A Station In Life (20 page)

Upshott’s goods yard had
been designated a temporary storage area for signalling components awaiting
installation and become a cluttered emporium of railway contraptions.  Humphrey
joined me as I gazed at the stacks of wooden semaphore arms, signal posts,
finials, steel rods, drums of cable, pots of tallow, pulleys, nuts, bolts,
levers and all the paraphernalia one never noticed when installed and working.

“I prefers men with
flags,” he rumbled.  “E won’t catch I on a train after this lot’s been
installed.”

“It will take more than
this lot to make travelling at speed possible on the SER, nevertheless one is
denuded of complacency, I grant you,” I concurred, unable to reconcile such
flimsy devices with the blind faith put in them.

Sundry other items,
particularly tins of paint and sacks of clout-nails, were disappearing as fast
as they could be delivered, but this had more to do with pilfering than the
pace of work.

“His Lordship still be
lookin’ for someone to run the village drapery,” Humphrey informed me in one of
his familiar tangents.  “Mrs Sharpe, the dressmaker, told I the ladies of
Upshott are findin’ the shop’s closure a terrible hardship.”

I joined him in a brief
chuckle then studied the telegraph wires.  A new pair of conductors had been
hung to accommodate a metallic-return circuit providing communication between
adjacent signalmen.  Ivor Hales could now send and receive electric bell codes
to report the passing of trains.  With four wires now spanning the lineside
telegraph poles, the South Exmoor was beginning to acquire an air of
importance.

“No sign of earth-return
telegraphy,” I reflected, baffling Humphrey.

We observed with relief
that the most bothersome improvement of all, that of rebuilding the platforms
to a universal height of thirty inches above rail level, had now been
completed.  The labourers, hired from Lord Lacy’s estate, had come and gone
sporadically throughout the work and caused protracted upheaval.

At this point I should
like to speak of supernatural stirrings, for all my worries combined as one
amounted to nought in comparison.

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Chapter
Eighteen — Unrest in the spirit world

Apropos my domestic
servant, her engagement was destined to be something of a trauma.  Indeed, the
first of several disquieting developments came one Friday afternoon when I was
waylaid by Humphrey on the ‘up’ platform, which was now deserted, and
introduced to a strange woman wearing a black cashmere dress.  The time must
have been circa 3.45pm because I recall standing back from the platform edge to
avoid the smuts of a circus special travelling non-stop to Exeter.

“Meet Miss Blake,”
Humphrey shouted above the train’s rumble, and presented the woman who was to
do my chores.

I was taken aback by the
extraordinary person my Senior porter had recruited.  Miss Blake was as
pale-faced an icon of the female complexion as ever I had seen, but not in an
attractive way, you understand, for her skin was more the texture of cabbage
than alabaster.  By way of two red dots, rather like the eyes of an albino
mouse, she emerged from the cascading smoke and stared at me as if I were her
executioner.  Her ears were adorned with pendulous bobs and bangles that
tinkled musically with her every move, and fluttering upon her shoulders in the
wind caused by passing elephants was a delicate scarf embroidered with signs of
the zodiac.  Yet the woman possessed one liberating quality.  There was no risk
that I would dissipate myself fantasising about her.

Although I have
indicated that Miss Blake was staring at me, upon closer inspection I
discovered that she was not.  At least, I think not.  You see, the focal point
of her gaze appeared to be different for each eye, one being the sky and, as
far as I could tell, the other being Upshott wood some distance behind me.  As
I have alluded, Miss Blake’s eyes were small and red, tiny vortexes of fire
being a fair description, yet despite their intensity they had an incongruously
skittish quality about them which quite transfixed me.  They were the eyes of
the startled.

Since the spinster wore
no bonnet, I could not help noticing her hair.  It was as coarse, straight, and
copper bright as the new telegraph wires glinting above the station.  Also I
noticed that ‘young’ Miss Blake, as Humphrey had described her, was forty if
she was a day.

The small, ginger woman
returned my shocked stare with a demure smile and I reciprocated hesitantly. 
Remembering my manners I doffed my hat and welcomed her to my domain, in
response to which she curtsied awkwardly and uttered my name beneath her
breath.  This she did as if in awe of me.  Truth to tell, I was in awe of her. 
Had the smoke of the passing special reclaimed her I should have walked away
and left it at that.

At this point in my
description of Miss Blake my pen falters because your perception of her would
not be complete without an appreciation of her disturbing aura.  Yet whilst
such an aura begs description, equally it defies it.  I would merely be
scratching the surface were I to say that proximity to the woman Humphrey had
visited upon me had a profoundly unsettling effect.  It was a sense of dé·jà
vu, her appearance and behaviour being unaccountably familiar. She was rather
like someone half remembered from a dream, a troubled dream; and who should not
exist in the cold light of day.  The sensation was quite extraordinary.

Humphrey, having gone
out of his way to arrange the introduction, lowered his shoulders with
disappointment at the bad chemistry of it, and was further disappointed when I
dealt him a glare of disapproval.

Just as I was on the
point of announcing my change of heart regarding the engagement of a domestic
servant the spinster, having overcome her bashfulness, narrowed her ember-like
eyes upon me and spoke.  I froze instantly and cocked an ear.  She told me that
she could not chat for very long because someone was calling her.  Now, I could
hear the fading rattle of the circus train, and I could hear the cheeping of
sparrows upon the Goods shed roof, but I could hear no one calling. 
Consequently I made no comment.

I forced a smile and
waited patiently while Miss Blake struggled to remove an item from her vanity
bag, something which I expected to be a reference from a previous employer.  In
the event it turned out to be a hairbrush, and with it she began preening
herself in lengthy strokes.  While doing so, and with all the indifference of
an offended cat, she quoted me her rates.

I was fortunate, word
had it, to be securing the services of such a first class domestic.  The word,
mind you, was coming from the domestic herself.  I also learned that because I
was domiciled in a railway station, in particular Upshott station, I ought to
view Miss Blake’s engagement as a very special favour.

“Oh yes, I refused to do
things for Stationmaster Mildenhew,” she revealed groggily, as if he had been a
devil worshipper.  “Yer see, trains frights I.  This station frights I.  But I
came ’ere because Mr Milsom be a very persuasive gent.  He begged me on your
behalf, Mr Jay.”

Humphrey’s silver
eyebrows drew together sharply, suggesting this was something of an
exaggeration.

“Your trepidation is not
unique, Miss Blake,” I consoled the spinster.  “Many people are still
frightened of trains.  There are even scholars who believe that we shall one
day discover a dreadful medical side-effect from travelling so fast.  There are
folk who believe that railway tickets spread diseases, and that passing through
damp tunnels causes rheumatism.  Why, I once met a clergyman who insisted that
it is only the fury of demons trapped inside the boiler of a steam engine that
makes the machine work at all.  Imagine that!  Modern industry based upon the
roasting of devils until they are forced to escape by turning a wheel.  Mind
you, if this is so, then the more stubborn demons would appear to become so
enraged by the imposition that they prefer to explode their way out of the
vessel rather than cooperate.”

Miss Blake flinched. 
The thought of a boiler bursting with evil did not amuse her.  Consequently I
adjusted my smile to indicate that I was teasing.

“Luckily such ignorance
is no longer widespread,” I recanted before succumbing to further mischief. 
“But then, who is to say what like of salamander breeds in the heat of these
machines?”

Discovering that I had succumbed
after all and gone too far with my clumsy wit, I held my tongue at last.  Miss
Blake’s face had distorted badly, as if observed through a goldfish bowl.  She
flicked a speck of dust from my tunic and said gravely:

“Oh don’t, Mr Jay.  ’Tis
not ’at which frights I, ’tis ’ere.  ’Tis Upshott station.”

I hastened to assure
Miss Blake that my station was harmless, then quickly diverted the conversation
to the matter of her hours and scope of duties.  The details settled, Miss
Blake left hurriedly by Stoney Way.

Humphrey took my arm to
speak confidentially.

“Sir,” he opened.  “Have
e had no enquiries on a puppy-dog?”

“No,” I replied.

“I thinks e will, then. 
Someone must be missin’ the critter, for her fell from a train window early
this mornin’.  Diggory rescued the hound and found her well enough after the
ordeal but the hungry blighter’s been drinkin’ water and eatin’ buns without
end.  Diggory don’t have time for to be runnin’ to the village to fetch buns
for a stray dog, and at a penny-ha’penny a piece I can’t afford to be sendin’
him.”

I halted the porter.

“From which train did
the dog fall?” I asked.

“The rascal flew out of
the empty circus special on her way up to Blodcaster,” he replied.

“That was over six hours
ago, Humphrey.  Have there been no enquiries?”

“Tis what I be askin’ e,
Mr Jay.  The telegraph were chatterin’ like a crocodile with the shivers but e
weren’t around to decipher it so I don’t rightly know,” he complained.

I had no wish to see the
puppy for myself so I instructed Humphrey to deal with the matter.

“If someone has reported
the dog missing then it will have been the stationmaster of Blodcaster trying
to reach me,” I reasoned.  “Having failed to do so he will doubtless instruct
the Guard of the Brewer’s train to pass on the message.  Now, Humphrey, when
the Brewer’s goods returns from Blodcaster at Five o’ Clock, have a quiet word
with the Guard.  If he bears no such message then I suggest you put the hapless
hound aboard for Giddiford with a note to Head Office.  If the owner cannot be
found, the company veterinary surgeon will be called upon to destroy the
canine.  Sadly this is the most likely outcome so I suggest you take a saucer
of ale to the doomed creature.”

“Shall I fetch him a
cigar too?” Humphrey asked.

“This would not be the
first time a member of the public has used a train window to dispose of an
unwanted item,” I commented solemnly.  “Now be sure to carry out my
instructions, Humphrey.  Diggory has been taxing me on the subject of a station
dog lately but I perceive no need of one.”

“Neither do I,” Humphrey
agreed.  “With Goods shed rats gnawing darn great holes in our sacks, I reckons
it’s a cat we need.”

A while later I was
watching Snimple paste a new LSWR excursion poster to a billboard, ensuring
that he did not crease it, when I chanced to see Mrs Smith alighting a trap
beyond the forecourt.  She was wearing an elegant peach coloured dress, clearly
a legacy of more prosperous times, which featured a shroud of fine lace and
shoulder sashes tied at the rear with an outer skirt drawn up and supported by
a crinolette.  Be she at large in public or ensconced in her work at home,
Élise was always a joy to behold, and I imagine that she had accepted a lift
into Upshott to reduce the strain upon her purse.  Her unexpected appearance
gave me an opportunity to approach her with a suggestion so I intercepted her
as she turned for the High street.  I was greeted with a smile as warm as propriety
would allow.

“Mrs Smith,” I opened,
“I hope you will forgive me for the intrusion but I wonder if you would care to
discuss a proposition with me.”

“Of course, Mr Jay,” she
replied with hushed intrigue.  “Oh, but if it is about the coal, I suppose
Diggory forgot to thank you.  I gave him explicit instructions…”

“No, no, it is not about
the coal,” I replied as we walked towards the station.

Inspired by Miss
Macrames’ forthright approach to relationships I invited Mrs Smith to call me Horace.

“And do please call me
Élise,” she responded.  “But Horace, I hope you do not invite such informality from
my son while he is on duty.”

“The boy does not call
me Horace and I do not call him Élise,” I assured her.  “Now, Élise, if I may
make so bold, I should like you to consider a suggestion regarding your future
dwelling arrangements.”

Élise was taken aback
and slowed her pace.  I diverted briefly to congratulate Snimple upon his
efforts.  The poster was almost readable.

“Something has come to
my notice that might be of interest to you,” I began, having directed Élise
into my office and made her comfortable by way of a padded chair facing my
own.  “To come straight to the point, and I hope you will not think me
presumptuous, it has come to my attention that a vacancy exists in Upshott for
which no one but yourself would appear suitable.”

“A vacancy?” she
frowned.

“Lord Lacy, who owns the
village drapery, is having trouble finding a new manager with the necessary
business sense and understanding of fabrics,” I elucidated.  “It occurs to me
that you would make the perfect candidate.”

Taken aback still
further, Élise retreated to her thoughts before responding.  Upon returning
from her mental excursion she asked but one question.

“What remuneration does
his Lordship offer?”

“I do not know,” I
replied, knowing that her interest lay in the possibility of associated
accommodation.  “But apparently he is willing to make the upstairs stockrooms available
for domestic use if necessary.  He has done so before.  And by all accounts he
is quite desperate to restore trade.”

Élise, having at first
seemed hesitant, broke into a tentative smile.

“It would certainly
shorten Diggory’s walk to work each day,” she said.

“What say I tell his
Lordship that you are interested?” I gusted.  “It can do no harm, and it would
be no trouble to arrange, for his agent frequents my station.”

“Yes, Horace, please
do,” she agreed.  “As you say, there can be no harm investigating the
possibilities, although I must not presume that his Lordship would find my
application the most acceptable.  Perhaps he is looking for a gentleman to fill
the post.”

“He is too practical for
that, Élise,” I assured her.  “And I will happily vouchsafe your credentials should
you wish.  I can even accompany you to the interview.”

“No, Horace,” Élise
retorted anxiously.  “I am grateful to you for bringing this vacancy to my
attention but I must stand on my own two feet.  As a female candidate I shall
need to demonstrate independence of spirit.  Besides, people would talk.”

I curtailed my enthusiasm
and escorted Élise to the forecourt.  Here she took my hand gently while saying
goodbye and I felt an affinity which I dared not voice with my flawed
understanding of women, but which convinced me of the wonderful companionship
her late husband must have enjoyed.  For a man like myself, of course, there
was the more accessible Rose Macrames, should I ascend safely even to this, but
I had long resigned myself to the probability of bachelorhood.  As if to toy
with my uncertainties, fate brought Rose purposefully into view.