A Station In Life (29 page)

“Yes I can manage from
here,” I waved him away.

The boy wandered into
the darkness, sans lamp and humming a tune to himself, and I crossed my fingers
that I had not raised his hopes unduly.  So far, all I knew of the varmint
wriggling to reach my face again was that he liked buns, hog pudding and
peanuts.

Keen to make capital of
our being alone together while I dimmed the platform lamps and fantasised about
how I would have spent the Bank holiday with Élise, Mr Troke jockeyed among the
shadows for my attention.  I did my best to dismiss his attempts to draw me
into mindless gossip but the pest would not take the hint.

“I hear tell Snimple
spent Harvest Festival with that Higham girl, Mr Jay,” he badgered me, stroking
the puppy feebly.  “Do you not think the humbug is riding for a fall?”

“Snimple is no Humbug,”
I inveighed him.  “And I know more of the porter’s activities than you might
think, Mr Troke.  However, as yet I see no need to interfere.”

“She’s a scarlet woman,”
he snuffled, clearing his nose with an uncouth hoot.  “Snimple’d be better off
with the Postmaster’s daughter.”

“Good heavens, William,
what business is it of yours?” I gasped.  “Snimple will return to his senses in
his own good time, when he realises that capable young maids like Miss Peckham
do not grow on trees.  Have no doubt, he will requite her affections eventually.”

“All the same, it’s an
ill wind that doesn’t blow,” Mr Troke insisted, sorting through his keys.

I stamped my foot and
drove him a way.

“Goodnight, William,” I
called after him.  “We shall speak no more of the matter.”

Mr Troke returned
reluctantly to the shadows from which he had graduated and the smell of rancid
fish was gone.  Alone at last, I confided in my new ward.

“Upon my soul, little
fellow, I believe Miss Peckham and I both be foul of this monster they call
unrequited love.”

Back to contents page

Chapter
Twenty-Five —
The trouble with progress

The telegraph instructor
dismantled his dummy instrument and hailed a porter to stow it aboard the
afternoon ‘up’ train.  While the apparatus was being placed in the luggage van
the instructor retired to a First class compartment and made himself
comfortable by a window from which, no doubt, he expected me to wave him off
with ceremony.  I preferred to watch his departure from my office doorway,
relishing the fact that I would never see him again.

The four-carriage train
was scheduled to connect with a London service at Giddiford Junction and got
away smartly.  With a ball of steam curling skyward and the rear brake van
juddering violently it rumbled across Natter lane bridge and snaked over the
loop points towards Fallowfield embankment.  The crowds upon the platforms
dispersed and Élise became visible some distance away, so I waved to her.  Having
stepped off the Blodcaster train she was struggling with what looked like a
heavy picture frame and consequently did not notice my solicitation.  As I made
to assist I was diverted by the sight of black smoke rising from the track. 
Hurrying to the edge of the platform I discovered that the departing engine had
left in its wake a trail of glowing cinders, one of which had ignited an oily
sleeper and the flames looked likely to spread.  Unfortunately, by the time I
summoned Mr Troke with a bucket of sand, Élise had gone.  It seemed that she
had been assisted by Snimple, for the porter was looking very pleased with
himself.

The telegraph instructor’s
departure, though welcome, had tainted me with ambivalence, for whilst I was
elated to have passed my telegraphy test, albeit it by whisker, I was unsettled
by the expert’s parting remark that lately anyone could become a
stationmaster.  In Upshott, it seemed, even victory fetched up unease.

Taking a pinch of snuff
I concealed myself behind a crate of apothecary’s glassware and peered across a
wheel of cheese to watch the ‘up’ train recede towards Upford.  Upon its
approach to the foot crossing by Fallowfield common the driver complied with
regulations and sounded his whistle.  As ever, distance parted the resulting tuft
of steam from its toot by a good second, the toot fracturing into a string of
echoes lasting several further seconds.  This musical episode always put a
smile upon my face and thus amused I returned to my office to repair a sock
suspender that had snapped during my stroll through Upshott Wood to collect
wild flowers for a posy.

Earlier in the week,
while practising on the dummy telegraph instrument, it had occurred to me that
a second operator in the station would be beneficial, and in the belief that
the young mind is more receptive than the old I had invited Diggory to join me
in my exploration of the Morse key.  In the event, however, this young mind had
been too preoccupied with an increasingly popular scamp called ‘Spook’ to
assimilate very much.

With the company
Telegraph Officer intending to take over from the Post Office instructor and
tutor me at regular intervals by live telegraph I could no longer ignore the
receiver when it activated, and consequently it was not long before I was
sitting nervously at the apparatus trying to decipher my first signal.  Having
over the last week developed an aversion to the peculiar smell made by the equipment,
a pungent emission caused by the warming of an inductor coil insulated with a
ghastly material called shellac, I managed to decipher only a fraction of the
urgent buzzing.  However, before my wits were completely overtaken I did grasp
that the communication was coming from Headquarters and had something to do
with my disciplinary hearing, for which reason I contrived a second chance to
decipher it.  I disconnected one of the wires and interrupted the signal, a prank
which caused a spark and some random chattering from the receiver but did allow
me to ask the sender to re-transmit his message more slowly.  I told him that
his previous attempt had been so rapid that it ‘overtook’ the wires.

When the sender finally
arrived at a speed with which I could keep pace I learned that all official
complaints against me had been dropped, the poisonous dwarf having withdrawn
his troops.  So my progress at the Morse key was such now that if a signal was
transmitted slowly enough I could transcribe it, even one peppered with
personal abuse.  Although, soon afterwards I received a second signal, a
somewhat longer one from the South Exmoor’s Telegraph officer, and it did not
go especially well.  This was my first live tutorial and as a post script to
the lesson the officer commented that it was people like me who had compelled
the company to consider installing a variable current circuit.  This was the
foolproof ‘alphabetical’ system which the Post Office instructor had denounced
as retrograde.  Before I could marshal my dots and dashes to learn more of this
cheering development the officer signed off, the apparatus fell silent, and I
was left squirming with uncertainty.

Consulting Humphrey, who
was himself a telegraph receiver connected to the rumour circuit, I learned
that my tutor had been up before the Board to answer allegations of equipment
misuse.  Apparently he had conducted some kind of illegal experiment using the
Giddiford-to-Widdlecombe earth-return wire, pray do not ask me what, and now
faced dismissal and possible legal action by the General Post Office. 
Surprised that I was receiving tuition from a discredited member of staff I
asked Humphrey why the fellow had not been suspended from duty pending the
outcome of an enquiry, and was told that the officer’s duties were of such a
technical nature that no replacement could be found at short notice.

As coincidence would
have it, Jack Wheeler approached us with a snippet of news bearing uncanny
relevance to telegraphy.  He was brandishing a discarded copy of The Times and
pointed to an illustration describing a new communications marvel that required
no training at all to operate.  The invention, called the ‘speaking telegraph’
had apparently been demonstrated in America by way of a human voice being
forced down a short length of wire!  Humphrey found all scientific experiments
disturbing but I was more disappointed than discombobulated, for even as a
Morse code dunce I found the idea of talking through a wire improbable.  Yet,
for many people in these times, electricity and magnetism were steeped in
mystery.  Promises were made that one day electricity would be able to cure
diseases, induce mental telepathy, and even safely produce daylight.  It
occurred to me that scientists were empowering the unscrupulous salesman most
dangerously.

With Élise heading
purposefully in our direction I excused myself and struck away to meet her. 
Jack returned to his duties but for some reason Humphrey adhered to me.  Élise greeted
me with disappointing formality.

“I have been meaning to
thank you for the coal, Mr Jay,” she said.  “Salvaging it was perilous, I
hear.”

“Not at all, Mrs Smith,”
I breezed, not wishing to aggrandise myself.  “Coal loses volatility when it is
exposed to the elements, you know, so if we are to avoid waste we must be prompt
with its disposal.”

“Oh, I did not know
that,” she answered.  There was a hint of disappointment.

Wondering if I had
blundered, and that she was disillusioned to be just one convenient recipient
among many, I fell silent.  She turned from me briefly to greet Humphrey with a
polite smile.

“Nevertheless we are
very grateful, Mr Jay,” she advised me.  “No doubt Diggory has told you that we
must remain in our draughty old cottage until the New year.  Widdlecombe will
be our home for a while longer yet, which leaves us in much need of the extra
fuel.”

“E’ll need plenty of
coal to last out the comin’ winter, ma’am,” Humphrey warned, the accuracy of
his weather predictions being famed in the district.

“Is there a delay at the
shop?” I enquired, signalling the porter to go away.

“Everything is fine,”
she replied stiffly.  “His Lordship’s agent is acquainting me with the business
and its suppliers, but the rooms above the shop have yet to be cleared out. 
Much neglected stock remains to be examined and sorted.”

Stifled by formality I
tipped my hat and fell silent again.  After a few seconds, Humphrey startled us
both with a chuckle.

“Arr, that be
excellent,” he gusted.

Clearly something was
bothering the porter but he was reluctant to voice it, and with my attempts to
lift our conversation from the doldrums proving ineffective I sensed that Élise
was concluding our conversation with a view to parting company.  Humphrey,
determined to keep us together, coughed abruptly and startled us both a second
time.  It was such a disingenuous outburst that Élise and I renewed eye contact
in exploration of each other’s response to it.

“I wanted to thank you
earlier for the coal, Mr Jay, but you were with a rather important looking
gentleman boarding the Giddiford train,” she apprised me hurriedly lest we both
speak at once.  “Anyway,” she added, “I was preoccupied with a sewing frame for
the shop.”

Humphrey took it upon
himself to reply in my place.

“Yes, ma’am,” he
chortled.  “That important gent were the telegraph instructor all the way from
the Post Office in Exeter.”

“How is the shop coming
along?” I asked Élise, unaware that I was repeating myself.

“You are very kind to
enquire, Mr Jay,” she responded neutrally.

Our cocoon of formality
seemed unbreakable and I wondered if my magnificent belle in white lace would
ever call me Horace again.  Certainly I would not find out with Humphrey
present, so in an attempt to be rid of him I asked if he had duties to perform
elsewhere.  The porter did not reply.  Instead, and without prompting, he took
it upon himself to recount my escapade with the voluptuous Miss Macrames.  I
thought I should not survive the embarrassment.

“Our new stationmaster
here just had a lucky escape, ma’am,” he began with inappropriate joviality.  “We
were a gettin’ numerous complaints about his bad conduct, e see.”

“Yes, Humphrey, I
think…”

“Only they all turned
out to be bogus, ma’am,” he put in quickly.  “E see, they were bein’ drummed up
by a dishonest businessman in Blodcaster.”

Mrs Smith reeled with
astonishment.

“Goodness me!  Why on
earth would anyone do such a thing?” she gasped.

Before I could explain,
Humphrey resumed the exposé.

“Arr, that be the crux
of the matter, Mrs Smith,” he wheezed.  “It turned out the blighter were after
keepin’ his missus from a leavin’ him, e see.  She be what they calls a siren. 
They tells I it be a regular pantomime over at Fleckford.  The woman sinks her sinful
claws into every gent who can offer refuge, and her husband discredits them to
get her back.  This time she tried to snare our Mr Jay, but bein’ no fool he
slipped the net.  Mr Jay saw through her feminine wiles and sent her a
packin’.”

“Horace, it must have
been a dreadful experience,” Élise sympathised with an outstretched arm.

Humphrey bulged with satisfaction
while I shrank with shame to have fallen prey to such artful titillations.

“Mr Milsom sells himself
short,” I owned up reluctantly.  “In truth I have this splendid fellow and another
colleague to thank for my deliverance.  Left to my own devices I should have
been hoodwinked.”

“I cannot believe that,”
Élise reproved me softly.  “Anyway, Horace, I am glad that all has turned out
well.  Now, if you will excuse me, I must make haste to the shop for there is
still much to do.”

I tipped my hat to the lovely
lady, who had pleased me by calling me Horace again, and she smiled back
warmly.  Her purposeful walk towards the High street captivated me, as ever,
with its flowing elegance and I issued Humphrey a knowing nod.

In the languid afternoon
air I drifted about the station and fidgeted hopelessly, it being in this
dilatory state that I tried to absorb the details of a memorandum from
Headquarters advising all stationmasters of the imminent upgrading of our
traffic control system to staff-and-ticket.  This necessitated changes to most
of the signalling arrangements with the division of the railway into two
further block sections.  Giddiford-to-Widdlecombe was to become a section in
its own right, and likewise Busy Linton-to-Blodcaster.  The details were difficult
for a lovelorn fidget to absorb and my eye preferred to dwell upon my letter of
exoneration from the Company secretary which stated that my disciplinary
hearing had been cancelled.  The original summons had been stamped ‘NFA’ to
indicate ‘No Further Action’ and it lifted from my mind a terrible weight.

Shaking off my euphoria I
set about explaining the technicalities of staff-and-ticket operation to all
the railwaymen in my charge and I knew that some of them would understand the
theory more readily than others.  Having freshened up I summoned Jack Wheeler
and Ivor Hales to my office.  Both men had both been employed previously on
staff-and-ticket worked lines and consequently required only an outline of the
new block sections to complete their knowledge.  Everyone else, bar one, came
to understand the
modus operandi
of the system after carefully
formulated instruction.  Tom Turner was the exception, of course.