by James Smiley
“Rather too well,” I confessed, consulting my fobwatch.
Élise appeared relieved, and as the icy water rose towards the rim of the bucket we spoke for a while of trifles.
“I am afraid the privy is still frozen,” she then warned me, her face wrinkling with concern as she unhooked the shimmering pail.
“No matter,” I chirped with my own face wrinkled, reflecting that my next trip to the cesspit with hot water would at least be made in daylight .
As we returned to the kitchen, the day’s snowy light bleaching it white as the plain cotton dress worn by my hostess, an ethereal moment evolved in which I wanted to kiss her.
“Go through then, Horace, I will bring you breakfast,” she ousted me from her path.
Realising that my presence among the pots and pans was a hindrance, I complied, and after a short while in the parlour she called to me.
“The plums are not ready yet, Horace. Will you take mushrooms? Diggory has mushrooms.”
“Then I shall have mushrooms too,” I replied.
Having indicated my preference I was summoned to the kitchen unexpectedly.
“Now, Horace, you must stir the Christmas pudding,” said Élise, directing me to a large, brown bowl with a wooden spoon poking out of it. “Go ahead and make a wish. Diggory and I have already made ours.”
I did not mention that I have no stomach for pungent herbs and spices, and but not wishing to disappointed Élise I braced myself against the smell of nutmeg and lemon zest and made a wish. This was, of course, that I should not have to eat any.
After breakfast I banked up the fire and relaxed, as instructed, then reviewed my surroundings. I was compelled to congratulate Diggory upon his seasonal efforts, for he had placed a fir tree branch in a bucket and decorated it with cornucopias and spirals of coloured paper, and festooned the window with ivy. The paper chains that I had given him encircled the entire room, and around the tree lay gifts, each brightly wrapped in marble-paper delicately secured with ribbon, further delight being added by greetings cards embellished with flourishes of pinpricks. My own gifts did not appear so well, a lack of dexterity letting me down, nevertheless they had been placed beneath the tree without prejudice. Indeed the room was filled with welcome, much time having been dedicated to the purpose, but mostly my anticipation was stirred by something suspended above the door. Sight of a mistletoe kissing ball fabricated of wire adorned with holly berries caused me a brief palpitation.
Later, inspired by my observations aboard Briggs’s footplate, I went to the kitchen and stoked the range, then all three of us settled in the parlour to open our presents.
“Diggory will be Santa,” Élise started us off eagerly.
The lad picked the smallest of the presents and handed it to me courteously as if returning something I had dropped. I read the card attached to it and learned that it was his gift to me, so I thanked him and opened it with exaggerated intrigue. Inside the neat little packet was a solidified dollop of brown substance that had obviously once been liquid, mostly shiny but partly craggy. I effused gratitude while trying to identify it, holding the sticky lump at arm’s length to focus my eyes.
“Diggory made that himself,” Élise explained proudly. “What do you think? Not everyone can make toffee.”
Her point was well demonstrated.
“How positively delightful,” I marvelled.
Wondering if my teeth would survive the confection I thanked the lad and placed it to one side. However, two steadfast stares conveyed the expectation that I would sample it immediately so I set about breaking off a piece. The only tool to hand that looked stout enough to do the job was Spook’s jaw and this was very keen to have a go, but when my endeavours came to nought I satisfied my audience by licking the lump and declaring it very tasty. Looking pleased with himself, Diggory now presented another gift, this one being my untidily wrapped offering to his mother, and although it was not a pretty sight its elongated shape caused much intrigue and resulted in a hurried unravelling.
“Scissors!” Élise ejaculated as the utensil twinkled among the folds of my scruffy brown paper. “How very observant of you, Horace.”
She held the huge fabric scissors up to the light and tested them on the wrapping paper.
“I just hope they serve you well,” I replied blithely. “The gentleman in the shop insisted they are the very best quality. As used by London’s bespoke tailors.”
Impatient to open the rest of the presents, Diggory thrust another at me. I peeled away the neatly folded marble-paper and found myself in possession of something quite exquisite.
“I made it myself,” Élise advised me with a confidential whisper.
“We make everything ourselves,” Diggory grumbled.
“No we do not,” his mother checked him swiftly.
In my hand was a keepsake box hand lacquered to a depth of shine equal to any Japanese ornament. It incorporated tiny sprays of dried flowers and was utterly charming.
“Mother made it out of old newspapers,” Diggory apprised me unnecessarily.
“Hush, Diggory, Horace does not wish to know the details,” Élise checked him a second time.
“Ah, but the details of its manufacture make it all the more remarkable, Élise. It is perfectly delightful and I shall treasure it always,” I replied.
Santa became restless and took another gift from the pile. As luck would have it, this one was addressed to him. Forgetting his manners he ripped away the dull brown paper indecorously and tossed the detritus to Spook. The lad’s gloomy reaction to being given a dog collar and lead, though inflected with politeness at his mother’s counsel, was soon undone by the accompanying letter permitting him to exercise Spook in Upshott wood each day. He thanked me most formally and in a trice was gone to the garden to begin trials.
Peering through the kitchen window at the lad a little while later, I noticed that the snow was thawing. About this I felt somewhat ambivalent, for I should not have minded being stranded in Widdlecombe for a while.
Élise served Christmas dinner, and such was her little kitchen that I thought it a work of culinary magic and amused her by expressing pity for the less well served Squire of Albury Hall. To my surprise, even the spicy pudding was eupeptic, although I did grow fearful of its long term effect. By mid afternoon, with all the pots and pans scrubbed and returned to their racks, we furnished ourselves with a selection of sweetmeats and a bowl of wassail punch and settled to play games. The first game was a somewhat silly one called ‘Ho Ho Ho’ in which we took turns to feign laughter until real laughter took over, the winner being the last to succumb. The challenge was really between Diggory and me, Élise having collapsed with the giggles almost immediately, and after much self control I made the lad’s face crack. Had I noticed that his toffee was stuck to my cuff he would have won without effort.
After this we turned the hearth rug into a stage from which to tell jokes. First to step up was Diggory, which he did with such formality that Élise and I were undone at once.
“Why are clocks modest?” he asked.
A pensive silence followed.
“Because they always keep their hands before their faces and run themselves down no matter how good their works,” he declared.
Though quite amusing I was able to topper this wisecrack. The punch having gone to my head, I advanced boldly to the stage and pretended to be the famous music hall clown, Thomas Lawrence.
“Do you know, last summer I put a large box on the pavement, filled it with soil, and sowed it with dandelion seeds,” I trumpeted, strutting around like a dandy. “What do you think came up?”
“Dandelions, you fool,” Diggory heckled me, forgetting himself.
“No, a policeman, and he ordered me to remove it,” I delivered the punch line.
Not wishing to be outdone, Diggory stepped forward with a second joke. This time, before speaking, he strutted to and fro as I had done. I wondered what authority I should ever have over the lad again.
“Someone asked a farmer for a cure for apple-tree worms,” he declaimed. “The farmer scratched his head and replied that he couldn’t suggest one until he knew what ailed the worms.”
It had been a long time since I enjoyed such frivolity and I looked to Élise for the next act. She was gazing wistfully out of the window, perhaps mindful of Christmases past.
“I fear we shall have no carol singers this year,” she sighed, referring to conditions underfoot.
I joined her gaze.
“If the thaw continues, the slush will clear and we might well see trains running tomorrow. You can be sure Mr Hiscox will try again with the mail at first light.”
“It is Christmas day, Horace,” she reminded to me. “And since no one will expect you to walk back to Upshott in these treacherous conditions you must spend another night here. Surely you can return to your post by the first public train on Boxing Day?”
I wavered briefly then accepted her offer.
Though delighted by the prospect of spending more time with Élise I did remain concerned about not returning to my station, nevertheless the greater imperative now was to forge a lasting relationship with this woman lest the opportunity never come again. For as I rotated my eternity ring I felt my past misfortunes sink beneath a joyful present and I knew that I must learn of Élise’s feelings for me. Élise enquired of the ring, and I hesitated to reply because it now seemed too trivial a token for discussion and its covenant of celibacy an embarrassment.
“A long time ago, when I did not know myself, I was engaged to be married,” I summarised the whole affair. “This ring simply reminds me of a lucky escape.”
“Did not know yourself?” Élise queried me.
“I am like Spook,” I explained, forcing a smile. “Overenthusiastic in all things and so best kept on a leash. This ring is the leash.”
“Horace, I cannot believe a gentleman of your sensibility has thoughts which require censoring,” she gasped.
“Oh but I do,” I unburdened myself. “Consequently I was jilted by a woman who taught me how delusional I was to believe that I understood the female perspective. My hubris did not spring from disrespect of the fairer sex, you understand. Quite the reverse, in fact.”
Upon hearing this, Élise’s countenance of concern yielded to amused bewilderment, but I did not mind.
“As far as I can see, Horace, your only miscalculation has been to renounce yourself,” she remarked delicately. “Tell me, what is it that you perceive the female perspective to be?”
Élise’s invitation was too personal and heartfelt to decline and I found myself answering boldly.
“I had thought that companionship and fidelity were valued above all other virtues, and that female principles could not be made malleable by pecuniary gain or self aggrandisement,” I declared. “Perhaps such qualities are simply rare. If so, they are certainly too rare to be stumbled upon by a fool like me.”
Élise became haughty.
“If I understand you correctly, Horace,” she erupted, “you have reached and recklessly discarded an appreciation of women which few men even strive for.”
Her frosty tone rang out like a reprimand and shook us both. Spontaneous laughter resulted.
“And as for the woman who gave you that ring,” she added, steadying herself, “I would venture to suggest that she would not fall over a gentleman of acuity even if she found one lying in the street.”
“Lying in the street?” I puzzled, the punch having dulled both our wits.
Our laughter dissipated to an awkward silence and we resumed sipping our drinks delicately. At this moment Diggory returned from the garden and reported that a thaw was well underway, increasing my unease about not returning to the railway. Élise stirred.
“Oh, I must check the mince pies,” she declared and hurried to the kitchen.
Diggory and I attended to the Christmas tree, which had become lop-sided, then I followed to its source the smell of beef and apple seasoned with ginger and cinnamon.
“I do hope you like your mince pies spicy,” said Élise, wrapping a towel around her hand to extract six of them from the oven.
“Indeed I do,” I lied.
She inspected the pies and returned them to the heat, closing the oven door with a decisive clunk.
‘So, you think of me as a gentleman of acuity, dear Élise,’ I reflected privately while admiring her hourglass figure.
“I beg your pardon, Horace?” she responded.
Terror struck. Either Élise was a mind reader or I was unwittingly voicing my thoughts. She straightened up with a mischievous twinkle and invited me to explain my bold advance. There was no escape so I braced myself
‘Horace, you must not be afraid. It is now or never.’
“What did you say just then, Horace? I did not quite hear,” she teased me.
With a pounding heart I declared my feelings.
“Élise… there is a gentleman of acuity, perhaps not lying in the street, who would welcome your hand in marriage. Should you consider him worthy.”
I felt like a coward who had lit the fuse of a bomb. Now I could only wait.
Élise disposed of her oven cloth and waited for me to recover my breath, then she removed her pinafore with a quizzical smile.
“Why, Horace, are you proposing to me?” she asked, horrifying me that I would have to light the fuse again.
Ignoring the ring burning my finger and the wilting heat of the stove, I finished the job.
“Yes,” I replied stoutly.
Bang! I could have eaten every spicy mince pie in Widdlecombe.
“Come,” Élise beckoned me with a businesslike gesture, taking my hand.
A little shocked, I followed her to the parlour where she halted me beneath the kissing ball.
“My answer is to be found in yuletide tradition,” she smiled encouragingly.
I do not recall if Diggory was present, or Spook, but I will never forget the feeling of Élise’s soft lips pressing fondly against mine. It was a kiss so charged with affection that afterwards I felt pleasantly peculiar and could think only of this moment of intimacy.
“Dear Horace, until I met you I did not believe I could ever feel this way again,” she whispered over my shoulder as we hugged.
“I realise now that I am new to love,” I replied.
Élise separated from me gently.
“It is customary for the gentleman to give the lady a ring at this point,” she reminded me. “Your romantic designs leave something to be desired if you have come here unprepared.”
“Dear Élise, even if my plans had been this ambitious we should still be talking about the weather,” I confided. “Nevertheless, we can remedy the shortfall very quickly by taking a trip to London once the line is clear.”
“Good idea, Horace, but perhaps there is an interim measure which would betoken our engagement perfectly, by laying to rest a ghost,” she suggested.
I understood her at once.
“You would wear this ring?” I asked, raising my hand.
“I think the occasion demands it,” she assured me. “Though I suspect it might fit a little loose.”
I transferred the ring to Élise’s outstretched finger and a symbol of oppression became a symbol of elation.
“Now I understand why the betrothed shout their joy from the rooftops,” I said.
Instantly I was cautioned.
“Horace, we need not be secretive, but making a fool of yourself on the station roof will serve no purpose. Our time will be better spent making plans, I think. First I must write to my sister in Paris, and you must find yourself a trustworthy groomsman to guard against those strange thoughts of yours.”
I grinned broadly at this foretaste of the comradely strictures.
Boxing day dawned with a sparkle and I, having slumbered little, heard the Mail train clattering high upon Widdlecombe bank. I dressed myself and gathered my belongings to catch it upon its return from Giddiford. After breakfast I
kissed my betrothed upon the forehead and set off for Widdlecombe station with Diggory and Spook, scarcely able to believe my good fortune.
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Chapter Twenty-Nine — A station in life
The thoroughfares of Widdlecombe station had been cleared of slush and the platforms were glistening. I found Stationmaster Caxton in the Telegraph room with a large broom propped against his chair, scribbling down a lengthy signal. Caxton had no time for conversational trifles and did not enquire how I spent Christmas, his interest being only in Boxing Day and the state of the train services.
“I’m afraid the timetable isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on today,” he greeted me, his dark veins and sunken eyes evidence of heavy drinking. “But if you’re going to Upshott, Mr Jay, you’re in luck. I reckon you’ve only about ten minutes to wait.”
I nodded respectfully and returned to the platform where I found Diggory teaching Spook elementary obedience in the long shadow of a lineman splicing wires atop a telegraph pole. Between the new platform and the original was the serrated grey channel that had been gouged out by the Mail train, evidence that the SER’s prompt commencement of services owed much to Driver Hiscox’s persistence. I opined thus to Mr Caxton as he joined me in a shaft of pallid sunshine beneath a bare cherry tree.
There was an awkward aspect to this stationmaster. In conversation the fellow’s taciturn nature tempted most of us to fill embarrassing silences with whatever sprang to mind, which was an ill advised response, and forgetting this I asked if he had enjoyed Christmas. Unleashed upon me was his every woe, each stemming mainly from having too many children and too little money, and I was denied the joys of life for a good twenty minutes of the ten I spent with him.
Relief came in the form of a column of pure white steam billowing skyward above the greying mounds of snow produced by Hiscox’s plough. Having bid Caxton a hasty goodbye I strode to the far end of the platform and met the incoming train, wincing as its short rake of carriages squealed obstinately to a halt. Boarding a cold, damp compartment I was compelled by an unpleasant odour to take a seat by a window where I lowered the glass for ventilation and leaned out to observe Mr Caxton’s ‘right away’ technique. The first thing I saw was the Guard greeting Diggory and Spook with lively seasonal cheer, after which he looked in my direction as if snubbed. I closed my window quickly and sank into my seat, for at present I craved only the company of my private thoughts. Also there was the risk of propagating my good tidings haphazardly and causing offence to close colleagues.
