A Station In Life (33 page)

The passage carved by
the snow-plough, being very narrow, had collapsed in places and reburied the
track, so the labourers alighted the Mail van again and preceded the engine
with pick-axes and shovels, but with glassy protrusions scraping both sides of
the train and fresh snow accumulating rapidly I observed doubt reclaiming their
faces.  When I consulted Hiscox about the situation he shocked me with a disappointing
prediction.  The Mail was now unlikely to reach Giddiford, he declared,
speculating that even the mainline with its greater resources was closed.  Our
hopes of making it to Widdlecombe thus dashed, I exchanged grimaces with
Élise.  Only Fireman Jones remained buoyant.

“Perhaps Mr Jay would
like to organise a singsong,” he proposed, his dialect so melodic that I
thought he had struck the first notes to encourage me.

My reply was bashful.

“Alas my joyless
intonations would arouse little cheer, Mr Jones.  I need to be accompanied by a
musical instrument, but alas I see no pianoforte.”

“Come now, Mr Jay, all
men are born to sing,” the Welshman persisted.

Élise came to my rescue.

“Did I tell you that I
have a harp, Horace?” she diverted the conversation.  “I used to play it all
the time, you know, but now it is broken.”

We reached out to each
other for support as Hiscox brought Briggs to a juddering halt and secured the
handbrake.  I had not noticed our exit from the cutting or the labourers’
return to the Mail van so I looked over my shoulder through the Fireman’s
window to catch up with events.  We had come to the embankment approaching the
viaduct, but of the stone structure ahead all I could see was a grey blur in
the macular darkness.  In such an exposed location the snow fell not with hushed
grace but fickle haste, its howls, shrills and raw bluster stripping away the
cosy orb of our locomotive cab without mercy.  Here the wind was funnelled by a
deep valley and agitated by the viaduct’s lofty piers, ferocious glissades
blowing both above and below the structure with gusts that could topple our little
train.  With snowflakes alternately floating like pink butterflies then
streaking through the cab horizontally I was, for the first time, afraid.

Hiscox instructed Jones
to alight the rocking engine and see if it was safe to proceed.  Humming a
lullaby to himself the Welshman complied willingly, and was all but lifted from
the iron steps by a freezing squall as he clambered towards the ground. 
Clutching a lamp, and scarcely able to remain upright, the footplateman
advanced into the tempest and vanished, leaving us to wonder if we would ever
see him again.

Not only did Jones
return, surprisingly he gave the nod to proceed, and as we crept forward it
soon became clear why he had given the go-ahead.  With an eye cast through the
Fireman’s spectacle I saw that the wind had drifted snow across the spare
track-bed while leaving only a light dusting upon the rails leeward of the
parapet, leaving our way relatively unobstructed.  Nevertheless there was still
much concern, for as we advanced high above the river Ondle a crosswind jolted
the train alarmingly and sheered snow from the carriage roofs.  Great white
slabs tumbled downwards through the haze and I prayed that none would strike a
cottage below.

This part of the
journey, taken at five miles per hour with gooseflesh arms yet legs roasting in
the radiance of the fire, was both disorientating and interminable.  It was
like crossing the sky along a metal thread, the far end of which played cruel
games of promise and denial as we crept fitfully towards safety.

When at last we left the
viaduct our train traversed the embankment into the lee of Widdlecombe hill
where the snow fell more tranquilly and I rejoiced that now at least some of us
would benefit from this venture.  Widdlecombe station, which had no
accommodation for a stationmaster, had been closed and abandoned to the
elements by Mr Caxton so Driver Hiscox brought the engine to a halt at the
‘down’ platform and instructed the labourers to assemble in the Waiting
shelter.  Standing outside with a spanner in his hand, squinting through swarms
of snowflakes, he addressed the men solemnly.

“Gentlemen, this is as
far as we go,” he announced.  “We must return to Upshott before the line is
blocked again.”

“But it’s the Mail,
guv,” the foreman complained.

Despite their fatigue,
the labourers were quick to rally to their gang-master.  It seemed to them that
disregarding their Herculean efforts so far was a betrayal, but Hiscox remained
resolute.

“Bubbingate,” he reminded
them, referring to a long and deep cutting that faced due east.

“So we’ll dig it out,”
someone argued.

“It would make no
difference if Queen Victoria herself were aboard this train,” Hiscox insisted. 
“We would be trapped there.  I’m sure you’d prefer a room in Upshott to a night
on the moor.”

“Not if it means
spending Christmas in The Shunter,” the foreman grumbled.

The rooms there were
affordable but bug infested.

“I live in Giddiford and
I’m in favour of carrying on,” someone at the back of the shelter shouted.

Hiscox pushed through
and handed the complainant his spanner, inviting him to tap the bowser with
it.  The invitation was accepted and the result was a dull clunk.  Everyone
knew what this meant.  The lack of resonance indicated solidly frozen water.

“We’ve taken too long to
get here,” Hiscox made his point.  “So either we return to Upshott without
delay or I throw out Brigg’s fire here in Widdlecombe.”

This ultimatum horrified
me and I imagined Élise’s little cottage crammed with scruffy guests.  I handed
the driver my keys quickly and invited him to make himself comfortable in my personal
quarters at Upshott.

“Your water tower, Mr
Jay…  Is it frozen?” he asked.

“Almost certainly,” I
replied, “but there is a brazier beneath it and a well filled tinderbox.”

Hiscox returned my keys
and addressed his fireman.

“Mr Jones, you and I
will share the Waiting room at Upshott,” he said.  “We must take it in turns to
mind the engine overnight.”

“I understand, sir,” Mr
Jones nodded.

I looked down at
Widdlecombe lane in the lee of the embankment and saw that it was just about
navigable.  The steep path from the station being the only worry, I borrowed a
shovel and assembled Élise, Diggory and Spook in the Waiting room along with
our bags.

Hiscox shook my hand.

“Good luck,” he said. 
“The men will clear the station path as best they can for you but I cannot give
them long.”

The path clear, I took
Élise by the arm and carried her box of documents, leaving Diggory to follow us
down the slippery slope with Spook and the bags to begin the trudge to Élise’s
cottage  Conveniently, Woodacott was located at the near end of the village and
would not take long to reach, so we paused to wave the Mail train goodbye as it
reversed away along the embankment, though I doubt anyone saw us.  Élise clung
to my arm for support again as we resumed our journey.

“First of all I shall
make you comfortable, Horace,” she advised me with a crisp tone, “then I shall
leave Diggory to entertain you, for I have much to do.”

I blessed the blizzard
for throwing us together and thanked her warmly.

“You shall have
Diggory’s room for the night, for he has agreed to sleep by the fire,” she
added.

Unless the lad was
spoiled I doubt he was given a choice, and my claim that I did not wish to cause
inconvenience was, in truth, token.  My protest was promptly overruled, of
course.

“All the arrangements
are made, Horace,” she countered me stiffly.

As we crunched through
Widdlecombe’s pristine swathes of snow we were amused by Spook’s antics, the four-legged
fellow leaping jubilantly into the air to see where he was going, and laughed together
at Diggory’s obvious joy in having such a comical new companion.

“I feel sorry for those
poor men on the train,” Élise reflected.  “Surely Mr Hiscox and Mr Jones do not
watch over their engine every night?  Do they fear someone will steal it?”

This time I laughed
alone.

“Christopher Columbus,
Élise, where would a thief take a railway locomotive?” I teased her.  “No,
there is water in its pipes.  If it freezes the locomotive will be ruined. 
South Exmoor engines have sheds in Giddiford and Blodcaster but not Upshott so
Briggs will be kept in light steam.”

“All the same, I feel
sorry for their families?” she reflected.

“Well, I do not know of
Jones’s circumstances, but Hiscox has no surviving family,” I said.  “I imagine
he will find sufficient recreation in the Lacy Arms while his workmate keeps
the chill out of Briggs’s bones.”

Sight of Woodacott half
buried in snow caused Élise to pause, though she recovered quickly and divulged
more of her festive designs.

“I have plans for that
jar of preserved plums, Horace,” she declared brightly.  “I shall sugar them
and leave them on the range overnight to dry.”

“Oh, now you have me!” I
chimed, having secretly hoped for this.  “Sugar plums for breakfast on
Christmas morning.  What more could a fool ask for?”

“Speaking for myself,”
she sighed, “I must be up at Five to prepare the goose and forcemeat stuffing.”

“Goose!  Would this be the
noisy one?” I asked, knowing that her livestock could not go with her to Upshott.

“If we have an intruder
you shall have to do the squawking yourself,” she smiled.

“I have not the lungs to
compete with any goose,” I smiled back.  “Now, Élise, I shall rise with you
tomorrow and prepare the range.  You must permit me no quarter.”

“You dare, Horace.  I
have seen how much that railway company expects of you,” she reproved me. 
“Diggory will provide all the assistance I need.  And he will begin by warming
us both with some mulled elderberry wine.”

“If you can tear him
away from that new friend of his,” I chuckled as we arrived at the cottage door.

The knocker, decorated
with a wreath of hazel and holly, shed a pine cone which embedded in the snow at
our feet.  Beating us both to the embellishment, Spook sniffed it out and promptly
ate it.  It was clear that Élise and I shared the same sense of humour; for
once again we were infecting each other with unstoppable laughter.

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Chapter
Twenty-Eight — Mistletoe
bliss

The chill in my bones
chased away by a blazing fire and a supper of pork and apple stew, I was
beckoned to my room by a shapely silhouette holding a homemade candle.  I bade Diggory
goodnight by the hearth, where he and his four-legged friend had built
themselves an encampment of blankets, and followed Élise upstairs.  The boy’s
room was little more than a cubby-hole, one corner of it filled with apples
packed in straw, the other occupied by a cot under a dormer window, access to
which would require someone of my height to bend, lunge, and wriggle sideways.

With snow compacted
against the room’s little window I wondered how I should recognise dawn when it
came, especially as my bones ached so much from my exertions that I doubted my
ability to wake up ever again once asleep.  The centrepiece of the room, if a
claustrophobic den such as this required one, was a decorative china washbowl
and ewer which clearly had been relocated from elsewhere, the ensemble being
perched precariously upon a magnificent three-legged table which I assumed had
survived from more prosperous times.

I availed myself of the
fresh soap and towel that Élise had set out for me then embarked upon the
contortions necessary to reach my pillow.  I have to say that the bed was
surprisingly comfortable once a serpentine repose was assumed, better than my
own in fact, and the day having been so long and arduous I slept like a drunken
cherub from the moment I closed my eyes in this cluttered cloister among the
rafters.  At first I dreamed of snow, mountains of snow, and still more snow
until it all thawed in the warmth of romantic allegory.

Christmas morning I was woken
abruptly by silence.  Something was wrong.  My drowsy haze was not encroached
upon by clattering doors as Jack Wheeler unlocked the station, or the operatic
boom of Mr Phillips borrowing lyrics from freight documents, or the rumble of
coal descending the gas house chute, or telegraphic chatter resounding urgently
from the room below mine.  It was the unfamiliar ceiling that returned me to my
novel place and reminded me that I had no need to don my uniform and face
demands from every quarter.  As if alighted upon Heaven I was at my leisure, free
to spend the livelong day with my lovely Élise.  And, by Jove, it was
Christmas!

Curious about the
weather I forced open the dormer window, which dislodged a slab of snow, and
observed a Sapphire blue sky entirely devoid of clouds.  The encrusted rooftops
of Widdlecombe looked like a collapsed heap of white books, and the garden
beneath me was stippled with foot and paw prints, evidence of lengthy
frolicking.  A shimmering white column of steam condensing in the cold winter
air was rising from the kitchen window where Élise was preparing Christmas
dinner, and I realised that I had overslept.  I shaved with perilous haste,
dressed, and very nearly fell down the ladder-like steps to Diggory’s room.

I found Élise drawing
water from a squeaky old pump beneath a lean-to which served as a scullery, and
offered assistance.  She reminded me that I should rest while I had the chance,
but did ask me to hang the pail above the fire when it was full.

“Did you sleep well,
Horace?” she enquired with a note of apprehension as to my likely reply.

“Rather too well,” I confessed,
consulting my fobwatch.

Élise appeared relieved,
and as the icy water rose towards the rim of the bucket we spoke for a while of
trifles.

“I am afraid the privy
is still frozen,” she then warned me, her face wrinkling with concern as she
unhooked the shimmering pail.

“No matter,” I chirped
with my own face wrinkled, reflecting that my next trip to the cesspit with hot
water would at least be made in daylight .

As we returned to the
kitchen, the day’s snowy light bleaching it white as the plain cotton dress worn
by my hostess, an ethereal moment evolved in which I wanted to kiss her.

“Go through then,
Horace, I will bring you breakfast,” she ousted me from her path.

Realising that my
presence among the pots and pans was a hindrance, I complied, and after a short
while in the parlour she called to me.

“The plums are not ready
yet, Horace.  Will you take mushrooms?  Diggory has mushrooms.”

“Then I shall have
mushrooms too,” I replied.

Having indicated my
preference I was summoned to the kitchen unexpectedly.

“Now, Horace, you must
stir the Christmas pudding,” said Élise, directing me to a large, brown bowl
with a wooden spoon poking out of it.  “Go ahead and make a wish.  Diggory and
I have already made ours.”

I did not mention that I
have no stomach for pungent herbs and spices, and but not wishing to
disappointed Élise I braced myself against the smell of nutmeg and lemon zest
and made a wish.  This was, of course, that I should not have to eat any.

After breakfast I banked
up the fire and relaxed, as instructed, then reviewed my surroundings.  I was
compelled to congratulate Diggory upon his seasonal efforts, for he had placed a
fir tree branch in a bucket and decorated it with cornucopias and spirals of
coloured paper, and festooned the window with ivy.  The paper chains that I had
given him encircled the entire room, and around the tree lay gifts, each brightly
wrapped in marble-paper delicately secured with ribbon, further delight being
added by greetings cards embellished with flourishes of pinpricks.  My own gifts
did not appear so well, a lack of dexterity letting me down, nevertheless they
had been placed beneath the tree without prejudice.  Indeed the room was filled
with welcome, much time having been dedicated to the purpose, but mostly my
anticipation was stirred by something suspended above the door.  Sight of a
mistletoe kissing ball fabricated of wire adorned with holly berries caused me a
brief palpitation.

Later, inspired by my
observations aboard Briggs’s footplate, I went to the kitchen and stoked the
range, then all three of us settled in the parlour to open our presents.

“Diggory will be Santa,”
Élise started us off eagerly.

The lad picked the
smallest of the presents and handed it to me courteously as if returning
something I had dropped.  I read the card attached to it and learned that it
was his gift to me, so I thanked him and opened it with exaggerated intrigue. 
Inside the neat little packet was a solidified dollop of brown substance that
had obviously once been liquid, mostly shiny but partly craggy.  I effused
gratitude while trying to identify it, holding the sticky lump at arm’s length
to focus my eyes.

“Diggory made that
himself,” Élise explained proudly.  “What do you think?  Not everyone can make
toffee.”

Her point was well
demonstrated.

“How positively delightful,”
I marvelled.

Wondering if my teeth
would survive the confection I thanked the lad and placed it to one side. 
However, two steadfast stares conveyed the expectation that I would sample it
immediately so I set about breaking off a piece.  The only tool to hand that
looked stout enough to do the job was Spook’s jaw and this was very keen to
have a go, but when my endeavours came to nought I satisfied my audience by
licking the lump and declaring it very tasty.  Looking pleased with himself,
Diggory now presented another gift, this one being my untidily wrapped offering
to his mother, and although it was not a pretty sight its elongated shape
caused much intrigue and resulted in a hurried unravelling.

“Scissors!” Élise
ejaculated as the utensil twinkled among the folds of my scruffy brown paper. 
“How very observant of you, Horace.”

She held the huge fabric
scissors up to the light and tested them on the wrapping paper.

“I just hope they serve
you well,” I replied blithely.  “The gentleman in the shop insisted they are
the very best quality.  As used by London’s bespoke tailors.”

Impatient to open the
rest of the presents, Diggory thrust another at me.  I peeled away the neatly
folded marble-paper and found myself in possession of something quite
exquisite.

“I made it myself,”
Élise advised me with a confidential whisper.

“We make everything
ourselves,” Diggory grumbled.

“No we do not,” his
mother checked him swiftly.

In my hand was a
keepsake box hand lacquered to a depth of shine equal to any Japanese ornament. 
It incorporated tiny sprays of dried flowers and was utterly charming.

“Mother made it out of
old newspapers,” Diggory apprised me unnecessarily.

“Hush, Diggory, Horace
does not wish to know the details,” Élise checked him a second time.

“Ah, but the details of
its manufacture make it all the more remarkable, Élise.  It is perfectly
delightful and I shall treasure it always,” I replied.

Santa became restless
and took another gift from the pile.  As luck would have it, this one was addressed
to him.  Forgetting his manners he ripped away the dull brown paper
indecorously and tossed the detritus to Spook.  The lad’s gloomy reaction to
being given a dog collar and lead, though inflected with politeness at his
mother’s counsel, was soon undone by the accompanying letter permitting him to
exercise Spook in Upshott wood each day.  He thanked me most formally and in a
trice was gone to the garden to begin trials.

Peering through the
kitchen window at the lad a little while later, I noticed that the snow was thawing. 
About this I felt somewhat ambivalent, for I should not have minded being
stranded in Widdlecombe for a while.

Élise served Christmas
dinner, and such was her little kitchen that I thought it a work of culinary
magic and amused her by expressing pity for the less well served Squire of
Albury Hall.  To my surprise, even the spicy pudding was eupeptic, although I did
grow fearful of its long term effect.  By mid afternoon, with all the pots and
pans scrubbed and returned to their racks, we furnished ourselves with a
selection of sweetmeats and a bowl of wassail punch and settled to play games. 
The first game was a somewhat silly one called ‘Ho Ho Ho’ in which we took
turns to feign laughter until real laughter took over, the winner being the
last to succumb.  The challenge was really between Diggory and me, Élise having
collapsed with the giggles almost immediately, and after much self control I
made the lad’s face crack.  Had I noticed that his toffee was stuck to my cuff
he would have won without effort.

After this we turned the
hearth rug into a stage from which to tell jokes.  First to step up was
Diggory, which he did with such formality that Élise and I were undone at once.

“Why are clocks modest?”
he asked.

A pensive silence
followed.

“Because they always
keep their hands before their faces and run themselves down no matter how good
their works,” he declared.

Though quite amusing I
was able to topper this wisecrack.  The punch having gone to my head, I
advanced boldly to the stage and pretended to be the famous music hall clown,
Thomas Lawrence.

“Do you know, last
summer I put a large box on the pavement, filled it with soil, and sowed it
with dandelion seeds,” I trumpeted, strutting around like a dandy.  “What do
you think came up?”

“Dandelions, you fool,”
Diggory heckled me, forgetting himself.

“No, a policeman, and he
ordered me to remove it,” I delivered the punch line.

Not wishing to be
outdone, Diggory stepped forward with a second joke.  This time, before
speaking, he strutted to and fro as I had done.  I wondered what authority I
should ever have over the lad again.

“Someone asked a farmer
for a cure for apple-tree worms,” he declaimed.  “The farmer scratched his head
and replied that he couldn’t suggest one until he knew what ailed the worms.”

It had been a long time
since I enjoyed such frivolity and I looked to Élise for the next act.  She was
gazing wistfully out of the window, perhaps mindful of Christmases past.

“I fear we shall have no
carol singers this year,” she sighed, referring to conditions underfoot.

I joined her gaze.

“If the thaw continues,
the slush will clear and we might well see trains running tomorrow.  You can be
sure Mr Hiscox will try again with the mail at first light.”

“It is Christmas day,
Horace,” she reminded to me.  “And since no one will expect you to walk back to
Upshott in these treacherous conditions you must spend another night here.  Surely
you can return to your post by the first public train on Boxing Day?”

I wavered briefly then
accepted her offer.

Though delighted by the
prospect of spending more time with Élise I did remain concerned about not
returning to my station, nevertheless the greater imperative now was to forge a
lasting relationship with this woman lest the opportunity never come again.  For
as I rotated my eternity ring I felt my past misfortunes sink beneath a joyful
present and I knew that I must learn of Élise’s feelings for me.  Élise enquired
of the ring, and I hesitated to reply because it now seemed too trivial a token
for discussion and its covenant of celibacy an embarrassment.