A Station In Life (23 page)

Diggory appeared keen to
speak so I set aside the letter and smiled at him.  Smiling was not easy, for a
General Post Office telegraph instructor had now been appointed to teach me
Morse code.

“She wrote a letter of
application, sir, and I borrowed a horse to take it to the estate office at
Splashgate,” the lad apprised me.  “Mother had two good references from lace
customers.”

“I presume she is
presently in Upshott making arrangements,” I sought confirmation, educing a nod
from the boy.

“That will be all,
Diggory,” I dismissed him.  “Oh, Diggory, one more thing.  Perhaps you would
ask your mother to drop by the station when she has a moment.  Indeed, you have
leave to go and find her straight away.”

The lad hurried out of
my office.

Somewhat distracted I
returned my attention to the letter upon my desk and noted that I was to
receive two visits from the telegraph instructor.  Upon his first visit he
would install a dummy instrument and demonstrate how to key Morse code, leaving
me a copy of the Morse alphabet to learn, and upon his second visit he would
test me for speed and accuracy.  When I was deemed adequate he would remove the
instrument and award me a certificate of proficiency.  What worried me was the
training regime, which was to be no less than four hours a day.  Quite where
this amount of time was supposed to come from I had no idea.

Thumbing through the
letter again I noticed on the second page a proposed date for the telegraph
instructor’s first visit.  This was the coming Monday, and attached to the page
was a copy of the SER’s telegraphic shorthand to learn in the meantime. 
Looking at the list I found the oddest compilation of abbreviations I had ever
seen, which included names like ‘Hup’ for Upshott’s horsebox, ‘Twinch’ for the
company’s two-and-a-half ton mobile crane, and ‘Pong’ for the gas house
siding.  Wondering if I had stepped into a fairy tale I was disenchanted to
learn that I had been ruthlessly reduced to ‘J’ and was Stationmaster of a
place called ‘Ups.

While reciting the abbreviations
in an attempt to learn them by rote I heard a delicate knock at my door.  I
braced myself, expecting to be exposed as the stationmaster who self communes
in jibberish, and discovered that my visitor was Élise.  While making her
comfortable I explained my strange behaviour, but she seemed reluctant to
listen.  With her bonnet upon her knee she smiled with patient indifference.

“I have heard the good
news, Élise,” I attempted to warm the atmosphere.  “Many congratulations.”

“Mr Jay, I cannot thank
you enough for alerting me to the vacancy,” she said.  “Moving into the rooms
above the shop will overcome many difficulties for Diggory and me.”

“And I know you will
make a great success of his Lordship’s business,” I encouraged her.

Élise ventured a hesitant
smile.  I believe she wished to tell me all about her new venture but an unnecessary
sense of formality was constraining her to the basic facts.

“His Lordship wishes me
to broaden the range of merchandise,” she reported primly.  “He has asked me to
include a range of small accoutrements.  He even permits me to sell my own lace
should I rent the space occupied.  Oh, Mr Jay, I cannot tell you how greatly
relieved I am about my new circumstance,” she confided in an unguarded moment. 
“His Lordship is a very kind man, is he not?  He has offered to introduce me to
some very reliable textile millers and in the first instance will assist me
with shipping arrangements.”

Truth to tell, I was a
little envious of his Lordship.

“Élise, I could have
advised you on shipping arrangements,” I remarked.  “But if there is anything still
to do, please ask.”

Élise donned her bonnet and
tilted her head politely.  Afterwards, sitting alone, I wondered if perhaps
Rose’s uninvited show of affection had caused this reverse in our
relationship.  Of course, another possibility was that I had been deluding
myself from the start and that no harmony of spirit had ever existed between me
and the lovely ‘belle in white lace’.  With much to do, I was compelled to
forget the matter and press ahead with my work.

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Chapter
Twenty — Spoiled Bloomers

To lift myself from the
doldrums I discarded the telegraph book and stepped outside for a spell of
fresh air.  While standing in the sunshine beside the long-case clock upon
Platform One, serenaded by its harmonious chimes floating upon a melody of
birdsong, I was hit by a dirty lump of something.  The projectile struck my
shoe and exploded, showering my trousers with what looked like fragments of
dried mud.  Soon afterwards a second projectile found me and cocked my topper
to a drunken angle.  I looked around to discover who was using me for target
practise, expecting to see a schoolboy or Diggory with a catapult, or even
Smethwick, but no culprit was in sight.

Recovering a remnant of
projectile I recognised its curved and mottled surface as part of a martin’s
nest.  Sure enough, looking up, I counted six cobbles attached to the soffits
of the stationhouse.  These nests could have been left stuck to the hip of the
roof with little consequence but Jack Wheeler had undertaken to remove them and
was leaning out of a first-floor window knocking them off with a broom handle. 
Those who ranked above him, it seemed, counted for little while standing below him.

“Who gave you permission
to enter my private quarters, Mr Wheeler?” I called up.

“I always do this,” came
the reply.  “Otherwise we get droppings all down the wall.  Mr Mildenhew used
to complain about the crust on the platform.”

“Very well,” I replied,
“you may prevent your crust, but clear up this mess or we shall be no better
off.”

I returned to the musty
confines of my office, opened a window, and applied a brush to my hat and
trousers.  By the time Jack had removed the detritus of his activities I was
counting waybills and nibbling a piece of cheese.  Without knocking, a brush
and pan dangling limply at his side, the clerk entered my office and sniffed
the air to gain my attention.  By now I was familiar with his whistling
nostrils.

“Do you have hay fever,
Jack?” I enquired without looking up.

The impudent employee
advanced to my desk and prodded my lunch with a dirty finger, then grunted with
revulsion.  I placed my pen to one side and enquired of his purpose.

“Perchance you crave a
piece?” I asked, wondering what I was doing in a railway backwater where
stationmasters command no respect.

The fellow’s top lip
quivered.  It was evident that partly eaten food disgusted him, especially when
it was mutilated by the curvature of a superior’s teeth.

“Peculiar smells don’t
bother me,” he remarked.

I waved the offending
wedge of cheese beneath his nose to increase its pungency, and waited for his
nostrils to whistle with shock.

“A large wheel of this
cheese was found in a cobwebbed wagon one moonlit night,” I told him.  “And
whoever eats it becomes a stationmaster whether they deserve to or not.  I do hope
I am not detaining you.”

Confounded by my jest, the
ill mannered oaf forgot the purpose of his visit and feigned interest in my
figures instead, craning his neck to get their measure.

“These look tricky!” he
said, his face crumpled with workmanlike concern.  “You ought to let microbes
do that, Mr Jay.  Apparently they can do arithmetic.”

“How commendable,” I
responded drearily.  “There are some who would say that your obsession with
bacteria is unwholesome, Jack.  Nevertheless, if microbes think they can add up
this lot they are welcome to try.”

The amateur scientist
developed a lop-sided frown and paused to think.  Wiping his nose with his cuff
he then prodded my papers authoritatively

“On second thoughts, it
could all go wrong,” he reversed his opinion.  “The trouble is, microbes can’t
add or subtract, and to make matters worse they multiply by dividing.”

“Then I shall just have
to do the job myself,” I humoured him. 
“Touché
,” I added, realising
that I had been trumped, then pointed to the staff roster on the wall.  “Be
warned, Jack, I do not need microbes to subtract a clerk from the payroll.”

Jack shrugged his
shoulders and left with a hopeless sigh.

By 1pm the rattle of an
approaching train was among the hills, and because this was a special on its
way to London I mounted a snap inspection of my platform staff.  While the
porters assembled outside the ‘up’ waiting shelter I furnished myself with a
pot of metal polish and a biscuit tin containing a buffing cloth.

“This train is something
of an experiment, a precursor,” I addressed them.  “The South Exmoor company
honours its ‘running powers’ agreement with the London & South Western and shall
host excursion trains such as this throughout the summer.  Now, whilst most of
these trains will originate from London and Birmingham and not stop here, the
one approaching is an exception and will call here to see if the exercise
proves worthwhile.  Its twelve carriages passed through Upshott early this
morning so you know what to expect.”

“No one got off,” Mr
Troke pointed out.

“That’s because her
didn’t stop,” Humphrey put in.

“It was supposed to,”
said Jack.

“There are bound to be
teething troubles,” I explained.  To quell the rebellion I popped open my
biscuit tin and allowed everyone to see that it contained no biscuits.  The
resulting disappointment was very calming and I stepped forward.  “I see that
it is high time you gentlemen polished your B’s,” I declared.

The term B’s referred to
buttons, boots, buckles and badges, and as the porters passed around my buffing
cloth I sensed revitalised passion for our little railway on the cusp of this
portentous occasion, a passion which could languish in the face of mundane branchline
life.  Indeed, as fingers became black with metal polish I observed
immeasurable pride in appearance, but then I did not have a microscope.

In truth these fellows were
not work shy, they simply did not appreciate how important their appearance would
be under our new masters.

Having for many years
been an employee of the LSWR company I looked forward to seeing its modish
rollingstock grace Upshott.  Long wheelbase carriages of metropolitan livery,
lower halves crimson, upper halves cream, their windows detailed with pencil
thin line-work, would contrast pleasantly with the rudimentary green and white
‘boxes’ that lurched through my station each day.  It was well known that a
ride in a South Exmoor carriage was like descending a hill in a barrel, so I
cocked my ear willingly to the smooth rhythms of six-wheelers cruising
Longhurdle embankment.

Even if the train
stopped as it should, it seemed unlikely that anyone would alight, save perhaps
a commercial traveller or journeyman, and with only a solitary foot-soldier
returning from furlough having purchased a ticket I envisaged little engagement. 
However, I could not allow my staff to gawp idly at the excursionists so I
moved quickly to occupy them.

“I am disappointed that
you gentlemen present dapper only on sufferance,” I complained.  “Since a
shabby porter declares himself to be a drudge then the incoming excursionists
shall be entertained by country drudges engaged in dreary chores.  Occupied
thus, you shall become agreeably lacklustre and regard me favourably again.”

Having said my piece I ushered
Diggory aside to receive the incoming special, by himself, so that I could
gauge his progress as a porter.

Double-headed by a pair
of 2-4-0 locomotives with racy, seven-foot drive wheels, the express train rumbled
over the weighbridge points, past the signalbox, and into the ‘up’ platform
where it came to rest with a brief shudder.  The hiss of steam escaping from
two engines, Fireking and Paracelsist, was so loud that it took hand signals to
instruct Diggory.  At first the lad was intimidated by the prospect of
servicing such a long train but it took only a glance at his colleagues
swabbing floors, scrubbing ironwork, wiping windows, trimming wicks and
polishing lamps to spur him on.  He was particularly pleased not to be Jack
Wheeler scouring the station privy with hot soda in the playful gaze of so many
high spirited carousers.

I crouched next to Diggory
while he labelled the soldier’s kit bag, and offered some advice.  Firstly I
explained that LSWR specials boasted up to three conductors to look after
passengers, consequently he was unlikely to be hailed from all directions at
once.  Secondly, I assured him that a couple of guards were likely to be aboard
to protect the train should it need dividing upon a steep gradient, and these
too would be on hand to assist.

However, I did feel it
necessary to warn the youngster always to expect at least one sticky moment
during the reception of a train like this.  Experience had taught me that
euphoric day trippers enjoying their annual liberation from the bowels of a
factory were prone to delirium and explosive temper fuelled by smuggled bottles
of ale.  This being the lad’s first experience of a long distance train I
decided not to undermine his confidence further, preferring him to discover the
hazards for himself.  An outing of East London dye workers and their bosses
would inevitably include a coterie of inflated swells whose expectations
exceeded their status, and who would alienate every ‘lacky’ at their beck and call. 
With this in mind, when the Guard’s door opened I hid behind a crate of carboys
to observe the lad’s progress.

I am proud to relate
that Diggory behaved impeccably despite the conflicting demands placed upon
him.  Impeccably, that is, until he was summoned to the Guard’s ‘birdcage’
cabin to assist with the unloading of some domestic requisites for the Goods
shed.  In a promising show of willingness the lad carried off a tod of wool and
three nails of calico without hesitation, followed by some items overlooked by
the Guard of the previous ‘down’ train, but his lack of worldliness prepared
him ill for the shock that was to come.  In truth, this coloured even my
cheeks.

The young porter’s
reverse came while he was removing a weighty cask of malt vinegar for the vicar
of Saint Martha, and while being diplomatic enough to make no comment about the
vicarage being a peculiar destination for such a consignment he could muster no
such aplomb at sight of a pair of handmade bloomers addressed to Miss Emily
Higham.  Consequently he stumbled over a box of blank booking forms.

Miss Higham, you may
recall, was the Brigadier’s daughter and the delicious creature who had smitten
Snimple, leading him into not-so-secret love trysts.  For some reason the
bloomers were lacking the anonymity of a wrapper and, worse still, the Guard
was holding them up as if to try them on!

Recoiling from the
lustful abnormality to which my Junior porter had been exposed, especially at this
formative time of his life, I set glass chinking against glass to extricate
myself from the carboys.  Alas, before I could intervene, Diggory became rubescent
and impeded of speech.  Being close to apoplexy myself, never having seen a
guard modelling ladies’ underwear, I made undignified haste and my unexpected
appearance in the door of the ‘birdcage’ startled the boggle-eyed Guard into
stuffing the bloomers in his pocket.  I was not deceived by his hasty return to
innocent activity.

“Hey, you!” I shouted. 
“What are you doing with those…?  What’s that item of freight in your pocket?”

The insalubrious Guard replied
with a meaningless stammer but again I was not fooled.

“You shall not dupe me,
sir, I saw you with that pair of unmentionables.  Why are they not wrapped?”

“There’s been a spot of trouble,”
the Guard found his tongue.  “Honestly, guv.  Look, I’ve got the address tag
here.”

“A personal garment of
this nature should be travelling incognito,” I barked.

I eyed the Guard deedily
while he explained that the wrapper had disintegrated in the juice of some French
plums.  The plums had been squashed during gauge transhipment and the fellow
was boasting that he had extracted the bloomers from the mess just in time to
save them from being spoiled.  Whilst I had no grounds to doubt him I did
return his sudorous leer with a glare of disapproval.

In these times there
were no secrets from the local stationmaster, for I now knew that the vicar of
Saint Martha pickled unbelievers, and that Miss Emily Higham wore handmade
undergarments imported from Paris.  The boggle-eyed Guard handed me a company mail
pouch.

“Oh, guv, the Guard of
the ‘up’ train forgot to drop this one off,” he smirked, confident that he had
vindicated himself.

Opening the pouch I
discovered one letter, addressed to me, sealed by the company secretary.  This,
I had no doubt, was the revised date of my disciplinary hearing.  Dispirited, I
stepped off the train and pocketed the letter until I could gird myself with
something to steady my nerves.  Meanwhile my nerves were jangled further when,
detouring to the porters’ cloakroom to coax Diggory out of hiding, I scraped my
ankle against a semaphore signal arm.  Several of these had been stacked
haphazardly upon Platform Two for collection by a contractor, and such a menace
did they pose that I summoned Mr Troke to relocate them to the foot of the
water tower immediately.  My demise as a figure of authority was now well in
the making.