by James Smiley
At first the engine slipped and chugged with the frenzy of a weaving loom, the close proximity of its wheels making Élise dizzy, then it gained traction and fell calm, advancing gradually onto the sand that had been laid before it. As the engine gathered speed its rapidly hastening exhaust blasted the falling snow back into the air as if reversing the blizzard, and its enraged fire dyed all our surroundings yellow.
Élise and I marvelled at how quickly Hiscox was able to coax his battering ram to a swift pace, its red tail lamp having hurtled past us to become a distant glimmer in the dark. Soon only the tap of wheels attested to the train’s proximity, and thus were Élise and I left alone together on the moor, in total darkness, blinded by snow and expecting to hear a collision. Such circumstances I could never have predicted, but I felt sure that Élise would find it less stressful at the lineside than aboard a battering ram, even if her doting escort had forgotten to bring a lantern.
A thud followed by a grumbling roar conjured scenes of carnage in the imagination and caused Élise to squeeze my hand. Indeed, her foreboding was so great that she took to my shoulder and kept her face buried there until the roar had subsided. This was followed by such a profound and disturbing wake of silence that, quite unwittingly, I stopped breathing. Undignified panting followed when the rear lamp of the train pricked the darkness again, and by the time the ensemble of wagons had reversed out of the cutting and was fully visible through the storm’s bleak cascades, a wolf-like howl had risen from somewhere nearby and was causing us concern.
The hilarity of discovering that the howl was coming from Spook in the Guard’s van where Diggory had abandoned him took Élise first. Then I succumbed. The boy, staring out from the veranda, was patinated with dislodged snow and looked like a hoary phantom with bulging eyes.
“It is a ghost train!” I warned.
“But the ghost looks more terrified than us,” Élise observed.
“Then he has seen the Beast of Exmoor,” I riposted clumsily.
Hiscox halted his engine alongside us and shook his head from the cab.
“She fell short, but we’ll try again,” he said.
A steadfast column of smoke and steam rose energetically from Brigg’s tall chimney once more as the driver took the regulator for his second sprint into obscurity. From this attempt came an equally ominous roar but one not followed by silence. Instead, a whoosh and squealing brakes rippled through the relentlessly falling snow. This I took to be Briggs bursting out of the snowdrift at the far end of the cutting with velocity to spare, a suspicion confirmed by a prolonged whistle of triumph heard faintly beyond the hill. Then Élise cast doubt upon my reasoning.
“Perhaps Briggs has derailed and Mr Hiscox is calling for assistance,” she ventured.
This seemed disagreeably likely so I steeled myself for a possible rescue operation. My heart thumping, I convulsed with relief when I heard a series of jovial toots and saw the train clattering into view again. The engine set back alongside us and we were invited aboard the footplate to resume our journey. Not knowing that the ‘beast of Exmoor’ was apocryphal, Élise climbed the ladder with little of her former caution.
Such a triumph, I felt, merited a small celebration so I retrieved my walking stick from a corner of the cab and surprised everyone with the revelation. With the engine lolloping from side-to-side upon ice encrusted rails I unscrewed the cap of what was actually a tippling stick and charged it carefully with brandy for Élise. This she accepted with scant persuasion and insisted that I refill the cap afterwards for Driver Hiscox. He, having paused the engine to take a nip, returned the empty to Élise who then forwarded it to me to recharge. The last drop, it seemed, was to go to Fireman Jones who tipped the lot down his throat in one go. None being left for me, I propped my stick in a corner of the cab again and warmed my cockles on gratitude.
As we resumed our cautious advance through the cutting the engine’s acrid effluvium clung to us like molasses in the descending clouds of snow, swirling into the cab nauseously. It was Élise who suffered most in the bronchial fog, for railwaymen were adjusted to such conditions. I helped her lean from the cab in search of fresh air but with torrents of sulphur flowing between closely flanking walls of ice, little respite could be found. So bad was it that I wondered if Briggs was haemorrhaging its vital energy after such rough treatment, but Hiscox explained that he had opened two of the cocks to keep the cylinders warm.
Typically of Élise, despite her distress she now became concerned for Diggory. I leaned from the cab again, this time to inspect the condition of the Guard’s van, and was astonished by the depth of snow that had accumulated upon the carriage roofs. Nevertheless, with smoke still emitting from the Guard’s stove-pipe and the lad maintaining his vigil from the veranda I assured her that he was actually having the time of his life.
The passage carved by the snow-plough, being very narrow, had collapsed in places and reburied the track, so the labourers alighted the Mail van again and preceded the engine with pick-axes and shovels, but with glassy protrusions scraping both sides of the train and fresh snow accumulating rapidly I observed doubt reclaiming their faces. When I consulted Hiscox about the situation he shocked me with a disappointing prediction. The Mail was now unlikely to reach Giddiford, he declared, speculating that even the mainline with its greater resources was closed. Our hopes of making it to Widdlecombe thus dashed, I exchanged grimaces with Élise. Only Fireman Jones remained buoyant.
“Perhaps Mr Jay would like to organise a singsong,” he proposed, his dialect so melodic that I thought he had struck the first notes to encourage me.
My reply was bashful.
“Alas my joyless intonations would arouse little cheer, Mr Jones. I need to be accompanied by a musical instrument, but alas I see no pianoforte.”
“Come now, Mr Jay, all men are born to sing,” the Welshman persisted.
Élise came to my rescue.
“Did I tell you that I have a harp, Horace?” she diverted the conversation. “I used to play it all the time, you know, but now it is broken.”
We reached out to each other for support as Hiscox brought Briggs to a juddering halt and secured the handbrake. I had not noticed our exit from the cutting or the labourers’ return to the Mail van so I looked over my shoulder through the Fireman’s window to catch up with events. We had come to the embankment approaching the viaduct, but of the stone structure ahead all I could see was a grey blur in the macular darkness. In such an exposed location the snow fell not with hushed grace but fickle haste, its howls, shrills and raw bluster stripping away the cosy orb of our locomotive cab without mercy. Here the wind was funnelled by a deep valley and agitated by the viaduct’s lofty piers, ferocious glissades blowing both above and below the structure with gusts that could topple our little train. With snowflakes alternately floating like pink butterflies then streaking through the cab horizontally I was, for the first time, afraid.
Hiscox instructed Jones to alight the rocking engine and see if it was safe to proceed. Humming a lullaby to himself the Welshman complied willingly, and was all but lifted from the iron steps by a freezing squall as he clambered towards the ground. Clutching a lamp, and scarcely able to remain upright, the footplateman advanced into the tempest and vanished, leaving us to wonder if we would ever see him again.
Not only did Jones return, surprisingly he gave the nod to proceed, and as we crept forward it soon became clear why he had given the go-ahead. With an eye cast through the Fireman’s spectacle I saw that the wind had drifted snow across the spare track-bed while leaving only a light dusting upon the rails leeward of the parapet, leaving our way relatively unobstructed. Nevertheless there was still much concern, for as we advanced high above the river Ondle a crosswind jolted the train alarmingly and sheered snow from the carriage roofs. Great white slabs tumbled downwards through the haze and I prayed that none would strike a cottage below.
This part of the journey, taken at five miles per hour with gooseflesh arms yet
legs roasting in the radiance of the fire, was both disorientating and interminable. It was like crossing the sky along a metal thread, the far end of which played cruel games of promise and denial as we crept fitfully towards safety.
When at last we left the viaduct our train traversed the embankment into the lee of Widdlecombe hill where the snow fell more tranquilly and I rejoiced that now at least some of us would benefit from this venture. Widdlecombe station, which had no accommodation for a stationmaster, had been closed and abandoned to the elements by Mr Caxton so Driver Hiscox brought the engine to a halt at the ‘down’ platform and instructed the labourers to assemble in the Waiting shelter. Standing outside with a spanner in his hand, squinting through swarms of snowflakes, he addressed the men solemnly.
“Gentlemen, this is as far as we go,” he announced. “We must return to Upshott before the line is blocked again.”
“But it’s the Mail, guv,” the foreman complained.
Despite their fatigue, the labourers were quick to rally to their gang-master. It seemed to them that disregarding their Herculean efforts so far was a betrayal, but Hiscox remained resolute.
“Bubbingate,” he reminded them, referring to a long and deep cutting that faced due east.
“So we’ll dig it out,” someone argued.
“It would make no difference if Queen Victoria herself were aboard this train,” Hiscox insisted. “We would be trapped there. I’m sure you’d prefer a room in Upshott to a night on the moor.”
“Not if it means spending Christmas in The Shunter,” the foreman grumbled.
The rooms there were affordable but bug infested.
“I live in Giddiford and I’m in favour of carrying on,” someone at the back of the shelter shouted.
Hiscox pushed through and handed the complainant his spanner, inviting him to tap the bowser with it. The invitation was accepted and the result was a dull clunk. Everyone knew what this meant. The lack of resonance indicated solidly frozen water.
“We’ve taken too long to get here,” Hiscox made his point. “So either we return to Upshott without delay or I throw out Brigg’s fire here in Widdlecombe.”
This ultimatum horrified me and I imagined Élise’s little cottage crammed with scruffy guests. I handed the driver my keys quickly and invited him to make himself comfortable in my personal quarters at Upshott.
“Your water tower, Mr Jay… Is it frozen?” he asked.
“Almost certainly,” I replied, “but there is a brazier beneath it and a well filled tinderbox.”
Hiscox returned my keys and addressed his fireman.
“Mr Jones, you and I will share the Waiting room at Upshott,” he said. “We must take it in turns to mind the engine overnight.”
“I understand, sir,” Mr Jones nodded.
I looked down at Widdlecombe lane in the lee of the embankment and saw that it was just about navigable. The steep path from the station being the only worry, I borrowed a shovel and assembled Élise, Diggory and Spook in the Waiting room along with our bags.
Hiscox shook my hand.
“Good luck,” he said. “The men will clear the station path as best they can for you but I cannot give them long.”
The path clear, I took Élise by the arm and carried her box of documents, leaving Diggory to follow us down the slippery slope with Spook and the bags to begin the trudge to Élise’s cottage Conveniently, Woodacott was located at the near end of the village and would not take long to reach, so we paused to wave the Mail train goodbye as it reversed away along the embankment, though I doubt anyone saw us. Élise clung to my arm for support again as we resumed our journey.
“First of all I shall make you comfortable, Horace,” she advised me with a crisp tone, “then I shall leave Diggory to entertain you, for I have much to do.”
I blessed the blizzard for throwing us together and thanked her warmly.
“You shall have Diggory’s room for the night, for he has agreed to sleep by the fire,” she added.
Unless the lad was spoiled I doubt he was given a choice, and my claim that I did not wish to cause inconvenience was, in truth, token. My protest was promptly overruled, of course.
“All the arrangements are made, Horace,” she countered me stiffly.
As we crunched through Widdlecombe’s pristine swathes of snow we were amused by Spook’s antics, the four-legged fellow leaping jubilantly into the air to see where he was going, and laughed together at Diggory’s obvious joy in having such a comical new companion.
“I feel sorry for those poor men on the train,” Élise reflected. “Surely Mr Hiscox and Mr Jones do not watch over their engine every night? Do they fear someone will steal it?”
This time I laughed alone.
“Christopher Columbus, Élise, where would a thief take a railway locomotive?” I teased her. “No, there is water in its pipes. If it freezes the locomotive will be ruined. South Exmoor engines have sheds in Giddiford and Blodcaster but not Upshott so Briggs will be kept in light steam.”
“All the same, I feel sorry for their families?” she reflected.
“Well, I do not know of Jones’s circumstances, but Hiscox has no surviving family,” I said. “I imagine he will find sufficient recreation in the Lacy Arms while his workmate keeps the chill out of Briggs’s bones.”
Sight of Woodacott half buried in snow caused Élise to pause, though she recovered quickly and divulged more of her festive designs.
“I have plans for that jar of preserved plums, Horace,” she declared brightly. “I shall sugar them and leave them on the range overnight to dry.”
“Oh, now you have me!” I chimed, having secretly hoped for this. “Sugar plums for breakfast on Christmas morning. What more could a fool ask for?”
“Speaking for myself,” she sighed, “I must be up at Five to prepare the goose and forcemeat stuffing.”
“Goose! Would this be the noisy one?” I asked, knowing that her livestock could not go with her to Upshott.
“If we have an intruder you shall have to do the squawking yourself,” she smiled.
“I have not the lungs to compete with any goose,” I smiled back. “Now, Élise, I shall rise with you tomorrow and prepare the range. You must permit me no quarter.”
“You dare, Horace. I have seen how much that railway company expects of you,” she reproved me. “Diggory will provide all the assistance I need. And he will begin by warming us both with some mulled elderberry wine.”
“If you can tear him away from that new friend of his,” I chuckled as we arrived at the cottage door.
The knocker, decorated with a wreath of hazel and holly, shed a pine cone which embedded in the snow at our feet. Beating us both to the embellishment, Spook sniffed it out and promptly ate it. It was clear that Élise and I shared the same sense of humour; for once again we were infecting each other with unstoppable laughter.
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Chapter Twenty-Eight — Mistletoe bliss
The chill in my bones chased away by a blazing fire and a supper of pork and apple stew, I was beckoned to my room by a shapely silhouette holding a homemade candle. I bade Diggory goodnight by the hearth, where he and his four-legged friend had built themselves an encampment of blankets, and followed Élise upstairs. The boy’s room was little more than a cubby-hole, one corner of it filled with apples packed in straw, the other occupied by a cot under a dormer window, access to which would require someone of my height to bend, lunge, and wriggle sideways.
With snow compacted against the room’s little window I wondered how I should recognise dawn when it came, especially as my bones ached so much from my exertions that I doubted my ability to wake up ever again once asleep. The centrepiece of the room, if a claustrophobic den such as this required one, was a decorative china washbowl and ewer which clearly had been relocated from elsewhere, the ensemble being perched precariously upon a magnificent three-legged table which I assumed had survived from more prosperous times.
I availed myself of the fresh soap and towel that Élise had set out for me then embarked upon the contortions necessary to reach my pillow. I have to say that the bed was surprisingly comfortable once a serpentine repose was assumed, better than my own in fact, and the day having been so long and arduous I slept like a drunken cherub from the moment I closed my eyes in this cluttered cloister among the rafters. At first I dreamed of snow, mountains of snow, and still more snow until it all thawed in the warmth of romantic allegory.
Christmas morning I was woken abruptly by silence. Something was wrong. My drowsy haze was not encroached upon by clattering doors as Jack Wheeler unlocked the station, or the operatic boom of Mr Phillips borrowing lyrics from freight documents, or the rumble of coal descending the gas house chute, or telegraphic chatter resounding urgently from the room below mine. It was the unfamiliar ceiling that returned me to my novel place and reminded me that I had no need to don my uniform and face demands from every quarter. As if alighted upon Heaven I was at my leisure, free to spend the livelong day with my lovely Élise. And, by Jove, it was Christmas!
Curious about the weather I forced open the dormer window, which dislodged a slab of snow, and observed a Sapphire blue sky entirely devoid of clouds. The encrusted rooftops of Widdlecombe looked like a collapsed heap of white books, and the garden beneath me was stippled with foot and paw prints, evidence of lengthy frolicking. A shimmering white column of steam condensing in the cold winter air was rising from the kitchen window where Élise was preparing Christmas dinner, and I realised that I had overslept. I shaved with perilous haste, dressed, and very nearly fell down the ladder-like steps to Diggory’s room.
I found Élise drawing water from a squeaky old pump beneath a lean-to which served as a scullery, and offered assistance. She reminded me that I should rest while I had the chance, but did ask me to hang the pail above the fire when it was full.
“Did you sleep well, Horace?” she enquired with a note of apprehension as to my likely reply.
