A Station In Life (2 page)

Railways were regarded
as a threat by many people; those to whom the tempo of nature was paramount, for
they resented the accompanying electric telegraph system that imposed upon them
adherence to universal time.  Prior to ‘railway time’, itself synchronised
daily with Greenwich Mean Time, the further east was an English town or village
the more advanced were its clocks.  I was proud to be associated with the
demise of this confounding state of affairs and watched keenly as my station
staff played their part in the nation’s great timetable.  Alas, my couch of
aloofness was not to last.

The scent of straw
yielded to a stink of sulphur as company locomotive ‘Briggs’ rumbled into
Platform One with its whistle shrieking.  I descended the footbridge steps and
took the Giddiford-Upshott baton from its driver, handing it to Signalman Hales
who then hurried back to the signalbox with it.  Before moving on I turned and
gazed at the small olive green and black engine, noticing that while a South
Exmoor locomotive looked very elegant hauling a rake of green and white
passenger carriages it made a somewhat less tidy spectacle heading a jumble of
privately owned wagons painted in clashing colours and emblazoned with
pretentious logotypes.

Mr Wheeler, the Booking
clerk, approached me with a sly grin.  With Briggs’s safety valve blowing
noisily he waited for the engine to be uncoupled and steamed away to the south
siding before attempting to speak.

“You shouldn’t ’ave let
them pigs on, Mr Jay,” he said with the gravity of a juvenile, pointing to a
Board Of Trade bulletin pasted to my office window.

Mr Wheeler was several
inches shorter than myself and so for reasons of dignity I maintained my gaze
upon Briggs working the station yard.  Enwreathed in steam, the doughty little
engine was now reversing to entrain Upshott’s rake of cattle trucks.  I
deliberately made no reply to the clerk’s remark for I was curious to know how
he regarded my authority.  Experience had taught me to gauge the psychology of employees
before attempting to gain the upper hand.

“Swine fever
hereabouts,” he elaborated, expecting this snippet of information to alarm me.

It did, nevertheless I
maintained an air of indifference.

I looked at Mr Wheeler,
then at my office window.  I had been given no official notice of any such
outbreak but I could see that the Board Of Trade bulletin was current so I
thanked the Booking clerk for bringing the matter to my attention and set off
immediately for the south siding.  Puzzled that I had seen no pigs prepared for
market, I summoned the Goods clerk.

“Which of these vans
contains pigs?” I queried him.

“None, sir,” he replied,
somewhat bewildered.  “It would be an offence to transport pigs.  There’s been
a case of swine fever in the district.”

“I am aware of this,” I
said brusquely.  “However, Mr Wheeler assures me that we have a consignment of
pigs aboard.  As the Goods clerk, Mr Phillips, I expect you to know of their
whereabouts.  Have you no docket for pigs?”

The studious Mr Phillips
examined his papers and became increasingly irritated as Briggs rammed trucks
together rather brutally behind him.

“If Jack Wheeler says we
have pigs then we have pigs,” he fussed.  “Jack misses nothing.  And he misses
nothing because he does not daydream up on the footbridge.  l suggest we
inspect the vans together, Mr Jay.  It is not uncommon for livestock breeders
to smuggle their animals aboard trains during a ban.  Many local farmers rely
on Market day for much needed cash.”

Obligingly the pigs
began to snort and we located them quickly.  They had been squeezed in with a
consignment of sheep.

“Whose pigs might these
be?” I asked Mr Phillips.  “Defying a Board Of Trade quarantine order is a
serious offence.”  The Goods clerk appeared troubled.  “Well, out with it Mr
Phillips, if you please.”

“There is only one local
pig breeder who would go this far,” he said, having counted a total of one
dozen swine, “and that is Smethwick of Longhurdle farm.”

“Get the pigs back in a
pen, Mr Phillips,” I instructed the clerk.  “It will be a sporting affair with
these stupid sheep in the same van but we shall have sufficient time if we make
haste.  I will ask the engine driver to work platform Three first.”

I noticed Mr Wheeler
eavesdropping our conversation from the foot of the animal ramp.

“The Giddiford baton
rider is away on time,” he called out unnecessarily, his purpose being to
justify his presence.  Mr Wheeler now pinched a pig’s rump and made the
creature squeal.  “Pity about these ’ogs, they’re fine and plump,” he said.  I
raised an eyebrow, inviting him to change the subject.  “I’ll get ol’ Smethwick
back ’ere then, shall I, Mr Jay?  I know a short cut yonder.”

Mr Wheeler scurried off
past the horse-box shed and across a stream at the back of the sidings.  Mr
Phillips continued separating the pigs from the sheep and guiding them down the
ramp while I spoke to the driver.

“Handle farmer Smethwick
carefully,” the clerk warned me upon my return.  “That man has a propensity
towards violence.”

By the appointed time of
7.15am Upshott’s contribution to Blodcaster market had been entrained for
departure and the unwanted pigs assembled in a pen for their owner’s
collection.  I decided to give my first departure from Upshott the ‘right away’
in person, for which reason I stepped forward and polished my silver whistle
with the cuff of my coat.  Then, at the appropriate time, I raised my arm with
all the authority I could muster and blew the thing until my ears hurt.

Briggs, having slaked its
thirst at the water column, dribbled spillage like a salivating dog as it
barked into life, suffusing moist, grey breath over the trucks it was heaving
into motion.  As it accelerated I held a handkerchief to my face to avoid
inhaling the sulphurous concoction oozing from its tall chimney, and stood back
as the effluvia swept across the platforms in disorientating swirls.

The loosely coupled
cattle trucks and goods vans jostled each other clangorously as Briggs lost
footing briefly on the rising gradient, causing its wheels to spin, but were
soon thrusting in and out of the engine’s steamy halitus again with gathering
pace, shaking the ground with the businesslike rumble of freight under way.  I
watched the train until the sound of the locomotive had faded to a distant
thudding, then switched my gaze anxiously to the pigs.  Soon I was gazing even
more anxiously towards the woods beyond the sidings.  Mr Wheeler was nowhere to
be seen, and of this farmer Smethwick I was yet acquainted only with his ugly
reputation.

Back to contents page

Chapter Two —
Ominous stirrings

With a salaried staff of
three and a wages staff of fourteen including platelayers, memorising all the
names in the staff manifest had taken me some while.  But having done so I now
knew which employee held each position in my station and was therefore able to
recall the name of any person I encountered by observing the variant of uniform
he was wearing.  This simple artifice had my staff wondering if they had acquired
a telepathic Stationmaster.  Tipping my top-hat I introduced myself to the
Senior porter whom, by the aforesaid means, I knew to be Humphrey Milsom.

“I would think your name
is Milsom,” I declared.

“Delighted to make your
acquaintance, sir,” the ageing porter responded courteously, raising a chubby,
silver eyebrow.

After discussing a few
introductory trifles I braced myself and said: “Mr Milsom, doubtless there are
matters outstanding here at Upshott of which I should be cognisant but which
your former stationmaster seemed reluctant to enumerate.  Therefore I should
like to assemble everyone in the Booking Hall at ten minutes to noon for the
purpose of formal introductions.  Perhaps you would care to promulgate my
wish.”

Mr Milsom stared at me
blankly as if I had addressed him in a foreign language.

My vocabulary did, on
occasions, startle simple porters so I assumed this to be his difficulty. 
Naturally it was not my desire to confound anyone; my turn of phrase was merely
the result of having had, since childhood, an insatiable appetite for reading. 
However, on this occasion I did tease Mr Milsom by not re-phrasing my request. 
I considered it necessary to familiarise myself with the disposition of my
staff as quickly as possible so that I could adopt the best style of
authority.  To this end I preserved silence with a probing stare and awaited
the fellow’s reply.

“Certainly, sir,” the
porter agreed eventually, like a slot machine in which the penny is weighed
before dropping.

Humphrey Milsom was a
portly fellow, close to retirement and apprehensive of being cast aside by the
railway at the end of his long service.  This was not surprising because, in
the days before workers could afford to participate in pension schemes,
retirement was an unattainable luxury.  Humphrey, therefore, had resolved to
enjoy in full his closing days upon the railway before returning to the land.

The porter’s company
cap, a peaked ‘pork pie’ affair, endowed him with a jolly visage rather like
that of an approachable uncle at a children’s party.  In reply to my request
for a noon mustering he stroked his argent moustache and advised me in a
smooth, songful voice:

“I doubt you’ll catch
the platelayers at that time of day, sir.”

“Mr Milsom,” I replied,
restraining a smile, “I believe I described the gathering as formal.  I shall
address the ganger and his men separately.  In my experience permanent way men
have a disconcerting effect upon such occasions.  In the meantime I would
appreciate a resumé of general affairs around the station, if you please.  I
observe that Platform Two has been partly excavated.”

“Arr, it be a time of
great upheaval on the South Exmoor, Mr Jay.  Matter of fact we’ve a gang of
workmen arrivin’ on the 12.32pm.  Tis all for to do with raisin’ the height of
the platforms to an agreed national standard, as I understand it.  For to stop
passengers topplin’ over as they alights the trains, e see.”

“These workmen are
coming to re-lay platform Two?” I queried him.

“No, not exactly, sir. 
They be intendin’ to dig up this ’ere platform also.”

Mr Milsom pointed
towards a pair of telegraph wires traversing the yard, and chortled.

“While we be on the
subject of change, Mr Jay, the telegraph’s been installed for some months now
but still no one at Upshott knows how to operate the blessed thing.  The
apparatus chatters like teeth in December but it don’t mean a thing to anyone
here.  Head Office aint too pleased about it.  Between e, me, and the fence
post, Mr Jay, I reckons those wires were the last straw for old Mildenhew.  At
Headquarters they be after more enlightened stationmasters such as your good
self, sir, there bein’ so much change loomin’ on the horizon.”

Mr Milsom’s cavalier
remark filled me with horror.  You see, I knew as little about telegraphic
codes as no doubt did he, but I had allowed Head office to assume otherwise. 
To conserve an air of authority I issued Mr Milsom a knowing nod and encouraged
him to share the company’s misconception, resolving to study the strange electrical
ciphers when I had time.

“Arr, old Mr Mildenhew
were nothin’ short of perplexed by the telegraph,” Mr Milsom reflected
wistfully.  One mornin’, in sheer desperation, he took hold of the code book
and locked himself in the Telegraph room.  He spent the entire day fiddlin’
with the apparatus tryin’ to receive messages.”

“And did he receive
one?” I asked, wondering if this method would suit me.

“He received an electric
shock, but there be no way to write down such a thing so I don’t know the
details.  Between e, me, and the fence post, Mr Jay, the message that went
through him must have been as shocking as the current, for I heard him call it
out.  I had no idea telegraphic communications allowed such language.  But then
they tells I the electricity needs to be what they calls ‘high voltage’ to
force it down all those miles of wire.  T’aint natural if e asks I.  Medallin’
with nature, ’tis.  An electrical current comes all the way from Giddiford then
goes back again via Mr Mildenhew.  I just hope the poor gentleman’s still a
Christian.  Well, I suppose someone has to pay the price for makin’ the world
hurry up.  Though I reckons on this occasion Mr Mildenhew would have preferred
it slow.”

Mr Milsom dealt me a
mawkish smile and grunted to indicate his satisfaction at now serving a
Stationmaster who was accomplished in telegraphy.

“Now, sir, what else be
there?” he wheezed.  “Ah yes!  Word has it we’ll soon be biddin’ them disc
signals farewell.  We’m gunna get the semaphore type at last.”

“Semaphore signals are
scarcely new,” I observed knowledgeably.

“Tis all for to do with
our impendin’ absorption into the London and South Western,” he said proudly. 
“They wants to take over a working railway, not a museum of antiquity.”

“Quite so, quite so. 
Now, Mr Milsom, is there anything else I should know?” I asked dismissively,
confident there was not, for a gusty wind had set the Waiting room sign
squeaking.  With my teeth on edge I was anxious to move away.

“There be the
disappearing lamp oil,” Mr Milsom chirped brightly, as if the matter would
cheer me up.  “Course, Mr Turner will tell e all about that one.  Oh, and I
nearly forgot.  We’m got another cider war loomin’ betwixt the Highams and the
Alburys.  Tis a great thing if e be a ganger with a long thirst and a short
pocket but often as not these skirmishes turn nasty.  Between e, me, and the
fence post, Mr Jay, as Stationmaster of Upshott, e’ll find that out to your
cost.  The railway be the battle ground, e see.  Last season a torch were put
to a company horse-box.”

“Good Lord!” I winced. 
“Were there any horses in it?”

“Heaven forbid, no,
sir.  Only barrels of costards.  Twer a splendid growin’ season for apples and
we ran out of wagons to ship the blighters.”

I resolved that no such
felony would take place during my aegis.

I became anxious about
the absence of my Booking clerk.  The pigs were mounting each other and
squealing piercingly.  I did not wish to see farmer Smethwick claiming against
the company for damage to his livestock.  At this point I became aware that Mr
Milsom was still talking to me.

“When the London and
South Western absorbs the South Exmoor,” he continued, pointing a stubby finger
at the railway track, “them old wrought iron rails is a comin’ up, so Mr
Mildenhew told I.  We’m a getting’ steel’uns.  There be a twenty mile-an-hour
speed limit on them flimsy old metals, not that anyone cares.  An’ I reckons
the timetable won’t be worth the paper ’tis printed on when they begins
upgradin’ it all.”  Mr Milsom paused to think, then became troubled.  “I knows
progress be a thing of the future and we ought to look forward to it, Mr Jay,
but I prefers to look back on it myself.  Bein’ around at the time makes I
tired.  Still, there aint no standin’ in the way of the mighty London and South
Western Railway Company.”

We were joined
unexpectedly by a modish lady, and a very intelligent one of whom I have
already spoken.  My childhood tutor, her name Elisabeth, came striding towards
us in a ruby red, taffeta skirt, its pleats blazing like flames in the morning
sunshine.  Her outfit was completed by a black outing jacket which flattered
her shapely figure most pleasingly.

“Not so mighty it can do
battle without allies, Mr Milsom,” she enlightened the porter vigorously.

As ever, Elisabeth’s presence
made me shy, so radiant was she, and my sigh turned to a gasp when the red
ribbon of her postillion hat caught the breeze and flapped in her face. 
Unflustered, she pinned the ribbon to her lightly freckled cheek and resumed
her interruption with an air of mischievous authority.

“Especially against
broad gauge companies like the South Devon and Great Western,” said she.  “The
South Exmoor is afforded much leverage by being an enclave of four-foot,
eight-and-a-half inch gauge track here in the west.  Do you know, there are
swells who deride these lines, calling them ‘narrow’ gauge?”

Having made her point,
Elisabeth beguiled Mr Milsom with the same dimpled smile that had always
beguiled me.  Indeed, her intellectual beauty was so beyond his experience that
he became as flushed as I.

“I knows that,” he
mumbled bashfully, then composed himself.  “But if they calls the South Exmoor
narrow, what calls they these two-foot gauge lines like Squire Albury’s railway
up at the quarry?  I tell e, this gauge business do confuse I.”

“You must remember, Mr
Milsom, that the dual gauge metals through Giddiford Junction are not the
property of the London and South Western,” Elisabeth charmed the porter still
further, her quizzical brown eyes trained upon him steadfastly.  “They are leased
from the Exeter and Crediton Railway, which is why four-foot gauge progress
towards Plymouth is so bedevilled with legal jiggery-pokery.  As for this all
powerful London and South Western of yours, Mr Milsom, they must curry favour
not only with the Exeter and Crediton Railway but also the Bristol and Exeter. 
And we have the Devon and Cornwall to thank for the line to Okehampton.  It is
the latter who are conquering the wilds of Dartmoor to Lydford.  Only when the
Lydford extension has been completed, in about six months time, will the London
and South Western step in and purchase the line.  What say you to this?”

Elisabeth’s presence, I
need hardly say, was a flight of fancy, nevertheless it stirred me to invoke
her, even if it unsettles me to recall the proclivity now.  I suppose that
materialising my tutor was simply a tribute to her memory, for in the
occasional breakdown of her refined urbane style was a raw enthusiasm that
taught me all about railways and their industrial and social significance.

“Yes, what say you to this,
Mr Milsom?” I echoed her words, educing in the porter a curious stare.  “We
shall have yet another break-of-gauge, this time with the South Devon’s broad
gauge Launceston branch!  The railways hereabouts have become a wretched tangle. 
No wonder so many fragile goods are damaged in transit.”

I paused to ponder my
own curious fate in this great railway conflict.  Having terminated my
employment with the expansionist London and South Western Company I was about
to be handed back to it like lost property.  Expanding upon Elisabeth’s words I
broadened my Senior porter’s knowledge of railway politics a little further.

“The truth of the matter
is this, Mr Milsom, Parliament is holding the London and South Western Railway
Company to its agreement with the Great Western.  To wit, that it shall not
encroach upon the latter’s territory in the south-west peninsular.  Not
surprisingly, the London and South Western has come to regret this foolhardy
undertaking and seeks to circumvent it by colluding with broad gauge companies
not bound by the demarcation agreement, there being many of them wishing they
had opted for the more popular gauge.”

Elisabeth produced
another dimpled smile and concluded the point for me.

“Horace is right, Mr
Milsom.  The trick of it is to lay a third rail, which cleverly makes a railway
dual gauge.  As a result we shall have a dual gauge line running all the way to
Devonport!”

Perhaps my colleague’s
silence upon all this was caused by confusion, or perhaps he did not hear Elisabeth
speak as clearly as I.  Whichever was the case, Elisabeth gave us both a warm
smile and took her leave.  Presently Mr Milsom and I found ourselves wandering
towards the pen of pigs, doing so in tacit mutual agreement that nothing so
mundane as railway politics should further spoil this pleasant morning.

“Those be fine porkers,”
Mr Milsom observed with a twinkle in his eye.  “Too bad if the authorities
require their destruction.  Terrible waste, don’t you agree, Mr Jay?”