A Station In Life (15 page)

“Ay, you’re right to be
excited, Horace, these are exciting times,” the manager encouraged me plumply.

“Forgive me, Mr Crump,
but I wonder if you would care to expand upon this business of ‘unpleasant
gossip’ in Blodcaster, for I cannot imagine the cause,” I asked tentatively.

“Of course, Horace, we
all know that last month the London and South Western opened its new line
between Poole and Bournemouth, but did you know it has also acquired operating
powers over the recently completed Sidmouth railway?” he continued.  “You mark
my words, one day these watering resorts will be our best source of revenue.”

As a rule one did not
interrupt a Crump dissertation but with my curiosity at fever pitch I pressed
him harder, for whilst I had been expecting a complaint from the Squire about
his damaged cabriolet I knew of no other reason for reproval.

“Has there been an
official complaint about me, sir?”

Mr Crump appeared not to
understand my interruption and carried on with his discourse.

“Just think of the possibilities,
Horace.  In a matter of days the line from Evercreech to Bath will be
completed, and the first sod has been turned on the Lyme Regis project.  Who
says the railway boom is over?”

The gentleman’s question
was rhetorical and I knew better than to interrupt a second time.

“And to cap it all, the
Royal Commission has at last ruled against the late Brunel’s seven foot gauge. 
The business community shall rejoice at the lifting of those old broad gauge
metals!  No, Horace, there’s been no official complaint about you, just rumours
that you’ve been rude to passengers.  But I know you too well to believe them.”

Intoxicated with relief
yet still puzzled, I drifted away to contemplate the matter, but Mr Crump was
off again and my thoughts stumbled to a halt.

“I’m afraid, Horace,
that when the South Western takes over our line we shall have to discontinue
some of our commercially less viable services.  Many weekend trains will be
axed, and Driver MacGregor will find the new management less tolerant of his antics,
like delaying freight trains to set rabbit snares along the line.  Even the
revered Percival Hiscox will have to forego some of his time honoured
perquisites, like exchanging engine coal for pheasants.  Oh yes, Horace, we
know it goes on.  Under our new masters we shall all have to make adjustments.”

‘Perhaps the London
& South Western will have more success in controlling the likes of Jack
Wheeler,’ I thought, but doubted it.

As Mr Crump collected
his hat and gloves I wondered if the wagging tongues of Blodcaster had any
connection with my strange encounter with the ostler.  All was very
mysterious.  The ostler’s garbed message had referred to Rose, yet Rose’s
reaction to mention of his name had reflected innocence.  My thoughts were
dislocated once again.

Mr Crump, like a Chinese
jumping cracker springing back to life unexpectedly when everyone thought it
was spent, exploded with another bout of enthusiasm.

“And, Horace, your
Booking clerk will be pleased to know that his days of bargaining with season
ticket holders are numbered.  There’ll be no more writing out tickets by hand,
for we are to install Edmonson cardboard ticket printing machinery.  As you
know, the London and South Western is a member of the Railway Clearing House so
adherence to the national ticket standard is mandatory.  My word, you’ll find
yourself dealing with tickets from all over the country.  But not to worry,
Horace.  The clerks of Seymour Street will apportion all your takings for you. 
My goodness, you’ll think you’re back with the London and South Western!”

“But I will be,” I
reminded Mr Crump as he turned to leave.

Stepping onto the
platform, the General Manager painted me one last picture of the future.

“Think of all the
destination boards you’ll need.  Salisbury, Andover, Basingstoke, Reading…  And
with developments at Templecombe we may yet see trains direct to the ports of
Poole and Southampton.”

I doubted that Lord Lacy,
with all his influence as the proprietor of a monopolistic stage coach
business, would readily permit such developments, especially having parted with
his railway shares recently.  With a glance at his fobwatch, Mr Crump at last
appeared ready leave.

This moment, looking
towards the weighbridge house, I chanced to see my Rollingstock superintendent
riding a company horse in the fashion of a postilion, with a chaldron truck in
tow.  Mr Troke was looking very pleased with himself, which was never a good
sign, and I soon saw why.  The chaldron truck, designed to carry a little over
twenty-five hundredweight of coal, had been charged with a somewhat less
conventional cargo.  To my astonishment the buffoon had chosen this delicate
moment to dispose of the unwanted sewage, even though removing it to the
viaduct necessitated its passing right alongside the Directors’ Special.

As the sullage trundled
beneath the noses of the visiting dignitaries, sans tarpaulin, I prayed in
silence that the observation car ventilators were close.  Alas, judging by
reactions inside the train, they were not, the gentlemen aboard having arranged
to vent their cigar smoke and sample the country air while abroad.

Mr Troke, presumably
unable to hear what was being said about him, appeared pleased with the
invective and returned the dignitaries a gappy grin.  Snimple, who was leaning
from the rear of the truck to regulate the brake, also seemed pleased.  He
waved the Giddiford baton proudly in the air.

I watched in silent
horror as the spotty porter’s concentration lapsed momentarily and he lost
regulation of the truck on the falling gradient, allowing the sewage to gather
speed.  Being a coward I closed my eyes in denial of the spectacle, but upon
hearing a snort of terror from the shunting horse I opened one eye praying that
the incident would go unnoticed by Mr Crump.  So far, even with a frightened
animal being pursued by an evil smelling heap, it had.

The poor beast of burden
was all but overrun before Snimple regained control of the truck and I am quite
certain that it found the odour of the cargo, which had now shifted and
breached its crust, more offensive than did its human handlers.

Mr Crump had been
studying his itinerary throughout and remained unaware of the incident.  Yet
now I became troubled by something else.  Mr Troke’s obsessive stare.  It
worried me that his large white eyes had become fixed upon me balefully, as if
I were guilty of an unforgivable indiscretion, and remained so until their
mesmeric thrall succumbed to distance.  By which time I had forgotten about Mr
Crump.

To recapture my
attention, Mr Crump cleared his throat noisily and wished me good luck in my
new capacity.  We shook hands and I conducted him hurriedly to the observation
car, for it had occurred to me that I would do well to ‘right away’ the Special
before attention was drawn to the migrating microbes.  Or, for that matter,
before a telegraph signal could come through for one of the bigwigs.  I opened
a carriage door and Mr Crump went aboard.

Intrigued by the smell
of opulence, I tipped my head around the door and pried cautiously into the
carriage’s sumptuous interior.  This was a mistake, for in so doing I reignited
Mr Crump’s enthusiasm for railway developments.

“So, Horace, if this
railway of ours is not to become a museum of antiquity we must be up and doing,
ay?  Block signalling next…”

“Yes, yes,” I agreed
with impudent haste and tried to close the door.

“What is that smell?”
the manager asked with an uncharacteristic twist of the face.

Before I could answer,
someone called out to Mr Crump from within the smoke filled carriage. 
Reference was made to the telegraph.

“Of course, I almost
forgot!” Mr Crump exclaimed and prepared to disembark.  “I was going to send
word to Headquarters from here, to see if there are any messages.  May I use
your telegraph set, Horace?”

This was another
rhetorical question.  I could scarcely say no.  I unlocked the Telegraph room
and suggested that I go about my duties.  Suddenly Mr Crump’s arms were
outstretched.

“Nonsense, you must join
me,” came the invitation.  “My Morse is a little rusty and I may need your
help.”  Mr Crump placed a silk handkerchief to his nose and complained: “Do you
have overdue deadstock hereabouts?  There’s definitely something malodorous in
the vicinity.”

Envisaging no future
upon the railway after this, I shrugged my shoulders without a care.

Once inside the cramped
Telegraph room the General Manager stood aside and beckoned me to operate the
apparatus, whereupon I took a deep breath and prepared to confess to my
inadequacy.  An inability to operate the instrument was not of itself grounds
for disciplinary action, I reasoned, but having deceived the Board of Directors
would surely merit summary dismissal.  With those ferrets wriggling in my
stomach I thought I saw Mr Mildenhew bent and sobbing outside the window.  The poor
fellow straightened up and looked through the glass at me intently, his face
becoming mine.

My tension must have
infected Mr Crump because as the receiver started to chatter we both jumped.

The signal was very
rapid, doubtless coming from a highly proficient user somewhere, probably
Headquarters, and I froze.  I had no idea how to write down what to me was
merely a noise.  But the General manager did not know this and, believing my
inactivity to be sheer mastery, marvelled at my response.  So impressed was he
by the redundancy of my pencil in committing to memory such a long
communication, and all with no hint of concentration, that his face puckered
with intrigue.

When the receiver
finally fell silent, Mr Crump patted my back and congratulated me, then asked
for a translation.  At this my nerve broke and I invented a coughing fit. 
Rather helpfully, Mr Crump blamed my attack upon the stench wafting through the
door.

“Just what is that
smell?” he asked once more.

“I have no idea,” I
spluttered with feigned incapacitation.

With the noxious load
slipping further away, and with it my excuse for inactivity, I knew that I
would soon have to feign recovery.  Having no idea what alternative diversion I
might employ after this, I panicked and said something which seemed to have its
own author.

“The smell arrived with
your train, sir.”

A shadow of concern fell
across Mr Crump’s face.  Having thus distracted the manager, I resumed coughing
and pointed towards a stool.

“Yes, of course,” he
responded sympathetically and invited me to retire.

The kindly gentleman
sent for a glass of water and did not hear my sigh of relief betwixt two coughs
when he took over at the telegraph set.  The wrinkle of concern upon his face
deepened when a second signal came through, this one transmitted more slowly, to
confound him further.  Not entirely sure that the message was complete, he
handed me the telegram pad upon which he had jotted it down.

FROM:  Griffith
(Linton Stationmaster)

TO:  Anyone
listening.

Last night’s
Giddiford train.  Two miles from Upshott.  Pot-lamps exploded.  Passengers
evacuated at Widdlecombe.  Practical joker resides at Upshott.  Stop.

Beneath this message, Mr
Crump had scribbled someone’s reply.

FROM:  Caxton
(Widdlecombe Stationmaster)

TO:  Griffith.

Watch what you say. 
Primates about.  One might be listening.  Stop.

I read the telegram and
told the General Manager with feigned incredulity that I knew nothing of
exploding pot-lamps.  This was no untruth, after all, for the lamps had not
exploded.  By all accounts they had sparkled gaily.

Mr Crump’s mask of
curiosity subsided to a boyish grin and he confided that he had not used the
telegraph for quite some time.  He had enjoyed working the apparatus even
though the messages made no sense.

At last the Directors’
Special left for Blodcaster, and as the carriages swept by I glimpsed the
colourful Mr Gaselee sharing a map with engineer William Beattie.  Such a plum
excursion did a ride on our beautiful railway make that nobody at the top had
missed the opportunity to be on it.

However, this was another
train I had made late.

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Chapter
Fifteen — Porter hunted by women

The midday Giddiford
train arrived several minutes late, having been held up by the Directors’
Special, and plainly it was going to be delayed further by the presence on the
line of a horse-drawn chaldron truck.  Messrs Troke and Snimple had
successfully discharged the treated sewage over the side of Widdlecombe viaduct
but were now hampering their return to the station by mishandling the horse.

To the accompaniment of
Driver MacGregor’s poignant commentary I watched the equine beast stumble its
way towards home contending not only with a rising gradient but the hysteria of
its handlers.  Indeed, the horse was becoming more obstinate with each fright. 
For myself, with Snimple’s cowboy yodelling in the distance and the cynical
rasping of a blunt Scotchman at my ear, each minute masqueraded as an hour.  The
Giddiford train eventually left thirty minutes late, at 1.25pm.

Lacy and its four passenger
carriages had not made up the lost time when it returned ex Giddiford, and I
delayed it still further by attaching a swinger.  The swinger, of course, was
the unwanted mobile crane.

His patience expired,
Driver MacGregor alighted the engine and badgered me for an explanation.  He was
convinced that I was victimising him, particularly as his progress was to be
hindered still further by having to detach the crane at Busy Linton.  Protesting
that I was ‘out to get him’ he shrugged off my assurances to the contrary and
insisted that my mistakes had cost him a rabbit stew.  Now I understood.  He
cared not about running late, for this would have been out of character; what
he really cared about was his reason for being late.  This was that he should
have been checking his lineside snares.  He took a swig of whisky while I read
him the relevant company rules, then marched away.  Our altercation unresolved,
I found myself in a suitable frame of mind to deal with Snimple and Troke. 
Accordingly I summoned them to my office.

“Could you two imbeciles
not have waited until the Directors’ Special was out of the station before
disposing of the sewage?” I quizzed Mr Troke.  “Would it not have been wiser to
move it after nightfall, under cover of darkness?”

“Didn’t think of that,”
he smarted.

“Let me see if I have
this straight.  You parked the truck on the viaduct and simply shovelled its
contents over the side, in broad daylight?” I asked incredulously.  “You made
sure, I hope, that you were directly above the river?”

“If we’d done it after
dark we couldn’t have told,” Mr Troke pointed out with a dozy squint.  There
was, I confess, an element of logic in his defence.

As yet I had heard
nothing from Snimple and had not taxed the fellow, but I noticed in his
normally ruddy cheeks the rising pallor of guilt.

“Snimple,” I addressed
the porter sympathetically.  Snimple was always the weak link in any chain of
deceit at Upshott.  “Did the treated sewage all go in the river?”

“A sntrong wind blows
through the arches, Mr Jay,” he submitted meekly.

Thus I became aware that
the discharge had not behaved according to plan.

“Who, or what, did it
hit?” I asked without further ado.

Mr Troke owned up.

“We think it was old
Smethwick of Longhurdle farm, Mr Jay, sir.”

“Smethwick?” I gasped. 
“What was the pig breeder doing under the viaduct?”

“He grazes livestock on
the common between the piers, sir,” said Mr Troke.  “Livestock what the master
don’t know about.  He keeps the takings to himself, the crafty worm.”

“And the sewage hit
him?”

“Only because he got in
the way,” Mr Troke complained.

“But you reckon it was
Smethwick the sewage hit?” I sought confirmation.

“He should be more
careful where he loiters,” came the reply.

“Smethwick, eh?” I
mused.  “Well, no harm done then.”

I dismissed the two miscreants
and turned my attention to some pressing paperwork.

The remainder of this
warm, breezy afternoon passed uneventfully, at least as far as I was
concerned.  The presence in the Goods shed of some uncollected rolls of fabric
was explained by news from the village that the draper had fallen off his son’s
horse with fatal consequences, and the weekly coal train had failed to turn up. 
Neither mishap was of concern to me so I tidied my office and read some lengthy
company bulletins.  Actually I did have one interruption.  Humphrey, ever keen
to maintain his reputation as the railway’s grapevine, paid me a visit and we
stepped outside to gossip in the sunshine.

“Strictly speakin’, Mr
Jay, that uncollected fabric belongs to Lord Lacy, for he owns the shop,” he
advised me, picking one of Snimple’s flowers for his buttonhole.  “The draper,
Mr Packard, was only an employee of his Lordship, e see.”

“Do you know what
happened to the coal train?” I diverted him.  “I see the gas house is low.”

“I do, sir,” Humphrey
replied.  “It derailed.  Didn’t e know?  Likely as not ’twer them badgers
again.  The blighters be underminin’ the track up on Widdlecombe bank.  The
whole area be riddled with setts.  Word has it a truck toppled on its side and
shot the best part of a ton down the slope into a drainage ditch.”

“A terrible waste,
Humphrey,” I lamented.

“Indeed so, sir.  A
recovery engine went by earlier on its way to Blodcaster to pick up the mobile
crane.  Although there seems to be some confusion over the crane’s whereabouts
at present.  Still, once they’m a got her rigged up I reckons they’ll have
those wagons re-railed in the blink of an eye.  Often as not they has toppled
trucks upright before the next train be due.”

“Fingers crossed then,”
I replied.  “Otherwise I shall be reading letters of complaint by oil lamp.”

“Like you say, Mr Jay,
it’ll be a pitiful waste if they don’t recover all that lost coal,” Humphrey
reflected.

“Do you suppose they
will?” I asked.

If the coal was
abandoned I might recover it and redeem myself for misdirecting the station’s
unofficial ration.

“Well now, that ditch be
a long way down, and as a rule they don’t bother salvaging spillage from
inaccessible places unless it be of particular high value,” he replied, giving
me hope.  “But between e, me, and the gate post, Mr Jay, I reckons the Civil
engineer and his crew will snaffle the lot when they comes through to clear the
drainage courses.  Unless the local scallywags glean it first.”

We stood back while an
untidy little engine called Ondle trundled through the station, its bodywork
latticed with rusting pipes and buckled control rods.  Behind it was the mobile
winch.  The driver wagged a finger at me accusingly.

“Hide and seek,” he remonstrated
as he went by.

Before I could make sense
of the remark, a scruffy man in overalls leaned from the Guard’s van and
croaked another.

“We’re taking
possession, Stationmaster.”

And that was that.  The
line south of Upshott was closed.

It was not until late
afternoon that the recovery crew relinquished possession of the line, allowing
Exmoor to come through the station hauling a rake of milk empties.  Services
being back to normal, Julian Maynard set off along the spare track bed to
Giddiford with the single-line baton and I instructed Snimple to apply a little
tallow to the hinges of the Waiting Room sign to prevent squeaking.  An
unwelcome wind had picked up and was causing the sign to sway noisily in chorus
with two telegraph wires terminated upon porcelain insulators above the
Telegraph room.  These wires howled eerily with each gust, but about this I
could do nothing.

By 5pm the station loop
was again occupied by an ‘up’ train and a ‘down’ train.  Although my staff and
I were kept busy meeting the demands of self aggrandising swells whose summoning
of porters to their beck and call seemed a matter of rivalry, events ran
smoothly.  With but one exception.  This was a poorly fastened Saratoga trunk
that had haemorrhaged samples of crockery all over the Booking hall floor, an
occurrence for which I assumed all blame to spare the blushes of an embarrassed
salesman.  However, in order that the fellow could resume his journey to the
Lacy Arms after repacking the trunk I found it necessary to have Mr Milsom sit
upon it to close the catches.  To place the commercial traveller out of earshot
should anything break under my Senior porter’s great bulk, I hastened the
fellow to the forecourt to secure a comfortable seat aboard the road coach.

After this I found it
necessary to admonish Snimple for leaving milk churns in the sun, his knowledge
of the planetary motions apparently flawed.

“Snorry, Mr Jay, the
snun moved,” he complained.

“It does.  From east to
west if I am not mistaken,” I explained.

Beyond these minor
irritations the afternoon was, as I have alluded, blissfully uneventful.  To
avoid baton difficulties, the returning milk train was combined with the
Giddiford passenger train as far as Upshott, the duo of workhorses befogging
the village with their sweeping halitus upon arrival.  One of them took to marshalling
dairy stock on the tramway, the other preparing for its descent to Giddiford
Junction.

As I patrolled the
station the wind veered and drove off Lacy’s sulphurous breath briefly, whereupon
I caught sight of Humphrey resting his haunches upon a pigeon basket.  The
basket’s inquisitive occupants were blinking at the world from between his
legs, unaware of the dangerous pressure bearing down upon their temporary accommodation.

“Humphrey!” I called. 
“Do you not realise that loafing in the presence of the great British public is
unseemly.”

I believe he understood
my remonstrance to be in jest, and together we watched a thick set woman in her
early twenties descend the footbridge steps.  Her footfalls were noisy on the
timbers and for some reason she tilted her head to one side periodically with a
square smile.  A plain girl with dark, intense eyes, and by no means
voluptuously favoured, she gave the impression of being a caring soul.

“Tis Miss Peckham,”
Humphrey advised me.  “The village postmaster’s youngest.”

“Big bones,” I observed
idly.

It appeared to me that
the maid’s most attractive feature was her wavy brown hair.  This flowed as if
from a fountain beneath her small bonnet before contracting into loose curls
upon her shoulders.  And these were broad shoulders, barely concealed by the
voluminous cascades decorating them.

“Amelia be in trainin’
to become a nurse over at Yeovil,” Humphrey informed me with a comradely wheeze. 
“I tell e, Mr Jay, her’ll make a fearful medicine bully one day.  A dragon matron
to make any invalid’s blood run cold.”

“Really?” I replied, the
young lady looking too pleasant to warrant such an appraisal.  “From what I
have read, we shall see nursing become a recognised profession before long. 
And Miss Peckham looks young enough to see it happen.”

“Haply so, but not at
Yeovil,” Humphrey warbled.  “They’m given her a week to take a pair of scissors
to that hair.  And by all accounts her’s refusin’.  Her don’t want it cut short
because of Snimple.”

“Because of Snimple?” I
rebounded incredulously.  “Why Snimple?”

“Don’t e know, Mr Jay? 
Her be after him.  I reckons her’ll have him too.  She be a mighty big rock-fall
to dodge.”

I could scarcely believe
my ears.  Not for the first time today had I heard reference to my Second
porter being the object of immodest female desires, and I wondered if there was
another Snimple at large besides my butterfly chaser.  Perhaps there was a
Snimple in the village?  The Snimple at whose feet the maids of Upshott were
apparently flinging themselves would have to be chivalrous, urbane, and wealthy. 
Not a railway porter with a speech impediment.

“I knows what e be
thinkin’, Mr Jay.  Tis Snimple her be after right enough.  That Higham girl be
just a tease.  Between e, me, and the fence post, if ol’ Snimple got half a
smidgen of sense he’d sweep Miss Peckham off her feet and be done with.  If
nothin’ else, her be plentiful.  A fellow like Snimple can’t be choosy.”

I shut my eyes and tried,
unsuccessfully, to imagine Snimple sweeping a young lady off her feet.  The
buxom wench I had observed lumbering across Platform One would not even notice
him trying.  Indeed, quite the reverse had taken place.  The porter had passed
within a few feet of his admirer and paid her no attention at all.  Miss
Peckham halted abruptly, turned, and became a portrait of dejection.

“Tis a case of
unrequited love,” Humphrey observed mournfully.

“What we have just
witnessed, Humphrey,” I reflected, “is not the face of determination you
ascribe the young lady.”

Humphrey was compelled
to recant.

“I don’t know what be
wrong, I’m sure.  Normally her comes up in blotches and ticks him off for bein’
rude,” he said.  “Tis a sight, I can tell e.”

Personally I thought the
girl quite pretty in a singular sort of way, and I was incensed by Snimple’s
bad form.  I set about cornering the porter for a word, but he caught my scent
and went to ground.