To the bitter end, if necessary.”
With this pronouncement, leaving me to ponder what ‘bitter end’ he had in mind, the Horse superintendent pulled off his immaculately maintained SER company cap, an item of uniform which betokened little of the London and South Western railway, and threw it to the ground. As if this ungentlemanly act was insufficient, he followed it with a gesture that bordered upon lunacy. He jumped aboard the discarded cap and danced upon it a grim jig of wrath. The comedy of the spectacle evaporated quickly, however, when he vented the last of his vapours.
“Damn and curse the London and South Western railway and its cold blooded visionaries,” he ranted. “If just one of my horses has to go then so shall I. Touch me if I don’t, Mr Jay. What’s more, I will put a torch to the company’s Giddiford office on my way out.”
I had not realised that beneath Mr Maynard’s polished exterior lurked such volatility. Yet far from being alienated by the fellow’s outburst I was saddened by it. In Julian I had found a valued and respected colleague and I had no wish to see our working relationship soured, perhaps even ended, for the sake of a couple of horses.
Watching Julian saddle Hildebrand and apply the spur I could only hope that his fury was transient. It was certainly unbecoming, and as he rode away I recovered his crumpled cap, shook the grit from it and took it to my office with a heavy heart. Here, sitting at my desk I gazed into the cap’s reflective peak as if seeking the wisdom of a crystal ball, contemplating the uncertainties of the future. I felt great unease. For among the distorted reflections was a benevolent little railway at the dawn of a new era, an era with higher priorities, and I predicted that the casualties of this new era would be the very men who had taken the greatest pride in the old.
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Chapter Twenty-Six — Shop talk
Late autumn was characterised by bitterly cold winds but I found compensation in two triumphs. The first was that my measures to curb unpleasant rivalry between the district’s apple growers had worked, resulting in the least fractious harvest that anyone could recall. The second triumph was that I had persuaded Julian Maynard to channel his anger towards the Directors of the LSWR through a strongly worded letter of protest rather than by torching their premises. This missive, being somewhat vitriolic, I redacted with Julian’s permission and endorsed his very valid point that in a civilised society the strong are obligated to avoid trampling upon the weak. Though who of the upper echelons of the London and South Western would read this letter with any interest I had no idea. Nevertheless it left Upshott addressed to the Managing Director of that company.
In due course Julian’s protest was redirected, unopened, to the SER. Replying from SER House in Blodcaster, Mr Crump answered it with carefully crafted sympathy, leaving Julian to grapple with himself over the matter thereafter.
With your permission I now wish to set the station clock to a most delightful moment in my recollections when, for once, all the world seemed at peace. I was listening to the clock’s pleasant hourly chime drift across the platforms when a late running ‘down’ train arrived. From this stepped Élise, and upon the meeting of our eyes she requested my assistance in transferring a large wooden table to her shop for display purposes.
“Are neighbours not wonderful?” she purred. “A whole crowd of them came out to lift this aboard the luggage van, you know. They even held up the train for me!”
“You are clearly well regarded in Widdlecombe,” I grunted breathlessly as Diggory and I unshipped the monstrosity. “Perhaps you will allow me to match their efforts in Upshott.”
As the lad and I navigated the cobbled High street with our burden of English oak, Élise asked me what she could do in return, and because just now I was feeling like a professional strongman my response was uncharacteristically bold.
“Come riding with me,” I said without preamble, taking myself by surprise.
Something spooked Diggory and he dropped his end of the table. While he recovered I expanded upon my impulsive suggestion.
“Perhaps we can take a turn using Mr Maynard’s fine horses before they are retired,” I smiled.
“How kind, Horace, I would love to,” Élise replied. “Though I do not see how a pleasant ride constitutes repayment.”
Élise’s blithe acceptance of my invitation not only brought relief that my advance had not been improper, it made the table weightless. After a little thought she became excited further by the prospect.
“I should very much like to ride across Fallowfield common, Horace, for I have not ridden that way in a long while and I used to love it so.” She raised her hands with a gasp. “Oh, but Heavens, when shall we do it? My time is simply not my own these days.”
“When you are free then,” I smiled, wondering how I might divert her preference in favour of Ondle common with its romantic, riverside environs.
Upon reaching the shop, Diggory and I grappled the table through the door and deposited it in a bay window. Élise draped it with calico while I regained my breath, then conducted me on a tour of the premises. Whilst it was evident that a mop and bucket had been applied most fastidiously throughout the interior there were signs of long term neglect. The painted and varnished surfaces had seen better days and most of the cupboards were speckled inside with mould. Indeed everything was quite jaded with decrepit shelves sagging under the weight of the stock, and crumbs of plaster fallen like snow to contaminate just about every new roll of fabric.
My whistle-stop tour ended in a musty backroom where I deposited my hat upon what I perceived to be a cutting table and gazed through a small, bow window. Saint Martha’s Norman tower loomed just beyond a high brick wall at the boundary of the property and caused me to ponder a daunting unknown. Mankind’s bells may clang loudly and his prayers resound from the tallest cathedrals, I reflected, but God’s plans for the future presently remain a secret. Though I had canvassed Élise’s dream I wondered what was the Lord’s design.
A pair of elongated scissors, presumably for cutting fabric, found their way into my hand and in a pensive state of mind I snipped the air with them. It seemed to me that whilst rebuilding this business had begun as a sunny ascent it now looked more like a dark precipice. The cutting table wobbled and the scissors were hopelessly blunt with a slack spindle, and the wall before me was scarred by an ugly
hole. Sensing my despondency, Élise imparted some encouraging news.
“His Lordship is to have the whole place redecorated in the New year,” she declared. “And look, already you can see the hole where they are to install the gas lighting.”
“Gas lighting!” I resiled and dropped the scissors. “What great relief. I had worried that you could ruin your eyes in this room, Élise.”
“Certainly not,” she assured me. “I know exactly what is needed here, Horace. And with guidance from me, his Lordship has thought of everything. Yes, it is true that we shall not have gas lighting upstairs but with three private rooms lit by oil I still consider the place well appointed.”
“Ludlow’s of Blodcaster had better watch out!” I congratulated her, pleased to hear such optimism.
Élise threw her hands in the air as if spotting a unicorn.
“And do you know, Horace, his Lordship’s agent is to introduce me to a leading textile wholesaler in London,” she rejoiced. “Can you believe it? I shall have access to continental textiles. I am to be a purveyor of exotic goods!”
Diggory chuckled abruptly then stifled his mirth. I have no idea what like of conversation he had overheard but to him the term ‘exotic’ clearly’ had its own connotation. I pretended not to notice.
“Well,” I declared, flipping open my fobwatch, “your son and I have duties to perform so we must, alas, partake our leave. If there is anything else I can do for you, Élise, please note that I am ever your servant. Also note that I can be found among the inmates of the village prison. You will find the building cleverly disguised as a railway station.”
We laughed and said goodbye as kindred spirits.
The anaemic light of December had denuded Upshott wood of its lush canopy and cast aside memories of summer as counterfeit. Men hunched against raw valley winds under impatient skies, rattling doors and squeaking signs supplanted birdsong, and picket fences whistled like teeth. While patrolling the platforms in a vortex of scudding leaves I turned a corner and chanced upon Élise. Even though we nearly collided I did not recognise her at once, for she was wearing a modish taffeta suit that I had not seen before. Holding her hat she beckoned me to the Booking hall for a word.
“Horace, I have been looking for you everywhere,” she complained as I trailed her with a flapping collar.
Following Élise into the Booking hall I was quite smitten with her businesslike new look, and closed the door against the trilling wind to behold her more fully.
“Now, Horace,” she began, “your words have been haunting me and it troubles me that you describe yourself as a prisoner here. Why, I have even heard a whisper that you mean to spend Christmas day alone. Is this true?”
“Of course not,” I soothed, removing my hat. “Spook is to join me and has agreed to dress up as Santa, if I allow him to share my Christmas dinner, which I am confident he will do most competently. And he is to provide seasonal cheer when I take him to the church to terrorise the vicar. I have no idea why but the vicar makes him bark furiously.”
“Be serious, Horace, have you no relatives?” she asked.
“None that are alive,” I replied. “The dead ones make very poor company.”
Élise tutted, making it clear that my levity was misplaced. I attempted to placate her.
“Miss Blake has promised to make me a hog pudding and decorate it with berries,” I said. “So I shall be festive enough.”
My inquisitor remained unsatisfied.
“Saints alive, Horace, you cannot eat hog pudding on Christmas day, no matter how elaborately it is finished,” she exclaimed. “Do you not know, Christmas is a time for companionship and gifts.”
Her reference to companionship occasioned me a brief palpitation so I cocked my ear to learn more.
“Now,” she instructed me, “I have been thinking about your unfavourable situation and have come to a decision. As you know, this Christmas will be the last Diggory and I spend at Woodacott, and whilst we have no grand memories of the place it would be nice to make at least one pleasant one before leaving. What do you say, Horace? I grant you it will be a modest affair but you are most welcome to join us.”
Charmed, yet somehow embarrassed by this unexpected offer, I gave my reply from behind a mask of mischief. Straight faced with counterfeit formality I replaced my topper to become more imposing.
“Why, Mrs Smith, are you inviting me to spend Christmas with you?” I sought confirmation.
“I am, Mr Jay,” she replied in the spirit of the jest. “And, sir, you need not fear for your comforts, for we have struck a seam of coal and do keep the place very cosy.”
“Then I believe it would be churlish of me to decline your commodious offer, ma’am,” I replied.
In the days leading up to Christmas I engaged, through Humphrey, the services of a smithy in Toadgrinton. This artisan supplemented his income by making riding tack so I commissioned him to produce a collar and tether for Spook. This would be my Christmas present to Diggory, along with a concocted document granting him official leave to exercise the dog whenever it did not interfere with his duties. If the freedom to roam Upshott wood each day in the pay of the SER did not excite the lad then I was confusing him with sleepy Tom Turner.
The smithy’s leather-craft turned out to be every bit as good as his reputation suggested and I found myself in possession of a splendid harness which matched perfectly the sketch that I had drawn. All I had to do now was think of something equally singular for Élise, and this question taxed me heavily. Eventually, after much cogitation and a trip to Exeter, I purchased an item which I felt sure would be both appealing and practical, and wrapped it as festively as my inferior dexterity would allow. Following this I asked Diggory to take the two clumsily veiled gifts home with him to Widdlecombe.
“And Diggory, do not to put them in that shabby coal bag of yours,” I beseeched him, but it was too late.
Over the following fortnight I sent Diggory home with a succession of festive delights, mostly comestibles that I had received as gratuities, and looked forward to seeing Élise’s Christmas table furnished bountifully. Though my contribution was not grand it included game meats, a jar of preserved plums, French brandy, and several hanks of coloured paper for making decorative chains, the latter purchased with a pot of gum from the fishmonger. Unfortunately, as Humphrey had predicted, the weather was planning a diversion of its own.
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Chapter Twenty-Seven — Snow on the line
Christmas eve dawned white and tumbling, a charcoal sky lending the station a very queer atmosphere. Having crept in quietly during the night the snow’s hushed cascades had produced a picturesque scene but threatened to disrupt services, so I dressed myself quickly and made for the Telegraph room to gather intelligence before the circuits failed. On my way there I noticed that someone had lit the platform lamps, zigzag footprints about the station revealing that at least one of my staff had made it to work.
Now being a competent telegrapher I was keen to use the Morse key as often as possible, and today I would discover from Headquarters what effect the snow was having upon the railway. From the instrument’s bursts of electric chatter I learned that whilst no services had been cancelled, all were delayed, and that I should expect the first train to come through Upshott thirty minutes late.
When the Giddiford train arrived, an hour late, Mr Hales held it outside the station while workers from the nearby Lacy estate unblocked the loop points. Their toil continued until the Blodcaster train arrived in the opposite direction, whereupon Mr Hales admitted both trains to the station simultaneously. From the footbridge I saw Élise and Diggory alight the ‘down’ train and hug briefly before going their separate ways, Élise making precariously towards the village and her son reporting to me with the shivers. Apologising for his lateness, the lad explained in clouds of breath that he had been unable to walk across the viaduct because of blinding snow. I did not see fit to chide the boy on this account, for to com
e via the valley bottom would have been both lengthy and perilous, but when I dismissed him he tarried as if troubled by something further; something unmentionable.
With a little persuasion I got Diggory to voice his concern, and learned that his mother had proposed a rendezvous between the three of us aboard the last ‘up’ train of the day so that I could spend the night in Widdlecombe. Avoiding the risk of being stuck in Upshott was a practical idea, I had to admit, and it made a most pleasant prospect, but the suggestion presupposed continued operation of the trains and Diggory thought this unlikely. Upon reflection I had to agree with the lad and was more inclined to advise him and his mother to return to Widdlecombe post haste lest they be stranded themselves. Strangely, as if to contradict my anxiety, the sky brightened up and the snow eased to a light flurry.
“Your mother is very gracious to be so concerned,” I told the lad. “Thank her for me, and tell her that we must keep a watchful eye upon the weather throughout the day.”
Even as Diggory set about this errand the sky darkened as never before and heavy snowfall returned. Indeed, conditions now worsened until an outright blizzard was upon us and the decision came from Head Quarters to cancel all trains. Company policy dictated that I release my staff from their duties and send them home before the roads became impassable. Likewise I despatched Diggory to fetch Élise then waited for her to return to the station so that we could make whatever progress was possible. Diggory’s silhouette appeared first, closely followed by his mother enlarged by a black fur coat that she had borrowed from a neighbour. In addition to this she was wearing, of all things, a cotton mob cap. As she struggled into the Booking hall carrying a snow encrusted box of documents I could scarcely contain my amusement.
“And what is so funny, Horace? It is thickly lined and keeps my head warm,” she checked me, shaking the cap and causing a small blizzard of her own.
“I think we shall at last have that horse ride together,” I changed the subject quickly. “There are no more trains running today and Mr Maynard’s poor nags could do with warming up.”
