A Station In Life (6 page)
Authors: James Smiley
“Precisely where is this
crane?” the coachman enquired.
“Beyond the marsh,” I
told him. “It is served by a tramway running into the forest. You can see
where it branches off at the Dairy siding and crosses the swamp. From the
causeway it climbs up to a clearing where the Ondle Timber company has a
steam-saw and sundry other machines. I think it is of the first moment that
you lead your horses up to logging station in readiness to bring the carriage
back. The sawyers’ trail is well signposted. In the meantime I will prepare
the necessary documents for your signature.”
I left the coachman to
his preparations and hurried through the Booking hall to the forecourt. Here I
found Jack Wheeler opening the tramway gates for Lacy, his face darkening at my
approach.
“You are quite safe,
Jack,” I comforted him. “I do not contrive to rob you of your footplate ride,
but did we not speak of sack-cloth and straps?”
Mr Wheeler blushed like a
fine old port and scurried away to the Stores hut to get the items he had
forgotten. The locomotive driver snorted with exasperation, shut off Lacy’s
regulator and applied the handbrake. The engine, having crept forward onto the
forecourt rails, squealed to a halt. Preparing Lacy for its climb up the spur
the fireman plied his shovel vigorously, hurling coal into the far corners of
the firebox with the skill of a marksman. Afterwards he inspected the fire-bed
with a ruddy squint while his crewmate stared down at me enigmatically, once
again scratching his head through his tartan tammy. It was some while before
the Scotchman broke the uncomfortable silence that had developed between us.
“If you’re gunny witness
this event you’ll be needing a stiff drink,” he announced with a wry grin.
The driver produced an
earthenware costrel, removed the cork with a squeak and a pop, and offered it
to me. Truth to tell, the aroma of a mature malt whisky did tempt me but I
declined demonstratively. Company regulations forbade the drinking of
intoxicating liquors while on duty, particularly by locomotive drivers. Nevertheless
this driver considered himself to be above the rules, for not only did he carry
liquor at his hip he felt free to offer it to stationmasters! I was singularly
distracted.
“I have no intention of
witnessing the unloading of this conveyance,” I informed the footplateman. “I
wish only to be notified when the deed is done. Once you have pushed the
cabriolet to the logging station you must return to collect the timber
empties. I want Platform One cleared as soon as possible. After this you may
go about your usual shunting duties on the tramway. I will take full
responsibility for your lateness.”
“Aye, that ye will,” the
driver quipped emphatically. MacGregor opened Lacy’s cylinder cocks and
drowned all further conversation with a deafening hiss. I waggled my finger
and strode away through the swirling steam, beyond which I glimpsed Miss
Macrames waving to me from the platform.
Chapter
Five — Reverie on the footbridge, then bang!
Whilst crossing the
footbridge to search for the missing parasol I chanced upon Humphrey Milsom
lumbering in the opposite direction carrying a stack of pigeon baskets.
“Ah, Mr Milsom…
Humphrey!” I serenaded my Senior porter and offered some assistance.
“Perchance you saw the
woman on Platform One earlier this morning? Just after the departure of the
Market goods?”
“I did not, sir,” he
replied with a baffled gaze.
“She was wearing a good
deal of lace. White lace,” I added helpfully.
“Missed her, did e?”
“I believe she wished to
speak to me but I was engaged at the time,” I said, and added with a pinch of
indifference: “Never mind, it does not matter.”
Humphrey’s face
contorted.
“It don’t worry e then?”
he asked.
“No, it is of little
consequence,” I assured him.
“If e say so, sir, but the
squire’s carriage won’t look pretty with gashes in her,” the porter opined
enigmatically.
“Gashes? I beg your
pardon?”
“Where they’m a sunk
grapplin’ hooks in her, yon up at Bessam,” he elaborated.
I drew breath stiffly.
“Humphrey, why do you
think railway companies only hire stationmasters with square heads? So that
they do not roll off the plate when served up after a mishap.”
Humphrey chortled
unsympathetically before continuing.
“Even if Jack don’t wreck
the cabriolet he’ll get her plastered with mud. Arr, and the squire’s team of
thoroughbred horses too. Ol’ sawyers’ trail will be a morass after last
night’s deluge, I reckons.”
Mr Milsom was right, of
course, and I wondered if I had taken leave of my senses. Truth to tell, my
superior calm was merely an illusion.
“If necessary we shall
wash the carriage with hot water from Lacy’s slack pipe,” I advised the porter
through a grinning mask of optimism.
“Talkin’ of Lacy, they’m
got trouble with her,” he responded with a discombobulating rumble.
I lifted my top-hat and
scratched my head. I had noticed that conversations with simple country folk tended
to lack focus, and clearly Mr. Milsom was no exception. Having lost the thread
of our conversation I prompted the porter to expand upon his digression.
“Trouble? What trouble?”
“A stickin’ safety
valve, by all accounts, Mr Jay. Her aint blowin’ off all the excess pressure.
I tell e, sir, I never heard a boiler groan like it. Apart from my misses when
rain be due, course.”
Visualising Humphrey’s
spouse of similar proportions to himself, groaning with pain, I heaved a
feckless sigh. This turned to a gasp when the significance of his words
registered.
“Saints preserve us!” I
jumped. “A sticking safety valve is the most dangerous fault a steam engine
can develop. Are you sure the footplatemen have not simply tightened down the
knurled nut? They do this to get extra steam on a difficult run, you know. It
is quite against the rules and extremely hazardous, but these drivers think
they are a law unto themselves.”
“I knows that, Mr Jay,
but Lacy don’t have the Salter type valve so her be tamper proof,” Humphrey
advised me.
“Well, if the safety valve
really is sticking then the crew should throw out the fire at once and have the
engine towed back to Giddiford,” I said.
“Arr, e don’t know
Driver MacGregor, sir?” the porter wheezed. “That man be too stubborn to admit
defeat.”
“Driver MacGregor, is
it?” I fretted, returning Humphrey his pigeons. “I shall have a word with this
MacGregor fellow.”
The porter struggled
away with his consignment of feathered gossipers warbling noisily.
With no sign of the
persistent Miss Macrames about I remained atop the footbridge to settle my
nerves and study the layout of the station. Beneath me, simmering quietly
alongside Platform One, was the locomotive that had banked the troublesome
timber train from Giddiford, this being a visitor from the London & South
Western railway. In front of it was a rake of goods vans, and in front of the
goods vans were the empty timber trucks awaiting return to Bessam.
The axle loading of the
LSWR four-coupled locomotive was too heavy for the lightly constructed tramway
so its footplate crew, having no work to do, had settled upon the
wheel-splasher to play cards. Beyond the marsh, above a dark apron of
deciduous trees covering the foot of Bessam tor, was a column of steam rising
from Lacy’s place of toil.
On my left I could see
the river Ondle meandering like a silver sash through the valley’s turquoise
haze, and on my right I could see the village of Upshott manifesting itself
bashfully through a plush canopy of chestnuts and oaks. At a glance the
village appeared to be no more than an assortment of sagging stone roofs but
with careful observation one could see one or two of its shops, the display
windows of the pork butcher and the candle-maker, and the occasional passing of
a horse and cart along the high street. The one thing I could not see from the
footbridge, or elsewhere for that matter, was Miss Macrames’ parasol. Which
was a pity because its owner was heading in my direction again with great
purpose.
Such was Miss Macrames’
dedication to the recovery of her accoutrement that her negotiation of the
wooden steps to my lookout was that of a charging bull, and perforce I
concluded that the possession was of immense value, perhaps webbed with finest
Japanese silk with a handle of gold leaf. Having no encouraging news to impart
I could think only to insulated myself from her approach and enjoy what remained
of my solitude.
Upshott nestled on a
hillside shelf with breathtaking views to the south-west, being to the
north-east overlooked by three dappled tors, the lower slopes of which were
dissected by smallholdings and other residences stretching down to the High
street. Here the eye was beckoned to dwell upon the Norman tower of an
Eleventh century church, the parish church of Saint Martha, its three bells
being noted throughout the district for their pleasant timbre. Beyond the
upper end of the village the High street climbed still higher to become the
Blodcaster road, thereafter dwindling to the proportions of a cart track
scribbled across a very precipitous approach to the pass which formed a droop
between Upshott down and Upshott hill.
The serenity of this
beautiful morning was medicinal, floating upon its stillness a rhapsody of
birdsong themed by the thin, reedy call of pewits wheeling above their nests in
the fallow fields around Upshott. The mournful lowing of cattle and the petite
splashing of a little watermill dripping its spent juices into a race at the
foot of a meadow were welcome companions to the warm breeze, and I was
comforted at least by the natural half of my new world.
Noticing that Miss
Macrames was now almost upon me I turned away and looked east, from which
direction came a still more mesmeric sound. High among the meagre slopes of
Splashgate hill where little ever happened, sparsely dotted sheep were bleating
with a haunting loneliness that invoked in me a most strange and idle
pondering.
I wondered what caused
men to be so susceptible to female charm. Reinforcement of the mystery came
when Miss Macrames blocked my view skilfully with a flirtatious smile. Her
interception aroused in me a special interest in the alchemy of sensual relationship
and, moreover, the significance of women bearing fidelity to past infatuations.
Should I draw a romantic conclusion from Miss Macrames’ most enchanting likeness
to my Elisabeth, for I could scarcely differentiate between the two lovely
creatures? Until, that is, one of them spoke.
“Horace, here you are,” she
squawked with what little breath remained in her lungs.
This short railway may
have perforated my mind with muddle but Miss Macrames, by way of her hypnotic
persistence, was now threatening to collapse it altogether. For some reason my
response to this woman’s allure was one of complete emotional turmoil. I
suppose that bucolic bliss was no match for the menace of a faulty steam
engine, disturbingly mysterious ladies, an authoritarian squire, and a rotten
smell from which there was no escape. Perhaps it was all just boiling inside
my head like a cauldron. Anyway, briefly unable to focus my eyes, I measured
in myself a lack of composure that needed rectifying and reminded myself that I
was a stationmaster. Overstretched incumbents such as I, the records showed,
were often driven to drink, women, or solitude, and eventually dismissed. Just
now I perceived a shortfall in all three forms of escape taken together.
Nevertheless, a man should
not crave retreat on his first day in a new job no matter how bad the onslaught,
so I reprimanded myself sternly. Being of a reflective nature I looked to my
past for a clue to my fragile aloofness and concluded that the propensity
sprang from my singular upbringing rather than anxiety, recalling that even
when I had gone to work for the railways as a lad, joining some thirty other
junior clerks in a lively goods office, I had remained at my own disposal
throughout. Truth to tell, my compulsive self-reliance, which had set me apart
from my contemporaries, was probably the reason for my rapid rise though the
ranks. I had gathered few obligations outside of my work and appeared to my
seniors to be a dedicated railwayman. Upon promotion to relief stationmaster
my isolation had been reinforced by countless short term postings around the
south-west, allowing me no opportunity to cast down roots. So, if you will pardon
the pun, at Upshott it was to be a case of ‘all change’ because here I had the
opportunity to settle.
During my earlier years
spent in the cities I had developed a distaste for the urbane way of life, the
company of society swells exchanging neoteric humbug over dinner being in my
eyes unequal to the simple offerings of a highly ordered, rural community.
Upshott was a parish with no pretensions, and whilst I accept that such
communities are generally reluctant to embrace a newcomer, in the case of a
stationmaster it is different. Indeed, I had experienced a sense of belonging
from my very first day here, while being shown around the station by the
General manager, Mr Crump. At every step I had received a warm welcome from
local dignitaries. Even if, subsequently, I were to displease half of them I should
still have much to celebrate. Unless, of course, the half I displeased had the
power to dismiss me.
I did not allow myself
to be entirely fooled by the reception, however, because in these early railway
days a stationmaster’s ‘friendship’ could be cultivated with undignified haste,
this being due to his necessary complicity in everyone’s dealings. It was a
peculiar circumstance which could leave a fellow imperceptibly isolated, with
few genuine friends. But then, were it otherwise, the stationmaster’s
authority would have been compromised.
“Mr Jay… Horace… have
you had time to look for my parasol yet,” Miss Macrames asked tentatively,
manifestly aware that she was intruding upon my thoughts.
“I am engaged in the
search at this very moment, Miss Macrames,” I replied.
My delectable pursuer
gazed at me captivatingly then followed the line of my eyes. Her cursive glide
delivered her to Platform One where she was disappointed to see no parasol.
She returned her gaze to me.
“Oh, please, call me
Rose,” she insisted fondly.
Averting my eyes I
confined my reply to a brief smile. At forty years of age I had resolved never
again to be stirred uncontrollably by anyone of the fairer sex, and although I
had once been deficient in this virtue I now knew better than to foster the
notion that I merited female company. I had come to prefer life’s more durable
pleasures. A romantic heart abroad in Exmoor could delight without cloy in the
daylong melody of birdsong, purple sunsets and starry skies, my appreciation of
such things having been heightened by knowing the alternative. Overcrowded
towns and foul forests of chimneys had produced squalid labyrinths of disease, and
I baulked at the dreadful price some souls were paying for progress. It pained
me to contemplate the twisted manner of growing up that the industrial
conurbation inflicted upon childhood, myself having explored the path to
adulthood in the breeze of dancing trees and shimmering waters. Little wonder
the effect upon the formative mind of brick horizons, discoloured skies and evil
smoke. While others cleaned the capitalist’s machine without interrupting its
deafening, profit-making frenzy I was learning to trap and fish.
“Do you think my parasol
is out there somewhere, Horace?” Miss Macrames rented me from my reflections
again, her voice conveying a degree of hushed amusement.
“Perhaps,” I replied with
my eyes still under lock and key.
I sensed a smile
broadening itself upon her cherub-like dimples but continued to abstain from
the feast lest I succumb to improper familiarity. Alas, all was lost when
Lacy’s shrieking whistle startled us both and we shared a moment of spontaneous
laughter which Miss Macrames did not appear to find unseemly. With some reluctance
I brought our mirth to a close.
