by James Smiley
His venom discharged, the contemptuous Smethwick collected his crook and stormed off. When there was a safe distance between us I hailed him a few home truths.
“You have advanced no monies to the company, Smethwick, and I have no doubt you were warned that your ticket might be rescinded. Own up, sir. You attempted to break the law. Take your pigs and go, and next time see to it that you conduct your business while sober.”
It appeared that my last remark was a mistake. The pig breeder turned and glared at me with furious astonishment, his colour rising as quickly as Jack Wheeler’s was draining, and all in a silence so intense that I could hear the fellow’s bronchial wheeze a good twenty yards away. The farmer stuffed the nullified railway docket into his waistcoat, somewhat theatrically to demonstrate his intention to pursue the matter, then turned unsteadily towards the cattle pens. As he drove his pigs into Stoney Way I wondered what I had said to devastate him so. Mr Wheeler sidled up to me to explain.
“You shouldn’t ’ave said that, Mr Jay,” he confided ruefully. “You shouldn’t ’ave told ’im ’e was drunk.”
“Why ever not, Mr Wheeler? The scoundrel is manifestly intoxicated.”
“No ’e isn’t,” Mr Wheeler came back. “I was trying to warn you, sir. Smethwick’s got something wrong with ’is ’ead.” The clerk delivered these words with a series of compulsive winks after which his face collapsed into a slanted frown. Recovering from the seizure, he explained: “What you didn’t take into account, sir, is that Smethwick’s a twisted man. ’Is wife ran off with a master mariner.”
“Did she?,” I scoffed. “Well, who could blame her for preferring the smell of fish? Anyway, I fail to see what relevance this has to swine fever.”
“Ever since then,” Wheeler ignored me, “Squire Albury’s been trying to drive the cuckold off ’is land with unfair tithes. They say it’s made ’im demented.”
“I have to admit it is a sad tale,” I replied. “Yet still I must apply the rules.”
“Back in January, Smethwick stole some railway rope and ’ung ’imself,” Wheeler elaborated unnecessarily. “They reckon ’e would ’ave died if the rope ’ad been shorter. So he lives on.”
“This much I can see for myself,” I commented.
“Anyway, ’e weren’t drunk, Mr Jay,” the clerk persisted in advising me. “If you’d been alone with ’im ’e would ’ave barged you to the ground and bitten you. ’E turns like a rabid dog when accused of drinking.”
Bedevilled with troubles of my own I found myself in need of a more soothing sight than Wheeler’s face twitching as if bothered by flies, so I turned and directed my attention to Platform One. The delightful woman in lace was nowhere to be seen. Who was she, I wondered.
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Chapter Four — Too distracted to be diverted
I looked at my company timepiece, a necessarily frequent act which reminded me of Mr Mildenhew. It was 7.40am and the erstwhile stationmaster’s arrival at the Parcels office to collect his luggage sealed my melancholy. Consequently I was unable to face him. Instead I summoned the Junior porter, Diggory Smith, to assist the poor gentleman.
Mr Mildenhew left the Parcels office and crossed the footbridge to Platform Two where he took up a waxwork pose. In his wake struggled young Diggory with two weighty trunks and a hat box, eventually stationing himself obediently at his former master’s side.
Two trains were due, one bound for Blodcaster, the other for Giddiford Junction, and consequently the travelling public had imported its colourful presence to both platforms. Upshott station hosted the South Exmoor railway’s only crossing loop, the remainder of the enterprise comprising a single line to accommodate both ‘up’ and ‘down’ trains, making its arrangement of two platforms unique. At Giddiford Junction, the southern terminus of the branch, the railway occupied a single bay platform alongside the main line to London, and at Blodcaster, the northern terminus, a second platform was only now under construction.
Harking back to the adorable woman whose presence had so briefly graced my station, and of whom my gaining further knowledge would doubtless prove impossible and result in unrequited admiration, I decided that any attempt to investigate would have to wait. I could hear the thudding of a ‘down’ train among the hills and it heralded my first test as the new Stationmaster. Had the commercial success of the South Exmoor railway been more confidently anticipated then separate ‘up’ and ‘down’ lines would have been laid, and horrifying practises such as the one I was about to orchestrate would have been unnecessary.
The Monday timber train could only be found a path, in other words squeezed into the timetable, by attaching it to the rear of a regular passenger train. This amalgamation of rollingstock was extremely perilous in the days before vacuum brakes and required a peace-shattering trio of locomotives to haul it as far as Upshott. To overcome the steep gradient the ensemble needed to be headed by two engines and pushed by a third at the rear, the one at the rear being called the ‘banker’. This cumbersome combination could now be heard climbing away from Widdlecombe viaduct on its approach to Upshott.
With the arrival of the Giddiford train in the opposite direction a few minutes later, the effluvia of no fewer than four steam locomotives were about to befog the station. This weekly event made many a main line station look tranquil by comparison and reflected the South Exmoor’s commercial importance in the district.
Goods trucks attached to the rear of a passenger train were known as swingers, and so many swingers were there on the 7.46am ‘down’ train each Monday that when it came to a halt they would overhang the crossing loop by several yards and consequently obstruct the departure of the ‘up’ train. There was potential here for me to make a fool of myself.
While I was pondering the situation I espied upon the platform yet another vision of loveliness. So similar in appearance to my faithful Elisabeth was this one that momentarily I thought it was she. I am bound to point out that the real Elisabeth would by now have been much older than my imagined contemporary, nevertheless the verisimilar female approaching me had the same dimpled cheeks and mischievous smile framed by playful blonde ringlets and quite transfixed me with both intrigue and admiration.
“Are you the new stationmaster?” she asked, her voice much like Elisabeth’s save for her manner of speech which suggested an altogether different provenance.
Notwithstanding the woman’s vulgar vernacular I wondered what kind of magic lurked here in Exmoor. As if I did not know. Temporary postings had familiarised me with the romantic ambience of the place, its crystal rivers tumbling exuberantly through ancient woodlands embraced by dramatic hills, and thus was I sensitised to its spiritual timelessness. It seemed crafted by our Maker to conjure up lifelong companions. My aesthetic appreciation of the district was beyond the sensibility of the local inhabitants, of course, for whom life was harsh. Indeed these moors were known to produce many of England’s ugliest ladies and yet, by fortune’s same clown, some of its prettiest too. Examples of both were abundant in Ondle valley and I expected to be shocked and charmed daily.
“Stationmaster Horace Ignatius Jay at your disposal, ma’am,” I answered, tipping my top-hat and wondering if this breathtaking lady’s likeness to my childhood idol portended any significance.
“I think I left my parasol here, Mr Jay,” she informed me. “A pink one with a grey trim. Has anyone handed it in? It would have been around yesterday.”
“Have a word with my Senior porter, ma’am,” I advised her. “Mr Milsom takes care of lost property.”
Sadly I was indisposed to be charmed or shocked just now, for I had need of my wits. I tipped my hat and returned my attention to the approaching train. Watching it clatter towards me I decided that I would have the pilot engine uncoupled and parked in a siding, have the timber trucks at the rear uncoupled from the passenger vehicles so that the Blodcaster train could continue its journey behind the train engine, then have the banking engine push the timber trucks forwa
rd into Platform One in readiness for their own departure. This final manoeuvre would clear the loop points and allow the ‘up’ passenger train to leave Platform Two for Giddiford Junction. If I could pull off this tricky operation the rest of the day would be a trifle and leave me free to consult Mr Milsom about the two charming ladies that had stirred me so.
Shrinking from the noisy stampede of incoming wheels I turned and was surprised to discover that Elisabeth’s look-alike was still with me. She had tarried patiently to resume her enquiry at my convenience. I had no objection to this but was presently too preoccupied with railway complications to render immediate assistance, so I tipped my hat again and stepped forward to dissect the convulsing miscellany of wagons that was coming to rest in my station.
Unfrocked of its belching, black veil the train revealed a shock nastier even than the one I was expecting. Mounted atop a flat-truck was an expensive road carriage which I assumed to be squire Albury’s new cabriolet. Not only had it been placed aboard the worst train imaginable, it was sandwiched between the train engine and the leading passenger coach. Verily my stomach wriggled like a bag of ferrets. It confounded me that the thing was not among the swingers where it belonged?
“How are you finding Upshott, Horace? Have you arranged lodgings yet?” Elisabeth’s look-alike asked, as if reeling out a tripwire.
“I have rooms in the station house,” I responded inattentively, examining the mobile conundrum that had barged into my world.
With every minute a precious commodity I had no choice but to ignore further ill timed courtesies and formulate a solution, leeward of a confident smile, so that on my first day at Upshott I would not be the cause of a logjam, delay, or worse still an accident. Thus recomposed I parted company with my charming, if persistent, inquisitor and sallied forth. It was no help that an extremely unpleasant smell had pervaded the station. This was a matter upon which I had exchanged words with Mr Milsom earlier in the day and learned nothing.
With unfaltering persistence my inquisitor followed me, soon after which Mr Wheeler also took up position beside me. The three of us ignored each other as if platform stanchions, gazing without comment at the ungainly train and its three simmering engines. Somewhat optimistically I waited for the clerk to contribute a useful suggestion but none was forthcoming.
“What is that foul smell?” I queried him. “It is unforgivable to expect fare-paying passengers to abide it.”
“That’s the price of sanity,” the clerk enlightened me with a facial twitch. “It comes from the new sewage farm down at Upford. Last night one of the spreaders in The Pheasant told me that microbes are to blame. They’re too small to see yet they raise a stench, and no one knows how many there are. All the same, the spreader reckons we’re lucky to ’ave sanity in Upshott, and we’re to thank the Lord for it. Lord Lacy, that is. E’s what they call a phil… phalinthro… philampro…” Wheeler gave up trying to say ‘philanthropist’ and continued: “There’s parts of London don’t ’ave it yet.”
“I know all about the new sewage works, Mr Wheeler, and I fully appreciate the value of sanitation. I lost my brother to cholera when I was small.”
A winsome voice entered my left ear.
“Rose Macrames, Horace, but everyone calls me Rosie,” it said.
I turned and was warmed by the companionable smile of my inquisitor delivered at close quarters. Thus I learned the name of Elisabeth’s look-alike.
“I would be so grateful,” she pleaded, “if you would take personal charge of finding my parasol.
“Of course, ma’am,” I replied dutifully while studying the faces of everyone nearby. It seemed that only I was perturbed by the unsavoury odour.
“There’s been no parasol been found ’ere, Miss,” Wheeler interjected.
I ushered him to one side for a word.
“Never mind the parasol, Mr Wheeler, what I want to know is the cause of that ghastly stink,” I skewered him with narrowed eyes. “I have given it some thought and concluded that it most resembles conspiracy. Why, Mr Milsom claims that he cannot even smell it! If, as you say, the odour is coming from the new Pasteur works then how do you suppose it is getting here? There is not so much as a whiffle today. Do you suppose it travels by train?”
Miss Macrames overheard my remonstration and gasped with amusement, flattering me that I possessed wit. I responded with an amiable smile, leaving my Booking clerk to make do with a scowl.
“Oh, it don’t need wind to get about, Mr Jay,” he protested. “It’s what they call organic, sir. Microbes are organic and can turn anything they like into manure.”
Jack Wheeler was a woolly minded individual but the key to the matter lay in his use of the word ‘manure’, for I recalled seeing the London & South Western railway convey such sullage to farms for application on the land. More significantly, Mr Hales’s vegetables were uncommonly verdant and his plot of land curiously fertile given the meagre upland soil found elsewhere in the district.
“I shall look into the matter,” I told the clerk and dismissed him.
As Mr Wheeler wandered away my attention was drawn to Mr Hales signalling me anxiously. He wished to commence the outstanding shunt and I signalled him back that I was ready to begin.
“Do you like my outfit, Horace?” Miss Macrames laid out another trip-wire. “I made it myself but I have no one to comment.”
I turned and beheld her dress in all its intricate detail, dismayed that my admiration would have to be brief. It was a dark blue affair with the lower portion gathered at the back to emulate a bustle and the front upper portion adjusted to hug its wearer’s bosom like the wrapping paper of a generous gift that had been partly opened. Being a man with an eye for beauty but not the nuances of fashion I could comment only upon the overall effect which, in truth, was much improved on by the application of a fantasy. Being a gentleman I hesitate to expand upon this, suffice it to say that I saw Miss Macrames removing her silken wrapper with exotic deliberation. This proved more enticing than imagining her at once without it. I cleared my throat and made to resume my work but was pressed harder upon the matter.
“The white trim is made of silk,” she apprised me proudly. “And look, I had enough left to decorate my bonnet.”
Anxious not to be overly titillated I tipped my hat again with a perfunctory reply.
“You put the village dressmaker to shame. Now, if you will excuse me.”
An awareness of Miss Macrames’ continued gaze propelled me about my business with uncharacteristic self-confidence and I revised my plan of action to deal with the squire’s cabriolet, instructing the locomotive crews most stridently.
“You will make your first uncoupling between the passenger rake and the flat-truck carrying the cabriolet,” I began. “Then with your locomotives coupled together you will take the cabriolet to the coal dock were you will use the loop in the sidings to detach one of your locomotives and take the passenger train forward to Blodcaster.”
This manoeuvre, I believed, would unlock the shunting puzzle and establish my credentials as a seasoned railwayman. However, my stratagem was flawed by one simple oversight, and my downfall was heralded by Mr Wheeler tapping me on the shoulder with a pantomime exuberance fast becoming familiar to me.
“Albury’s coachman is ’ere, bearing gifts,” he confided through walnut teeth.
I looked over his shoulder to see if Miss Macrames was still admiring my manliness, but saw only Lawrence Albury’s emissary approaching me with a muslin bag.
“Mr Albury trusts his new carriage will reach him in pristine condition and without delay,” he smoothed dutifully, handing me the gift.
“Please convey my thanks to Mr Albury, along with my assurance that his magnificent cabriolet has, and will, come to no harm,” I thanked the servant, peering inside the bag.
It contained a plucked goose, gifts to stationmasters being common currency at this time.
After my optimistic exchange with the coachman I expected him to leave the st
ation and return later, but instead he took to a platform bench and settled to observe. Unperturbed by this I ordered the uncoupling of the passenger carriages from the timber trucks and gave the Blodcaster train its ‘right away’. So far, so good, for despite all the difficulties everything was running but one minute late. Though it was not accepted practise to give the ‘right away’ to a ‘down’ train before an ‘up’ train there was, I perceived, no alternative.
While I was waving the timber wagons into Platform One, Mr Wheeler tugged my arm impishly. I cocked an ear with apprehension, for my Booking clerk was a foxy fellow characterised by a mat of tightly curled hair and ever the twinkle of mischief in his eye. When he grinned, which was often, either something unwholesome had occurred or was about to.
“Mr Jay, sir,” he crooned, “Tom Turner and me ’ave devised a scheme to catch the lamp oil thief.”
I was puzzled. From what I had heard, sleepy Tom Turner could not catch a turnip.
“Not now, Mr Wheeler,” I retorted. “Can you not see I am busy?”
“But sir, we need your permission to go about it,” he pestered me.
Because I knew Jack Wheeler had something of a reputation as a trapper I succumbed, and with a wry grin I gave him the permission he sought. This, of course, was a naïve and foolish act by a green stationmaster who had yet to learn that Mr Wheeler’s trick was to wait until his superiors were distracted before seeking permission to go about a dodgy enterprise.
“Be careful what you get up to, Jack,” I cautioned the clerk. “Burglars are not hares.”
Mr Wheeler was visibly flattered that I should call him by his Christian name and began blinking wildly. His face shrank to a bunch of wrinkles then expanded to a wide, bewildered grin. This malady I had witnessed before. Jack Wheeler, it seemed, had a full facial tick. Still twitching, the fellow scuttled away to the Ticket office to assist Mr Milsom.