A Station In Life (14 page)

“Miss Macrames, would
you be amused by a weighing chair?” I pre-empt her intrusion.

The pleasantry brought
an unpleasant expression to her face and made me realise that my unguarded enquiry
was open to misinterpretation.  Naturally I had intended only to canvass her
opinion, although in truth I regarded her as stirringly buxom even though her
boudoir mirror might not be so polite about it.

As if sensitive to my
embarrassment, Rose radiated a sudden smile and asked if there was to be a
weighing chair at Upshott.  I apprised her that we might also be hosting a
sweetmeat vending machine.

“I shall write to
Headquarters and express my reluctance to accommodate such novelties while my
platforms are undergoing realignment,” I told her, pulling a clean sheet of
paper from my desk drawer.  “They shall also know that I am loth to clutter the
thoroughfares of my station with them at any future time.  And whilst I am at
it, Miss Macrames, I will also pursue the matter of your lost parasol.”

“Horace, you’re a mind
reader,” she thanked me.  “But why are you so opposed to passengers enjoying a
little joviality while they wait for trains?  I’ve heard that Giddiford
Junction is getting a scent fountain and a sight testing machine.  I don’t know
about eyesight but a scent fountain sounds exquisite.  Oh, and Horace, don’t
forget you agreed to call me Rosie.”

“I suppose a scent
fountain would make an interesting diversion,” I concurred without knowing why,
“but these machines are generally more suitable for the city terminus, not the
rural branchline.  I believe we country folk are too discerning to be drawn
into this growing obsession with trivia.”

“If you say so, Horace,”
Miss Macrames agreed dolefully.

“Yet we are not
backwards, Rose,” I qualified my remark, suspicious that she was making sport
of me.  “Progress does not pass us by.  Oh no.  After all, do we not have the
telegraph?”

“How perceptive you are,
Horace,” Rose agreed swiftly, taking a seat without invitation.

Ever intent upon
bewitching me with her knowledge of technical matters, Rose hijacked my mention
of the telegraph and used it to tell me of a new development called
‘earth-return’ conduction.  What?  At first I wondered if she had misread something
in a journal, or was regurgitating an article for my delectation as a railwayman,
but I soon realised that she knew what she was talking about.  Few people,
myself included, could even recite the mysteries of ‘high voltage accumulator
circuits’, still less illustrate them with pencil and paper, and by the end of
our conversation I had gone from attentive to incredulous.  Along the way I
learned that the mainline was to have a system by which a single wire could
conduct messages in both directions, and even that a telegraph cable had been
laid under the Atlantic ocean to connect England with Newfoundland!  Had Jack
Wheeler told me such things I should have dismissed them as apocryphal, but
then Jack had neither the credentials nor the allure to enthral me, and I found
myself wondering if I could hire Rose to charm me into understanding Morse
Code.

Recovering from my
trance I put a tricky swerve to our conversation and asked Rose if she knew the
Coach House ostler.  But this I did very indirectly.

“I should introduce you
to Raif Carter,” I said.  “He may only be a humble ostler but he also is
something of an expert on the telegraph.”

Far from declaring her
acquaintance, Rose appeared nonplussed.

“My, you certainly have
a superior class of ostler in Upshott,” she smiled disarmingly.  “In the
taverns of Blodcaster they discuss nothing but drinking, wenching and ratting.”

“Oh, you are from
Blodcaster,” I observed with interest.

“As from yesterday I must
come to Upshott regularly to visit a friend,” said she.  “Well, as far as I’m
concerned he’s a friend.  He’s a gentleman who’s proper taken my fancy.”

‘Lucky fellow,’ I
thought as I resumed my paperwork despondently.

Realising that my duties
were pressing, Rose sighed and departed with a sweet smile.

An outrageous quarterly
bill from the company veterinary surgeon had caught my eye.  His revised
shoeing and general charges totalled five pounds, ten shillings and three
pence, not including his retaining fee.  Comparing this with previous bills I
could see that the practitioner had come to view the railway as a milch-cow or,
more probably, was testing his luck on a new stationmaster.

Further, going through
some incomplete files, I discovered another of Mr Mildenhew’s neglected
tangles.  It seemed that I had inherited a deadlocked dispute over a
consignment of strawberries.  The fruit, having come from Covent Garden last
summer, had fallen foul of a marshalling error and failed to reach Blodcaster. 
As a result the strawberries had perished in a siding here at Upshott aboard a
wagon thought to be empty.  A tight bundle of notices and memoranda testified
to the interminable wrangle that had developed over compensation, no party
giving ground.  Unlike Mr Mildenhew, I would settle the matter.

My next duty took me to
the signalbox to speak with Ivor Hales.  Regrettably, in line with the policies
of the London & South Western Railway company, the South Exmoor’s Board of
Directors had once again refused Sunday pay to members of the Signalmen’s and
Switchman’s United Aid Society.  My sympathy rested squarely with the signalmen
whose ‘day of rest’ would continue to be, in fact, a day of unpaid labour.

Returning to my office,
straining to hear the faint murmur of a train descending the far side of the
valley, I detected a closer sound.  It was someone clambering about upon the
mobile crane.  I was about to investigate when Jack Wheeler popped up from
behind a cog-wheel, his nose twitching like a rodent’s, and waved a piece of
paper at me.  He climbed down to the ballast and studied the note with a ready
grin.  I did not like this grin.  I ignored it and snatched the note, which
read:

‘Stationmaster Jay: 
Urgent.  When finished with crane please forward to Busy Linton.  G.W.V.

Now I understood Jack’s
amusement.  Had I left the crane as a swinger on the Blodcaster train, not only
would this train have left on time, it would have forwarded the contraption
directly to Busy Linton instead of leaving me to be haunted by it until the
1.40pm ‘down’ train.  I wondered how many more of my clownish oversights I would
have to live with.

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Chapter
Fourteen — Big stones and bigwigs

The peace of Upshott
village was shattered by the approach of the bi-weekly stone train bound for
Splashgate.  Splashgate was a gauge transhipment point for Squire Albury’s
quarry railway about a mile further down the line.  Facilities there were
minimal, comprising a makeshift platform for quarry workers, a woefully
inadequate stone hoist, and the squire’s two-foot gauge railhead with mineral
sidings and engine release loop.  As if this primitive arrangement was not
perilous enough, no standard gauge siding had been laid by the SER. 
Consequently the stone train would have to stand upon the running line,
obstructing all other traffic for an hour while the squire’s brawny quarrymen
manually transferred rocks from the tubs of the little railway to the trucks of
the SER.  Poor signalling, and often poor visibility, made this a tense time
for Ivor Hales.

At this point I really
must explain the railway terms ‘up’ and ‘down’ and why they were a comical misnomer
when applied to the steeply inclined South Exmoor branch.  You see, although
trains heading away from a railway’s principal terminus, in our case Giddiford,
were defined as ‘down’ trains, on the SER they were most definitely struggling
upwards.  Conversely, ‘up’ trains were coasting downwards.  Therefore
Splashgate was down the line from Upshott terminologically speaking yet up the
line topologically!  Public confusion was inevitable.

Returning you to the
story, no train clanged and crashed with more fury than the stone train with
its battered trucks devoid of their stabilising cargo, and upon arrival of
these empties of a Tuesday the LSWR locomotive hauling them would be detached
and left to fuss about the station on minor duties until relieved by an SER
locomotive from Blodcaster.  The empties would then be pushed by the SER engine
to their rendezvous with the squire’s mineral train.

It being important not
to delay this operation I monitored initial proceedings with close reference to
the time, pending the arrival of 0-6-0 saddle tank ‘Exmoor’.  When nothing
further was to be done, LSWR locomotive number 222 retired to Platform One and there
simmered quietly with its fireman trimming the coal and its driver polishing
the gauge glasses.  Unlike SER tank engines, 222 was a powerful mainline tender
type locomotive which had once worked passenger services on the Somerset &
Dorset line.  Now in semi retirement it no longer hauled the S & D’s modish
passenger stock but shabby freight wagons, behind it today being eighteen
wooden trucks pyrographically engraved ‘Albury Quarries (Ondle Valley) Ltd’.

I expected ‘Exmoor’ to
be running late, for it would need to be detained until the road out of
Blodcaster was clear, the incoming train blocking its path being the one that I
had delayed to uncouple the mobile crane that I did not need.  On the South
Exmoor railway one single oversight could trigger a livelong series of delays.

To my great relief
‘Exmoor’ came trundling down Longhurdle embankment only two minutes late and
tooting its whistle as if to boast of a spritely run.  There were occasions
when it took presence of mind not to think of these locomotives as
personalities.  LSWR number 222 was now steamed away to the mainline whence it
came and ‘Exmoor’ coupled to the rear of the mineral trucks to propel them to
Splashgate, this manoeuvre placing it at the head of the stone train for its
heavily loaded return journey.

It might amuse you to
know that in these early railway days, empty mineral trucks often derailed when
pushed, and because locomen involved in this kind of manoeuvre could hardly see
what lay ahead of their train they would insist that it be preceded by a man
bearing a red flag.  At Upshott this insalubrious duty befell Mr Troke, he
being the Rollingstock superintendent, and the fellow greatly disliked it.  You
see, it was not unheard of for a pilotman to be run down by the very train he
was heralding, owing to the engine driver’s inability to curtail his machine’s
natural tendency to gain speed.  Many people claimed that the reason why the
manoeuvre was so dangerous was because there was always some fool with a flag on
the line.

With the stone train
gone, peace returned to Upshott station and I consulted the day’s traffic
diagram to see what spare time it afforded me.  Here I found reference to
Humphrey’s ‘unexpected’ train by which the top brass were to make their
surprise visit.  The schedule contained no specific details about timing. 
There was merely a scribbled note to the effect that a ‘Directors’ Special’
would make use of a suitable path which, in plain English, meant that it might
come at any quiet time.

However, my experience
of junketing bigwigs told me that their round trip would be timed to allow
luncheon to be taken at the Railway Hotel in Blodcaster.  It was axiomatic,
therefore, that the Directors’ Special would come through Upshott circa
Eleven-Thirty.  Had I the skill to decipher the chatterings of the electric
grapevine I would have discovered more, no doubt.

‘Exmoor’ returned at
9.35am with its brakes grinding against the massive load bearing down upon its
drawbar, and this puzzled me.  The stone train had no reason to stop at Upshott
on its way back to the mainline, it being supposed to continue to the exchange
siding at Giddiford.  Yet against all the coercion of a squire’s merchandise
descending to market the train was indeed trying to stop.  At the rear I could
see showers of sparks beneath the brake van and smell overheated metal, and at
the front I could see wisps of wood-smoke peeling away from ‘Exmoor’s primitive
brake blocks.

The mystery was solved
when Mr Troke alighted the footplate of the little green-and-black engine and
stumbled over a keg of Leicestershire salt awaiting collection by a local
potter.  This brought an end to the squealing of brakes and the mineral train
gathered speed again.  It seemed that my Rollingstock superintendent had called
upon a locomotive hauling thirty tons of stone downhill to provide a lift.  Was
the fellow so unfit that he had been stranded for an hour at Splashgate, unable
to walk a mere one mile back to work?  Applying my stationmaster’s nose, I
doubted it.

A fishing rod provided
the answer.  This I watched Mr Troke fail to catch as it was thrown from the
crazily bucking engine.  Evidently the imbecile placed no value upon his life. 
For why else would he risk an hour’s poaching on Squire Albury’s private lake? 
Quite what I was supposed to do to prevent my staff straying in such
circumstances I could not think.  I hurried over and challenged the fellow.

“Who gave you permission
to go fishing?” I asked.

“Don’t need permission,
it’s custom and practise,” he proffered glibly, scraping together a gowpen of
spilt salt and funnelling it back into the keg.

Wondering what manner of
glaze the potter would achieve using materials contaminated with platform dust,
I revised his impertinent custom.

“I may be new here, sir,
but I am not a fool,” I opened.  “And to prove it I shall take custody of your
tackle.  Indeed, from now on your tradition will include a caveat.  To wit, not
only is the poacher’s fishing rod forfeit but any fishes hooked in company time
also.  In compliance of which I am obliged to confiscate your catch.”

I peered inside Mr
Troke’s kettle and saw only water.  No one else, I felt sure, could fish for so
long in the squire’s well stocked lake and manage not a bite.  Unless, of
course, the poacher’s ride home had come at a price.

With its unfamiliar
exhaust rhythm rapping on the hills, another visiting locomotive was tackling
Upford cutting.  By 11.45am Humphrey’s ‘unexpected’ train was rolling into
Platform One hauled by a handsome Beattie express locomotive, its bodywork
outshopped in LSWR chocolate brown livery.  The train comprised two
crimson-and-cream passenger carriages and was a spectacle to which I was very
accustomed being an ex London & South Western employee.  Suspended along
the sides of these carriages, one of which was a First class saloon, the other
an observation car, were roof-boards proclaiming: ‘Directors’ Special’.

The locomotive was
bedecked with rosettes, the centrepiece being a silver sash intertwining the
respective crests of the South Exmoor Railway and its new parent company.  In
truth I was quite excited, for the Special carried all the import of an
inaugural train running upon a newly opened railway and reminded me of many
such occasions that I had witnessed earlier in my career.  Taking a closer look
at the locomotive I found, squinting back at me whimsically from its curvy
mirror finish, a caricature of myself.  Noticing that I was bent like a fool I
straightened up quickly and progressed to admiring the dazzling brass steam
dome, glinting pipework, lustrous copper chimney and ornate whistle, knowing
that many hours of polishing had gone into all this bright-work.  The locomotive
quite simply effulged in the midday sunshine like machine from a new world.

Huge wheel splashers
were caparisoned with gay tapestries portraying a valley abundant in industry
and agriculture, with trains distorting under the weight of local produce, and legions
of blandly smiling passengers.  Such cartoons were for the edification of
simple folk, of course, but they did have a certain appeal and I was compelled
to smile.  The driver nodded respectfully and it was clear that he shared my
amusement.

“Hey ho, what a
wonderful world,” I declared drolly and tipped my hat.

The General Manager, Mr
Benjamin Crump, stepped from the First class saloon.  Before he could spot me I
stole away to my office to have Jack Wheeler brush me down.

Not one for formalities,
the affable Mr Crump entered my office with his gloves thrown carelessly into
his top-hat and gave me a broad smile, which I reciprocated.  Sadly this
gentleman was among the last of a dying breed of railway captain who possessed
a healthy disregard for protocol, the kind of disregard that characterised many
a locally run line.  It seemed that with each takeover, each absorption, and
each merger, a little more of Mr Crump’s gentle era was being devoured by the
sterling-hungry leviathans of the railway network.  He placed his hat upon a
corner of my desk and surveyed his surroundings.

“Well Horace,” he hushed
confidentially, “I’m taking the trouble to stop off and have a word with each
of my stationmasters today.  Important changes are imminent…”  Mr Crump
interrupted himself.  “By the way, there’s some extremely unpleasant gossip
circulating about you in Blodcaster, Horace.  I do hope there’s nothing in it. 
Now, I must be brief because I’m partnering Archibald Scott and he’s a very
busy man.”

Puzzled by Mr Crump’s
reference to ‘unpleasant gossip’ my mind wandered and I was not very
welcoming.  What did he mean?  I was hardly known in Blodcaster.  Had I
unwittingly offended someone from there?  Was more trouble on the way?  To
compose myself I hurried to my door for some fresh air.  Here I saw, inside the
observation car, the familiar profile of the London and South Western’s General
Manager sitting by a window, alongside him the erect and arrogant figure of the
South Exmoor’s Consulting Mechanical Engineer, a man fanciful of himself as a
latter-day Brunel with his high ‘topper’ and expensive cigars.  Although the
train was well populated with Mr Crump’s associates, none looked likely to join
us.

Grateful for this I
returned my gaze to the more comforting visage of Mr Crump.  A gentleman to his
core, Mr Crump was completely bald save for a tuft of silver above each ear
which, when crowned by a hat, impersonated the extremities of a full mop.  His
hat removed, however, the fellow lost all managerial awe, and was further undermined
by a nose disproportionately larger than the petite moustache in which it
nestled.  Not that this bothered him, for a friendly and cultivated manner
towards lesser mortals was his stamp.

“I’m pleased to see the
platform work is progressing, Horace,” the manager restarted our conversation
with sudden gusto.  “We’re a year or two ahead of the London and South Western
on that one, but I fear we shall experience greater turmoil than this before
any South Exmoor shares are converted.  In the interim, however, traffic
management should become less fraught with the addition of two new crossing
loops.  Our colleagues on the mainline intend operating an all year service to
Waterloo, possibly twice weekly, although it’s not yet clear whether these
trains will stop at Upshott.  Certainly with fast trains on the line,
signalling and communications will be of paramount importance, don’t you
agree.”

I agreed.

“Incidentally,” he
continued, “you seem very difficult to raise on the telegraph, Horace.  Upshott
seems to keep its stationmasters too busy to answer calls.  Perhaps there’s a
case for employing a telegraph clerk here until the system is upgraded.”

I agreed a second time,
whereupon Mr Crump continued with his news.

“The linesman tells me
that by converting our wires from metallic-return to earth-return we can have
two circuits for the price of one.  Now there’s an economy.  This would allow
us to add a simple alphabetical instrument which your junior staff could
operate.”

The outlook was becoming
brighter with Mr Crump’s every utterance and it seemed that my application for the
services of a telegraph instructor had not come to his attention.  Hopefully I
could cancel this application with equal stealth, a prospect which implanted my
face with a broad smile.