A Station In Life

by James Smiley

  Puzzled by Mr Crump’s reference to ‘unpleasant gossip’ my mind wandered and I was not very welcoming. What did he mean? I was hardly known in Blodcaster. Had I unwittingly offended someone from there? Was more trouble on the way? To compose myself I hurried to my door for some fresh air. Here I saw, inside the observation car, the familiar profile of the London and South Western’s General Manager sitting by a window, alongside him the erect and arrogant figure of the South Exmoor’s Consulting Mechanical Engineer, a man fanciful of himself as a latter-day Brunel with his high ‘topper’ and expensive cigars. Although the train was well populated with Mr Crump’s associates, none looked likely to join us.

  Grateful for this I returned my gaze to the more comforting visage of Mr Crump. A gentleman to his core, Mr Crump was completely bald save for a tuft of silver above each ear which, when crowned by a hat, impersonated the extremities of a full mop. His hat removed, however, the fellow lost all managerial awe, and was further undermined by a nose disproportionately larger than the petite moustache in which it nestled. Not that this bothered him, for a friendly and cultivated manner towards lesser mortals was his stamp.

  “I’m pleased to see the platform work is progressing, Horace,” the manager restarted our conversation with sudden gusto. “We’re a year or two ahead of the London and South Western on that one, but I fear we shall experience greater turmoil than this before any South Exmoor shares are converted. In the interim, however, traffic management should become less fraught with the addition of two new crossing loops. Our colleagues on the mainline intend operating an all year service to Waterloo, possibly twice weekly, although it’s not yet clear whether these trains will stop at Upshott. Certainly with fast trains on the line, signalling and communications will be of paramount importance, don’t you agree.”

  I agreed.

  “Incidentally,” he continued, “you seem very difficult to raise on the telegraph, Horace. Upshott seems to keep its stationmasters too busy to answer calls. Perhaps there’s a case for employing a telegraph clerk here until the system is upgraded.”

  I agreed a second time, whereupon Mr Crump continued with his news.

  “The linesman tells me that by converting our wires from metallic-return to earth-return we can have two circuits for the price of one. Now there’s an economy. This would allow us to add a simple alphabetical instrument which your junior staff could operate.”

  The outlook was becoming brighter with Mr Crump’s every utterance and it seemed that my application for the services of a telegraph instructor had not come to his attention. Hopefully I could cancel this application with equal stealth, a prospect which implanted my face with a broad smile.

  “Ay, you’re right to be excited, Horace, these are exciting times,” the manager encouraged me plumply.

  “Forgive me, Mr Crump, but I wonder if you would care to expand upon this business of ‘unpleasant gossip’ in Blodcaster, for I cannot imagine the cause,” I asked tentatively.

  “Of course, Horace, we all know that last month the London and South Western opened its new line between Poole and Bournemouth, but did you know it has also acquired operating powers over the recently completed Sidmouth railway?” he continued. “You mark my words, one day these watering resorts will be our best source of revenue.”

  As a rule one did not interrupt a Crump dissertation but with my curiosity at fever pitch I pressed him harder, for whilst I had been expecting a complaint from the Squire about his damaged cabriolet I knew of no other reason for reproval.

  “Has there been an official complaint about me, sir?”

  Mr Crump appeared not to understand my interruption and carried on with his discourse.

  “Just think of the possibilities, Horace. In a matter of days the line from Evercreech to Bath will be completed, and the first sod has been turned on the Lyme Regis project. Who says the railway boom is over?”

  The gentleman’s question was rhetorical and I knew better than to interrupt a second time.

  “And to cap it all, the Royal Commission has at last ruled against the late Brunel’s seven foot gauge. The business community shall rejoice at the lifting of those old broad gauge metals! No, Horace, there’s been no official complaint about you, just rumours that you’ve been rude to passengers. But I know you too well to believe them.”

  Intoxicated with relief yet still puzzled, I drifted away to contemplate the matter, but Mr Crump was off again and my thoughts stumbled to a halt.

  “I’m afraid, Horace, that when the South Western takes over our line we shall have to discontinue some of our commercially less viable services. Many weekend trains will be axed, and Driver MacGregor will find the new management less tolerant of his antics, like delaying freight trains to set rabbit snares along the line. Even the revered Percival Hiscox will have to forego some of his time honoured perquisites, like exchanging engine coal for pheasants. Oh yes, Horace, we know it goes on. Under our new masters we shall all have to make adjustments.”

  ‘Perhaps the London & South Western will have more success in controlling the likes of Jack Wheeler,’ I thought, but doubted it.

  As Mr Crump collected his hat and gloves I wondered if the wagging tongues of Blodcaster had any connection with my strange encounter with the ostler. All was very mysterious. The ostler’s garbed message had referred to Rose, yet Rose’s reaction to mention of his name had reflected innocence. My thoughts were dislocated once again.

  Mr Crump, like a Chinese jumping cracker springing back to life unexpectedly when everyone thought it was spent, exploded with another bout of enthusiasm.

  “And, Horace, your Booking clerk will be pleased to know that his days of bargaining with season ticket holders are numbered. There’ll be no more writing out tickets by hand, for we are to install Edmonson cardboard ticket printing machinery. As you know, the London and South Western is a member of the Railway Clearing House so adherence to the national ticket standard is mandatory. My word, you’ll find yourself dealing with tickets from all over the country. But not to worry, Horace. The clerks of Seymour Street will apportion all your takings for you. My goodness, you’ll think you’re back with the London and South Western!”

  “But I will be,” I reminded Mr Crump as he turned to leave.

  Stepping onto the platform, the General Manager painted me one last picture of the future.

  “Think of all the destination boards you’ll need. Salisbury, Andover, Basingstoke, Reading… And with developments at Templecombe we may yet see trains direct to the ports of Poole and Southampton.”

  I doubted that Lord Lacy, with all his influence as the proprietor of a monopolistic stage coach business, would readily permit such developments, especially having parted with his railway shares recently. With a glance at his fobwatch, Mr Crump at last appeared ready leave.

  This moment, looking towards the weighbridge house, I chanced to see my Rollingstock superintendent riding a company horse in the fashion of a postilion, with a chaldron truck in tow. Mr Troke was looking very pleased with himself, which was never a good sign, and I soon saw why. The chaldron truck, designed to carry a little over twenty-five hundredweight of coal, had been charged with a somewhat less conventional cargo. To my astonishment the buffoon had chosen this delicate moment to dispose of the unwanted sewage, even though removing it to the viaduct necessitated its passing right alongside the Directors’ Special.

  As the sullage trundled beneath the noses of the visiting dignitaries, sans tarpaulin, I prayed in silence that the observation car ventilators were close. Alas, judging by reactions inside the train, they were not, the gentlemen aboard having arranged to vent their cigar smoke and sample the country air while abroad.

  Mr Troke, presumably unable to hear what was being said about him, appeared pleased with the invective and returned the dignitaries a gappy grin. Snimple, who was leaning from the rear of the truck to regulate the brake, also seemed pleased. He waved the Giddiford baton proudly in the air.

  I watch
ed in silent horror as the spotty porter’s concentration lapsed momentarily and he lost regulation of the truck on the falling gradient, allowing the sewage to gather speed. Being a coward I closed my eyes in denial of the spectacle, but upon hearing a snort of terror from the shunting horse I opened one eye praying that the incident would go unnoticed by Mr Crump. So far, even with a frightened animal being pursued by an evil smelling heap, it had.

  The poor beast of burden was all but overrun before Snimple regained control of the truck and I am quite certain that it found the odour of the cargo, which had now shifted and breached its crust, more offensive than did its human handlers.

  Mr Crump had been studying his itinerary throughout and remained unaware of the incident. Yet now I became troubled by something else. Mr Troke’s obsessive stare. It worried me that his large white eyes had become fixed upon me balefully, as if I were guilty of an unforgivable indiscretion, and remained so until their mesmeric thrall succumbed to distance. By which time I had forgotten about Mr Crump.

  To recapture my attention, Mr Crump cleared his throat noisily and wished me good luck in my new capacity. We shook hands and I conducted him hurriedly to the observation car, for it had occurred to me that I would do well to ‘right away’ the Special before attention was drawn to the migrating microbes. Or, for that matter, before a telegraph signal could come through for one of the bigwigs. I opened a carriage door and Mr Crump went aboard.

  Intrigued by the smell of opulence, I tipped my head around the door and pried cautiously into the carriage’s sumptuous interior. This was a mistake, for in so doing I reignited Mr Crump’s enthusiasm for railway developments.

  “So, Horace, if this railway of ours is not to become a museum of antiquity we must be up and doing, ay? Block signalling next…”

  “Yes, yes,” I agreed with impudent haste and tried to close the door.

  “What is that smell?” the manager asked with an uncharacteristic twist of the face.

  Before I could answer, someone called out to Mr Crump from within the smoke filled carriage. Reference was made to the telegraph.

  “Of course, I almost forgot!” Mr Crump exclaimed and prepared to disembark. “I was going to send word to Headquarters from here, to see if there are any messages. May I use your telegraph set, Horace?”

  This was another rhetorical question. I could scarcely say no. I unlocked the Telegraph room and suggested that I go about my duties. Suddenly Mr Crump’s arms were outstretched.

  “Nonsense, you must join me,” came the invitation. “My Morse is a little rusty and I may need your help.” Mr Crump placed a silk handkerchief to his nose and complained: “Do you have overdue deadstock hereabouts? There’s definitely something malodorous in the vicinity.”

  Envisaging no future upon the railway after this, I shrugged my shoulders without a care.

  Once inside the cramped Telegraph room the General Manager stood aside and beckoned me to operate the apparatus, whereupon I took a deep breath and prepared to confess to my inadequacy. An inability to operate the instrument was not of itself grounds for disciplinary action, I reasoned, but having deceived the Board of Directors would surely merit summary dismissal. With those ferrets wriggling in my stomach I thought I saw Mr Mildenhew bent and sobbing outside the window. The poor fellow straightened up and looked through the glass at me intently, his face becoming mine.

  My tension must have infected Mr Crump because as the receiver started to chatter we both jumped.

  The signal was very rapid, doubtless coming from a highly proficient user somewhere, probably Headquarters, and I froze. I had no idea how to write down what to me was merely a noise. But the General manager did not know this and, believing my inactivity to be sheer mastery, marvelled at my response. So impressed was he by the redundancy of my pencil in committing to memory such a long communication, and all with no hint of concentration, that his face puckered with intrigue.

  When the receiver finally fell silent, Mr Crump patted my back and congratulated me, then asked for a translation. At this my nerve broke and I invented a coughing fit. Rather helpfully, Mr Crump blamed my attack upon the stench wafting through the door.

  “Just what is that smell?” he asked once more.

  “I have no idea,” I spluttered with feigned incapacitation.

  With the noxious load slipping further away, and with it my excuse for inactivity, I knew that I would soon have to feign recovery. Having no idea what alternative diversion I might employ after this, I panicked and said something which seemed to have its own author.

  “The smell arrived with your train, sir.”

  A shadow of concern fell across Mr Crump’s face. Having thus distracted the manager, I resumed coughing and pointed towards a stool.

  “Yes, of course,” he responded sympathetically and invited me to retire.

  The kindly gentleman sent for a glass of water and did not hear my sigh of relief betwixt two coughs when he took over at the telegraph set. The wrinkle of concern upon his face deepened when a second signal came through, this one transmitted more slowly, to confound him further. Not entirely sure that the message was complete, he handed me the telegram pad upon which he had jotted it down.

  FROM: Griffith (Linton Stationmaster)

  TO: Anyone listening.

  Last night’s Giddiford train. Two miles from Upshott. Pot-lamps exploded. Passengers evacuated at Widdlecombe. Practical joker resides at Upshott. Stop.

  Beneath this message, Mr Crump had scribbled someone’s reply.

  FROM: Caxton (Widdlecombe Stationmaster)

  TO: Griffith.

  Watch what you say. Primates about. One might be listening. Stop.

  I read the telegram and told the General Manager with feigned incredulity that I knew nothing of exploding pot-lamps. This was no untruth, after all, for the lamps had not exploded. By all accounts they had sparkled gaily.

  Mr Crump’s mask of curiosity subsided to a boyish grin and he confided that he had not used the telegraph for quite some time. He had enjoyed working the apparatus even though the messages made no sense.

  At last the Directors’ Special left for Blodcaster, and as the carriages swept by I glimpsed the colourful Mr Gaselee sharing a map with engineer William Beattie. Such a plum excursion did a ride on our beautiful railway make that nobody at the top had missed the opportunity to be on it.

  However, this was another train I had made late.

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  Chapter Fifteen — Porter hunted by women

  The midday Giddiford train arrived several minutes late, having been held up by the Directors’ Special, and plainly it was going to be delayed further by the presence on the line of a horse-drawn chaldron truck. Messrs Troke and Snimple had successfully discharged the treated sewage over the side of Widdlecombe viaduct but were now hampering their return to the station by mishandling the horse.

  To the accompaniment of Driver MacGregor’s poignant commentary I watched the equine beast stumble its way towards home contending not only with a rising gradient but the hysteria of its handlers. Indeed, the horse was becoming more obstinate with each fright. For myself, with Snimple’s cowboy yodelling in the distance and the cynical rasping of a blunt Scotchman at my ear, each minute masqueraded as an hour. The Giddiford train eventually left thirty minutes late, at 1.25pm.

  Lacy and its four passenger carriages had not made up the lost time when it returned ex Giddiford, and I delayed it still further by attaching a swinger. The swinger, of course, was the unwanted mobile crane.

  His patience expired, Driver MacGregor alighted the engine and badgered me for an explanation. He was convinced that I was victimising him, particularly as his progress was to be hindered still further by having to detach the crane at Busy Linton. Protesting that I was ‘out to get him’ he shrugged off my assurances to the contrary and insisted that my mistakes had cost him a rabbit stew. Now I understood. He cared not about running late, for this would have been out of character;
what he really cared about was his reason for being late. This was that he should have been checking his lineside snares. He took a swig of whisky while I read him the relevant company rules, then marched away. Our altercation unresolved, I found myself in a suitable frame of mind to deal with Snimple and Troke. Accordingly I summoned them to my office.

  “Could you two imbeciles not have waited until the Directors’ Special was out of the station before disposing of the sewage?” I quizzed Mr Troke. “Would it not have been wiser to move it after nightfall, under cover of darkness?”

  “Didn’t think of that,” he smarted.

  “Let me see if I have this straight. You parked the truck on the viaduct and simply shovelled its contents over the side, in broad daylight?” I asked incredulously. “You made sure, I hope, that you were directly above the river?”

  “If we’d done it after dark we couldn’t have told,” Mr Troke pointed out with a dozy squint. There was, I confess, an element of logic in his defence.

  As yet I had heard nothing from Snimple and had not taxed the fellow, but I noticed in his normally ruddy cheeks the rising pallor of guilt.

  “Snimple,” I addressed the porter sympathetically. Snimple was always the weak link in any chain of deceit at Upshott. “Did the treated sewage all go in the river?”

  “A sntrong wind blows through the arches, Mr Jay,” he submitted meekly.

  Thus I became aware that the discharge had not behaved according to plan.

  “Who, or what, did it hit?” I asked without further ado.

  Mr Troke owned up.

  “We think it was old Smethwick of Longhurdle farm, Mr Jay, sir.”

  “Smethwick?” I gasped. “What was the pig breeder doing under the viaduct?”

  “He grazes livestock on the common between the piers, sir,” said Mr Troke. “Livestock what the master don’t know about. He keeps the takings to himself, the crafty worm.”

  “And the sewage hit him?”