A Station In Life (22 page)

“Come, come,” I chaffed
her.  “I tell you there is nothing abroad in Upshott this day.  You may rest
assured of it.  Your imagination is playing tricks, Miss Blake.  In my time here
I have experienced nothing save the creaks and groans of any building this
size.”  I turned away and muttered under my breath.  “Why have you done this to
me, Humphrey?”

Miss Blake overheard my
private lamentation.

“Beg yer pardon, Mr
Jay?” she asked.

Before I could invent an
answer, she twitched violently.

“Hear that?” she jumped.

“No,” I replied, disturbed
by the frailty of my voice.

“I ’eard somethin’, Mr
Jay.  I tell you I did.”

“And I say you did not,”
I retorted.

Truth to tell, Miss
Blake had indeed heard something, for I had heard it too.  Neither a creak nor
a groan, it was more of a bump.  Unlike Miss Blake, however, I chose to dismiss
the sound as meaningless.

“You heard Mr Phillips
going home for the night,” I insisted.  “That is all.  The clerk is inclined to
slam his door at the end of a bad day.”

As I was the one who
slept alone in the station house each night I preferred this explanation, even
though it failed to match the facts.  I could not allow this insufferable woman
to poison my judgement and have me sitting up all night armed with a
truncheon.  With a wave of my hand I discharged her early so that I might
forget the matter.

“Twern’t Mr Phillips
goin’ ’ome,” the scaremonger advised me, donning her shawl.  “The gentleman
left five-and-twenty minutes ago.”

“If this station is
haunted,” I erupted, “then why have I heard nothing peculiar before?”

“Tis my return,” she
speculated with a quaver.  “Things are attracted to I, sir.  Things that can’t
get through to normal folk.  Sometimes I think a soul is a callin’ I from
limbo; a repentant soul awaitin’ a Christian burial.”

“Miss Blake, I crave
that in future you do not talk of evil spirits,” I instructed her firmly. 
Having dealt with the matter I flipped open my snuffbox and placed a small
pinch upon the back of my hand.  “Anyway,” I said after a long sniff, “if there
is an evil spirit calling you, it must be doing so from within a locomotive
boiler.  And if by being trapped there it is making restitution for its evil
ways, by powering one of our trains, then I would rather you left it alone.”  I
chuckled coldly.  “Should we have a locomotive failure then you will be called
upon quickly enough to stir new life in the machine.  What do you say to that,
eh?”

I closed my snuffbox
with a loud snap and waited for my witticism to register.  This it appeared to
do nicely, for Miss Blake cackled like a duck.  Unfortunately it soon became
apparent that she had not heard one word of my quip, and that her cackling was
not laughter.  Indeed no.  The spinster had heard another of her unaccountable
noises and become hysterical.

While aiding her
recovery with a chair and a tumbler of water my policy of denial suffered a further
setback.  The woman’s voice deepened with a most peculiar energy and her thin
lips knitted a dire warning.

“Mr Jay, can yer not
feel it?  Somethin’ is arisin’ and we must be prepared ter face it.”

“I think not,” I
riposted, my voice now thinner than hers.

“Truly, sir, I think my
comin’ ’ere is a causin’ unrest,” she droned.

At last, this was something
about which we could agree.

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Chapter
Nineteen —
Perpetual something or other

The following day, about
Noon, I was patrolling Platform One pondering Miss Blake’s macabre tale when
the signalman came by.  This Saturday, Ivor was on half day leave and he had
transferred control of the signalbox to a relief switchman from Giddiford. 
Ivor was wearing green corduroys and carrying a tartan blanket under his arm, a
sure sign that he was off to Upshott hill to picnic with his family.  I
beckoned him to the shade beneath the platform canopy and set about testing the
authenticity of Miss Blake’s story.

Convinced that Mr Hales
would expose it as humbug or perhaps a long standing joke I discharged the
details with some levity and a barely restrained smirk, afterwards folding my
arms affectedly in anticipation of his equally sceptical reply.

“That’s about the length
of it, Mr Jay,” he concurred with a heavy frown.

In sheer surprise I
lowered my arms and my jaw, and gaped at him.  He laughed self-consciously.

“But these events took
place well before my time here,” he elucidated.  “Have a word with Humphrey. 
Humphrey knows all about the curse.”

“Curse?” I retorted.  “Who
said anything about a curse?  This is Devonshire, not darkest Africa.  Surely
you do not give credence to such nonsense, Ivor.”

Ivor smiled
enigmatically and stroked his zigzag whiskers.  I sniffed.  The fellow seemed
ever to smell of bluebells, which I believe came from the metal polish that he
applied to his signalling instruments.  He eyed me reservedly and grunted
neutrally.  I eyed him cautiously and grunted angrily.

“It has come to a pretty
pass when a man of your substance believes the nonsense of the half-conscious,”
I chided the fellow.  “I had expected you, of all people, to pour scorn upon
this ridiculous ghost story.”

I had been reminded yet
again that education does not always unshackle a country fellow from his
superstitions.  I was also reminded that even when it fails in all else, education
can sharpen the wit, so I studied my colleague carefully to see if he was
baiting me.  Frankly, I could not tell.

“It doesn’t signify, Mr
Jay,” Ivor assured me pithily.  “Folk believe what they will.  Nevertheless, an
Upshott stationmaster has yet to last more than twelve months, so something
must be wrong.”

“Just so,” I concurred
briskly, referring to the first part of his observation.  A pensive mood
overtook me when the second registered.  “Twelve months?” I queried him.

Ivor confirmed this
disturbing new fact and fell to a dead-eyed gaze.

“Come now,” I chuckled. 
“You shall have to do better than this to frighten me.”

The signalman grimaced,
adjusted his woollen cravat, and left.  I grimaced, adjusted my thoughts and
retreated to the space under my hat which, by now, was a warren of ugly
speculations.

I decided to take Mr
Hales’s advice and consult Humphrey.  Humphrey’s was the voice of sanity
hereabouts and if he knew of the curse then, by the same token, he would also
know that it was a myth.  Unfortunately the porter was another of my staff who had
finished early and by now would be walking home across the downs.  Humphrey
lived a mile or so south of Busy Linton on a smallholding managed by his two
sons, and in good weather he would stretch his legs rather than ride the
coach.  Imagine my relief, then, to see him standing upon the forecourt waiting
for the omnibus.

“Mr Milsom!” I called
anxiously, striding towards the fellow.  A number of heads turned to see such
indecorum, and so to restore calm I slackened my pace and returned bland
smiles.  Upon reaching the porter I observed that my conduct was still under
scrutiny so I furthered my composure by engaging the porter in a conversational
trifle.  “I see you have been shopping, Humphrey,” I boomed casually.  “Too
much to carry over the hill?”

This was a mistake.  Humphrey
was so flattered that I should find time to make small talk with him that he
unleashed upon me the grinding details of his every purchase.  His heavy bag
had been badly packed and was bulging in all directions.  Suddenly it was open
and I was invited to inspect its contents.

“Look, Mr Jay, I’ve some
Horniman tea in one of them ingenious new packets where they puts a vacuum
inside to take up the spare space,” he said.  “Though, frankly, it be beyond me
why they does such a thing.  If a vacuum be nothin’ then how does her stop the
tea goin’ mouldy, and why does her cost extra?  T’aint cheap either, at
sevenpence-ha’penny per quarter, but the misses gets this’n because it keeps
fresh until we has company.  And talking of the misses, look here, I’ve a
tuppeny bunch of violets for to sweeten her.  The misses always rounds on me, e
see, for buyin’ a wrong’n.  But her list do say flour, umbles, and a Cornish
mackerel from Cubitt’s.  Personally, I always reckons on pilchards myself…”

“Yes, yes, indeed.  Most
laudable, Humphrey,” I interrupted.  “Now, what’s this I hear about a cur…”

“Course, I does my best
at this shoppin’ lark, Mr Jay,” Humphrey resumed.  “But rightly it be women’s
doin’s.  I can’t be holdin’ with all this idle gossip, e see.  Never been one
for standin’ in shop doorways chinwaggin’ about what Mrs Smicker be up to, or
the price of black-leadin’ and pumice stone.”

“Or standing in station
doorways chin-wagging about the contents of a shopping bag, eh?” I teased the
fellow.

Humphrey did not hear
me.  He was rummaging again.

“Want e a piece of
gingerbread, Mr Jay?”

“No thank you,” I rattled. 
“I would rather you told me more about this spinster woman you have loosed upon
me, Humphrey.  She is most unnatural and sets my teeth on edge with tales of
human remains.  Why, she claims to be responsible for the discovery of a burial
site beneath this station.  Do you substantiate her claim?”

Humphrey closed his
shopping bag furtively and studied the sky.

“Well?” I barked.

“They tells I she be an
epicurean cook,” he commented evasively.

“And what is all this
about a curse, Humphrey?” I enquired with a heavy heart.

My Senior porter was not
a slippery fellow by nature but clearly he was squirming to avoid this
particular subject.

“Hey ho, Mr Jay, I see
your eye’s healed up nicely.”

The bruise had long gone. 
I dealt him the squint of an inquisitor.

“Humphrey, is there a
curse upon this station?” I persisted.  “Speak up, fellow.  You shall not scare
me with it.  I do not believe in such flapdoodle.”

“Then why be e askin’?”
the porter turned on me with a face of stone.

I shivered.

A whip cracked in Natter
lane and Humphrey responded with exaggerated excitement.

“Here her comes!” he
chortled joyously.

At sight of a four-horse
omnibus clattering over the cobbles I gave up the inquisition.  The bus turned
sharply into the station forecourt, slid to rest on the gravel outside the
Booking hall entrance, and brought to an abrupt end my Senior porter’s invented
mirth.  With his face humourless again, he stepped out from beneath the station
awning and handed his bag to the driver.  The driver lifted the hemp
monstrosity to the roof and placed it between the legs of a platelayer who was
sharing a cheap seat with two others.

“T’is daft to see
railway employees usin’ a rival mode of transport like this,” the porter complained
as he opened a door.

“Feel free to wait for
the next train, Humphrey,” I invited the fellow, knowing that the Saturday
timetable had been formulated to accommodate the peregrinations of fare-paying
passengers, not company minions with free travel passes, and staff who overstayed
their hours at the station were obliged to work without pay.

The corpulent Mr Milsom
boarded the conveyance and tilted it with his weight, its shabby interior in a
trice becoming a coven of gossip.

“Have you heard the
latest, Humphrey?  A lady from Widdlecombe has taken over his Lordship’s shop,”
I heard someone say.  “Oh, really?” another replied on Humphrey’s behalf while
he settled.  “And did I mention it, my eldest is back at death’s door.  I
reckon it’s the vapours from that lime kiln again.”

I stepped back from the
tittle-tattle to think, for I was surprised by what I had just heard.  I had not
yet spoken to Lord Lacy’s land agent about Élise’s interest in the drapery.  I
returned to where my eyes met the words ‘DIE.ET.MON.DROIT’ printed across the
side of the omnibus, revealing that it had been a mail coach before the railway
usurped its business.

“Do you know the name of
the lady who has taken tenure of the fabrics shop?” I asked, addressing no one
in particular.

“I believe her name is
Smith,” someone replied from behind Humphrey.

To see him I peered
around my Senior porter, whose personal magnitude occupied the equivalent of
two seats in the tight confines of the omnibus and whose conscience appeared
untroubled by it, and saw only a monocle glinting atop a chequered waistcoat.  The
door was shut, and surrounded by resentful faces, Humphrey re-seated himself. 
Now he began mouthing words at me through the quarter-light, his efforts aided
by a peculiar sign language for which his stubby fingers were deficient. 
Unable to make sense of his gesticulations I jabbed a finger of my own at the
lowered glass.

“You may speak normally,
Humphrey, the window is open,” I mouthed back.

Realising that his
exertions were unnecessary, the porter gurgled with amusement and finished what
he was saying.

“… perpetual bad luck,
Mr Jay, but they found human remains here right enough.”

“What was that about
perpetual bad luck?” I asked.

“T’appened when they
were excavatin’ the drainage courses prior to track-laying,” Humphrey replied. 
“But bless me, Mr Jay, all else be hearsay.”

“Just a minute,” I
queried him.  “I did not quite hear what you said about perpetual bad luck,
Humphrey?”

Before the fellow could
utter another word the station wall reverberated to the crack of a whip and the
overloaded omnibus carried him away.  The bus circled the forecourt, swerved
right into Natter Lane then left into the High street, and was gone.  I shook
my head despairingly and retreated to my office.

Awaiting my signature
were Mr Hales’s Train Register and Mr Phillips’s coal receipts.  My backlog of
paperwork also included bulletins detailing the commencement of excursion
trains through Upshott.  I braced myself for many more such developments and
went into a trance thinking about them.  Since the introduction of the Bank
holiday the country’s social and religious traditions had faced a challenge. 
Working class folk were now joining the middle class in their expectations of leisure
time, albeit on a more modest scale, their excursions to the brine funded
institutionally rather than privately, and consequently huge numbers were
descending upon the sands of England’s watering resorts.  Personally I found it
uplifting to see hordes of ashen faced factory workers enjoying the freedom of
a day trip, delivered, of course, by train.  Famed for its fresh air and
fishing, Blodcaster would doubtless share in this bonanza.

One of the envelopes in
my mail pouch bore the stamp of the company Claims clerk and this I opened with
trepidation.  As expected, it was a claim against the company for damage done
to a local dignitary’s private carriage.  The carriage in question was, of
course, Squire Albury’s magnificent cabriolet, and the damage referred to was a
dog-hook gash in the bodywork and several abrasions to its felloes and spokes. 
An accompanying report paraphrased the squire’s dubiously colourful account of
a ‘misguided unloading operation’ at Bessam logging station, the reading of
which turned my stomach and flushed my face with schoolboy shame.

I was puzzled that
whilst the claim had been submitted weeks ago it was only now being dealt
with.  Equally curiously, according to the clerk’s covering letter, I was not
to be called to account over the business.  A footnote revealed all.  It appeared
that, fortunately for me, Squire Albury had no friends on the South Exmoor
railway and in the words of the Claims clerk was ‘wont to complain rather too
freely’.  Therefore the claim had been regarded as at best inflated but more
probably a work of fiction, consequently the company had automatically engaged
the squire in a dispute over the figures.

After a little thought,
indeed very little thought, I decided not to disabuse the clerk of his
conviction.  Since I was required only to recall if the condition of the
cabriolet merited the squire’s outrageous bill for fettling it, I drafted an
evasive reply pointing out that any damage to the vehicle was probably incurred
upon the South Western or Metropolitan railways and that proving otherwise
would be difficult.  Expecting to be troubled no more by the matter I called
Diggory to my office for a word.

“I hear your mother has
secured tenure of Lord Lacy’s shop.  Perhaps you will convey my felicitations,
for she wastes no time in seizing an opportunity,” I opened while perusing a
letter from the company Telegraph officer, the man apparently leaving the SER
to advance himself upon the Cornwall railway.