A Station In Life (32 page)

The Guard’s scepticism
was well founded, for the labourers’ Herculean efforts soon slowed with fatigue,
their progress stalling about halfway through the maw they were creating. 
Wondering if I could help, and noticing that the snow had settled thinner on
the leeward side of the train, I dropped to the ballast to speak with Driver
Hiscox.

My walk to the
locomotive was flanked tightly by carriage wheels and a precipitous slope above
an anonymously gurgling watercourse.  Indeed this route proved more hazardous
than the one taken by the labourers, for as I approached the engine I lost
footing and slithered like a wet fish towards the hidden drainage ditch.  Bracing
myself to smash into its ice capped ravine I yodelled with horror, but managed
to halt my descent by placing my foot in a badger scrape.  Hiscox looked out of
his cab and shook his head at my ungainly flailing.

Reaching the driver I
found him standing atop the snowplough, a cast-iron latticework bolted to the
locomotive’s buffer beam, issuing new instructions to the workmen.

“At this rate we shall be
here until Judgement day, so I suggest we dig a narrow channel about the width
of one man,” he advised the foreman from his makeshift podium.

The navvies misunderstood
this proposal and became disgruntled, taking it to mean that the remainder of
the journey was to be walked.  Hiscox clarified his meaning.

“If I come into the
channel hard enough I can smash the rest of the snow aside,” he bellowed with a
fierce gesticulation.

Viable or not, the idea
rallied the men and they hurried their refreshments to resume work.  Assisted
by a fairy-tale array of lamps glimmering in the glaucous light, their
silhouettes faded quickly into the frigid white walls of their workplace where
the hours muffled their shouting.  Eventually the sound of their toil vied not
even with the whisper of an idle steam engine.

Despite this renewed activity
my optimism faltered, for it seemed to me that a valley cloaked to complete
anonymity would present the Mail crew with far greater challenges than this
between here and Giddiford.  Our grand little railway, despite all its
purposeful contours, had been buried beneath fallen sails and in response could
field just one small steam engine.  Though this doughty little locomotive did
make a bold contrast to nature’s colourless onslaught, enshrouding itself in
steam occasionally as if to survive by camouflage, it amounted to a forlorn
statement of intent.

As the navvies continued
to apply their shovels in search of the company’s metals, their progress hidden
beyond the blizzard’s tall curtain, I wondered what preparations would be wise
should we be stranded here.  Keeping warm being my chief concern, and finding
myself alone with the driver, I sought permission to put Élise aboard the
footplate.  The cab of a tank engine being small, I doubted this would be
granted but to my surprise the driver allowed both Élise and myself to join him
as long as we did not obstruct his work.  Impatient to impart the good news I
made my way back to the van, stopping about halfway to look back at our British
bulldog.  There it was, standing upon lost rails, steadfastly shrugging off the
storm’s trill agitations, too obstinate to quit and too vibrant to be frosted, and
I prayed that its ability to make slush of all the snow that drifted beneath it
would deliver us safely to Widdlecombe.

“Driver Hiscox has
invited us aboard the footplate,” I told Élise.  “However, he must first plough
the snowdrift, which will give the wagons a very rough ride so I suggest we
alight and observe events from the lineside.”

Élise’s face shrank with
concern.

“Can he not uncouple us
from the engine and leave us here?” she asked.

Before I could answer,
Diggory taxed me with a question of his own.

“Can I go on the
footplate instead, Mr Jay?”

I answered them in turn.

“It is a matter of
momentum,” I told Élise.  “And you, young man, must remain here to pacify
Spook.  He is too inquisitive to take outside so you must stay aboard and
comfort him during the impact.”

The boy became sullen,
for he was missing an opportunity to ride a locomotive, and in very dramatic
circumstances.

I assisted Élise from
the Mail van, the descent involving prolonged but gentlemanly contact, and was
equally pleased by an arm-in-arm walk along the lineside to Briggs.  As Upford
cutting was not yet open for the charge, Hiscox invited us aboard the
locomotive immediately.  Élise’s apprehension at having to climb the engine’s
vertical step-plates was soon forgotten when she reached the searing yawn of
the firebox.  Its twisting flames mesmerised her instantly.

“I may have been a
farrier’s wife but I have never seen a fire like this one,” she remarked above
its welcoming roar.

The brittle wilderness outside
forgotten, I reflected how fitting it was that we should harness the power of boiling
water to combat ice, but with only trivial conversation to offer I soon became uneasy. 
I interrupted Élise’s wondrous gaze at the engine’s valves and gauges to express
my embarrassment.

“I shall assist the
navvies,” I declared abruptly, “As an able body I cannot stand idle in such circumstances.”

Receiving a series of cautions
from Élise I stepped down and stumbled into the blizzard, soon to be invited by
two brawny men to dispose of snow loosened from the workface.  It was back-breaking
work with compacted ice underfoot threatening my balance at every step, the
loaded shovel becoming heavier with each wield, but here at the mouth of the
slit trench was where I worked until my extremities seized with cramp.  My only
comfort during this time was to look back at the engine periodically and
reflect that my new companion, the lovely Élise, was safe and warm.

Bent over a drainage
ditch, discharging what I prayed would be my last slab of snow, l noticed Élise
standing alongside Briggs, Hiscox having ejected her in preparation for the assault. 
The engine was now a beast snorting with impatience, the light of its igneous
belly making volcanic embers of the falling snowflakes.  Soon I would discover
what like of Christmas I had in store.  Would it be shared with Élise in the
comforts of her cottage or a mob of strangers huddled together amid frozen desolation?

Proud to have done my
bit, I returned to my travelling companion.  Nearby, Hiscox and Jones were
sprinkling sand upon the rails.  Here, the footplate deck was at eye level and
the glowing fire-hole continued to entrance Élise, as if by this faithful observance
she might continue to keep warm.  After stamping my feet to detach heavy clods
of snow from my boots I suggested that she warm her hands upon one of the
engine’s many pipes, and applied my own hands to demonstrate.  The nodules of
snow dangling from my gloves caused her much amusement.

“Horace, you are
decorated for Christmas,” she giggled most uncharacteristically.

Élise laid her gloved
hands upon mine and unwittingly created an indelible moment in my soul, engraving
forever her charming presence.  Her rubescent smile in the dancing rosebuds of
light beneath that furiously speckled sky, as green as an ocean, filled me with
the realisation that I was falling in love.

The eight workmen filed
past us on their way back to the Mail van and Hiscox beckoned his mate to the
footplate.  With the snow-plough charge about to commence I prayed that a path
could be struck through to the viaduct, this guaranteeing the train’s
penetration at least as far as Widdlecombe.  As we watched Hiscox release the
handbrake and grasp the regulator with determination set upon his face, Élise’s
excitement collapsed to shivers and I placed my overcoat around her shoulders.

Now shivering myself, I was
treated to Fireman Jones’s recollection of a disastrous misadventure while
assisting Driver MacGregor in similar circumstances some years ago.  Apparently
the Scotchman had attempted to ram through a snowdrift a few miles south of
Blodcaster.

“Leapacott cutting, it
was,” the Welshman expanded with questionable timing.  “These Beattie engines
are just too light for such antics.  The snow knocked Lacy right off the
rails.”

Driver Hiscox, possessing
greater skills than MacGregor and in no mood for conversation, told us to
ignore the tale of horror and stand back.  I placed my arm around Élise for
support as Briggs’s cylinders filled with steam, for I could only imagine her
discomfort wearing dainty, lace-up shoes.  My own toes were numb even inside
the fur lining of mid-calf boots.

At first the engine
slipped and chugged with the frenzy of a weaving loom, the close proximity of
its wheels making Élise dizzy, then it gained traction and fell calm, advancing
gradually onto the sand that had been laid before it.  As the engine gathered
speed its rapidly hastening exhaust blasted the falling snow back into the air
as if reversing the blizzard, and its enraged fire dyed all our surroundings
yellow.

Élise and I marvelled at
how quickly Hiscox was able to coax his battering ram to a swift pace, its red
tail lamp having hurtled past us to become a distant glimmer in the dark.  Soon
only the tap of wheels attested to the train’s proximity, and thus were Élise
and I left alone together on the moor, in total darkness, blinded by snow and
expecting to hear a collision.  Such circumstances I could never have predicted,
but I felt sure that Élise would find it less stressful at the lineside than
aboard a battering ram, even if her doting escort had forgotten to bring a
lantern.

A thud followed by a
grumbling roar conjured scenes of carnage in the imagination and caused Élise
to squeeze my hand.  Indeed, her foreboding was so great that she took to my
shoulder and kept her face buried there until the roar had subsided.  This was
followed by such a profound and disturbing wake of silence that, quite
unwittingly, I stopped breathing.  Undignified panting followed when the rear
lamp of the train pricked the darkness again, and by the time the ensemble of
wagons had reversed out of the cutting and was fully visible through the storm’s
bleak cascades, a wolf-like howl had risen from somewhere nearby and was causing
us concern.

The hilarity of
discovering that the howl was coming from Spook in the Guard’s van where
Diggory had abandoned him took Élise first.  Then I succumbed.  The boy,
staring out from the veranda, was patinated with dislodged snow and looked like
a hoary phantom with bulging eyes.

“It is a ghost train!” I
warned.

“But the ghost looks
more terrified than us,” Élise observed.

“Then he has seen the
Beast of Exmoor,” I riposted clumsily.

Hiscox halted his engine
alongside us and shook his head from the cab.

“She fell short, but
we’ll try again,” he said.

A steadfast column of
smoke and steam rose energetically from Brigg’s tall chimney once more as the
driver took the regulator for his second sprint into obscurity.  From this
attempt came an equally ominous roar but one not followed by silence.  Instead,
a whoosh and squealing brakes rippled through the relentlessly falling snow.  This
I took to be Briggs bursting out of the snowdrift at the far end of the cutting
with velocity to spare, a suspicion confirmed by a prolonged whistle of triumph
heard faintly beyond the hill.  Then Élise cast doubt upon my reasoning.

“Perhaps Briggs has
derailed and Mr Hiscox is calling for assistance,” she ventured.

This seemed disagreeably
likely so I steeled myself for a possible rescue operation.  My heart thumping,
I convulsed with relief when I heard a series of jovial toots and saw the train
clattering into view again.  The engine set back alongside us and we were
invited aboard the footplate to resume our journey.  Not knowing that the
‘beast of Exmoor’ was apocryphal, Élise climbed the ladder with little of her
former caution.

Such a triumph, I felt,
merited a small celebration so I retrieved my walking stick from a corner of
the cab and surprised everyone with the revelation.  With the engine lolloping
from side-to-side upon ice encrusted rails I unscrewed the cap of what was
actually a tippling stick and charged it carefully with brandy for Élise.  This
she accepted with scant persuasion and insisted that I refill the cap afterwards
for Driver Hiscox.  He, having paused the engine to take a nip, returned the
empty to Élise who then forwarded it to me to recharge.  The last drop, it
seemed, was to go to Fireman Jones who tipped the lot down his throat in one go. 
None being left for me, I propped my stick in a corner of the cab again and
warmed my cockles on gratitude.

As we resumed our
cautious advance through the cutting the engine’s acrid effluvium clung to us like
molasses in the descending clouds of snow, swirling into the cab nauseously.  It
was Élise who suffered most in the bronchial fog, for railwaymen were adjusted
to such conditions.  I helped her lean from the cab in search of fresh air but with
torrents of sulphur flowing between closely flanking walls of ice, little
respite could be found.  So bad was it that I wondered if Briggs was haemorrhaging
its vital energy after such rough treatment, but Hiscox explained that he had
opened two of the cocks to keep the cylinders warm.

Typically of Élise,
despite her distress she now became concerned for Diggory.  I leaned from the
cab again, this time to inspect the condition of the Guard’s van, and was
astonished by the depth of snow that had accumulated upon the carriage roofs.  Nevertheless,
with smoke still emitting from the Guard’s stove-pipe and the lad maintaining
his vigil from the veranda I assured her that he was actually having the time
of his life.