A Station In Life

by James Smiley

  “I see you are lucky enough to have your late husband’s image for company,” I remarked.

  “Yes,” she replied dejectedly. “But it is fading.”

  I had been told oftentimes that I was a good listener. However, this is a gift which tends only to induce melancholy so I searched my thoughts for something more uplifting with which to raise her spirits. Indeed I felt an urge to take up arms with Mrs Smith against the world, and had we been better acquainted I might have pepped her with a pat on the shoulder, but in the unflinching gaze of the master farrier I remained mindful of my conduct.

  The fading photograph made me curious about the character of the late Thomas Smith. He was some fourteen years older than his spouse, or would have been had he not left this world for a better one, and I was compelled to study his portrait more closely. Whilst a glance suggested fierce determination, greater scrutiny brought equally fierce compassion to his face, there being in his eyes a story of humility and even a touch of timidity. I fancy that he had embraced the uncertainties of this world as a challenge rather than a distraction, and had come to know himself better than most.

  Mrs Smith lifted her eyes yearningly to her fading husband, and he stared back with nothing to say. I could see her weighing up his imperfections, finding them all inconsequential bar one. He should never have left her.

  “The rest of the story you can piece together for yourself, Mr Jay,” she sighed, caressing her wedding ring. “On my husband’s death this arrogant young businessman from Exeter revealed himself to be a descendant of the founder, thereby laying claim to almost everything around me.”

  “And this he did while you were still in mourning,” I noted disdainfully.

  “He swooped upon me like a vulture,” Mrs Smith grimaced. “With no concern for my grief. Indeed, the paralysis of my shock must have served his purpose well. That, and the poor counsel I was receiving.”

  “Do you suppose he was a charlatan?” I asked. “Not a genuine descendant of the founder at all?”

  “The court found him to be genuine enough,” Mrs Smith replied. “His lawyer, a dissolute man if ever there was one, must have advised him not to file a claim until Thomas days were done, in the knowledge that litigation with a grieving widow would be less fraught.”

  “And that in the meantime the business would continue to expand by your husband’s toil,” I surmised angrily. “How could anyone make such a cruel investment? And how could such a far removed descendant reclaim an inheritance after almost a hundred years? The idea is preposterous. Why was justice not done?”

  “In the eyes of the law it was,” she replied sardonically.

  Mrs Smith gazed through the window again. This time her eyes rested upon Diggory, in whom, and only in whom, her husband lived on. I could see that her son compensated for many of life’s hardships.

  Dastardly though this Exeter businessman’s deed had been I had yet to understand how it related to Diggory’s abnormal behaviour presently.

  “How so does this worry your son so particularly now, after five years?” I asked Mrs Smith.

  Her melancholic brown eyes became fixed upon me steadfastly.

  “I will explain, Mr Jay,” said she. “We came hither to live, finding rent of but sixpence per week payable to that same Exeter businessman, for he is the landlord of this property. Putting a modest roof over our heads to spare us vagrancy was, so the gentleman would have us believe, an act of charity. In reality, of course, he was seeking to ease his conscience. I am told that redemption in the eyes of the Lord is not so cheaply purchased, Mr Jay, although it would seem to be so in the eyes of the community. Naturally the gentleman’s agent, not he, collects the dues, for the coward cannot look me in the eye. Perhaps this is why, now that the dust has settled upon the matter, it suits him to move us on again.”

  “Move you on again? Why, this is a nightmare!” I reeled. “All I can say is that you must stick to your description ‘coward’, Mrs Smith,” I advised the poor woman. “This bounder does not deserve the title ‘gentleman’ whatever may be his trappings. Whither shall you go?” I enquired.

  “Somewhere of still lower rent,” said she, “for we are in arrears here. The railway brings cheap foreign lace into the district, you know, and this has sorely reduced my income.”

  “You will secure meagre curtilage for less than sixpence a week, Mrs Smith,” I observed. “The basic cottage rental in these parts is one shilling.”

  “Then we shall make do with meagre curtilage,” Mrs Smith advised me stiffly. “Our gracious landlord has permitted us to stay on here until next spring while we look for alternative accommodation, but only if I pay the increased rent. We shall struggle to keep warm this winter without doubt, and to find fuel for cooking, but we have no choice because it can take a long time for cheap accommodation to become available in these parts. To make ends meet I fear Diggory will have to cut peat.”

  “Cutting peat at the end of a day’s work will be hard going for the lad,” I remarked. “Struggling across the moor with a heavily laden barrow on a howling winter’s night will be no picnic.

  “Nevertheless, we shall manage. Diggory is deceptively stout,” she insisted, her face distorted by the picture I had painted. “Anyway, our needs are modest now that the gypsies and the hunt have taken our two pigs.”

  “The gypsies and the hunt?” I replied with the incomprehension of a village idiot.

  Mrs Smith sighed with resignation and I, wickedly perhaps, suppressed a smile. It struck me as comically improbable that two such diverse entities would conspire to eliminate one’s pigs. Before I knew it, Mrs Smith was explaining how it happened.

  “The sty here is dilapidated and my sow strayed,” she began. “On two occasions I recovered her from the village pound but on the last, while soon to farrow, she was savaged by the Vellington hounds. As everyone knows, the hunt does not pay compensation to owners of stray livestock so I was unable to replace her.”

  “Leaving you with only one pig,” I concluded.

  “No,” she corrected me. “This is why Diggory was late for work yesterday. He had been across the valley to recover our second pig from the gypsies. Every year they make camp on the common and livestock always goes missing.”

  “So I hear,” I responded. “I take it Diggory was unable to recover the pig.”

  “He was threatened with a knife and had the good sense to come away,” said she indignantly. “So now I have only to find space for a couple of geese.”

  “These people are outrageous,” I sympathised loudly, referring to just about everyone who had wronged Mrs Smith.

  “My neighbours are very good and have offered me replacements,” she smiled briefly. “But I do not go cap-in-hand just yet.”

  Mrs Smith’s tales of woe seemed inexhaustible, but whilst fate may have dealt her a bad hand it had clearly failed to dent her aplomb. She had been uncommonly talkative and appeared grateful to me for listening. Setting aside her teacup delicately, she excused herself and returned to the kitchen to see how the frumenty was progressing.

  Left alone to cogitate Mrs Smith’s many misfortunes I became uneasy about the railway’s part in them. First it had robbed her of her husband and now it was robbing her of her income from lace. I felt bound to offer some assistance but could think of nothing practical. Flipping open my fobwatch I discovered that I had over-stayed my time so I joined her in the kitchen.

  “Well, Mrs Smith, I must return to the station with my borrowed nag or my Horse Superintendent will complain that I hinder him about his business,” I declared. “Thank you for the muffin, I have tasted none better. None better!”

  Having gusted unnecessarily, probably because I was frustrated by my inability to help and aware that I might soon be looking for cheap accommodation myself, I found my hat and donned it with a sharp tap. My jocularity received a perfunctory smile, and feeling uneasy that my counsel had left Mrs Smith no better off I prepared to leave. It would have been nice to tarry awhile and impa
rt a few stories of my own. Cheerful ones. But there was insufficient time.

  While arranging my riding tack I made the decision that I would return to the station and restore Mr Maynard’s mare to the company stables then deal only with the day’s more pressing paperwork so that I would have time to walk to Upwater for a spot of fishing before the arrival of the midday Giddiford train. This would afford me time to think.

  “Diggory will report for duty this afternoon,” Mrs Smith assured me resolutely. “He is very like his father and cannot be without occupation.”

  At this moment I detected again that fragrance which I had once thought my only clue to Mrs Smith’s identity. Indeed, I believe she had applied the mischievous perfume to herself secretly while gone from the room. And since she had been nowhere but the kitchen I cast my eye about to see if I could spot it. Sure enough, I espied upon a shelf a miniature phial labelled ‘Essence Of Mirbane’. At first I thought it a herb for cooking, but then I read the words ‘perfume for discerning ladies’ and made a mental note of its name.

  Mrs Smith beckoned me through the back door to the garden, and as I removed my hat briefly for the stoop she insisted upon picking me some mint, for she would not hear of me leaving empty-handed. Clutching a copious bunch of green leaves I brushed past a rambling rose tied to the brick nogging, its thorny coils intent upon clinging to me, checked my uniform for snags and waved Diggory goodbye. No further conversation was possible now, for my presence in the garden had upset the geese and a spoilt child’s tantrum could not have matched the noise. I mounted Campion, tipped my hat, and rode away from the clamour.

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  Chapter Seventeen — Fisticuffs

  Jack Wheeler lent me his rod to go fishing at Upwater, and to please him I thanked him profusely. He always enjoyed demonstrative appreciation for his good deeds, and had I been gullible I might also have taken his angling advice. A scurrilous grin slid across his face as I struggled through the door laden with tackle, my mind dreamy with anticipation.

  “If I were you, Mr Jay, I shouldn’t bother,” he confounded me. “You’ll catch nothing tasty to fill your dish today. Not ’til you’ve faced up to unfinished business. You’ve ’eard the saying...”

  I parried him quickly.

  “There are many sayings, Jack, most of them discontinued now that mankind has embraced science.”

  Undeterred, the clerk tootled his proverb.

  “All good fortune passes by the twerp who shuns the devil’s eye.”

  I shook my head at this improbable proverb, wondering if drunken pixies were to blame for my Booking clerk’s existence.

  “It’s a warning to us all, Mr Jay,” he advised me tetchily. “Trouble and strife blights the life of the man who runs to ground.”

  “I am not running to ground, Jack, I am going fishing,” I insisted with the water meadows and their slippery bounty large upon my mind.

  Sensing my scepticism of his old sayings, Jack repeated the rhyming couplet with increased passion then hovered before me with bated breath as if I should act immediately or be damned.

  “Well?” I jumped. “To what do you refer? I do not have all day and I am aware of nothing outstanding. All the books are cast up and there is no traffic due.”

  Jack twitched and began a chant, intoning it with growing urgency.

  “Farmer Smethwick, sir. Oil thief Smethwick. Infested Smethwick. Demented Smethwick. I reckon your confrontation with ’im is overdue.”

  I frowned meanly at the clerk and propped his fishing rod against my desk to establish that my plans for dealing with the pugnacious pig breeder were well formulated and required no accelerating. Indeed I intended to challenge the quarrelsome farmer later in the day. However, before I could apprise Jack of this he hurried away, presumably to fetch the troublemaker, the draught caused by his lightning departure dispersing the papers upon my desk. Tutting with exasperation I redeployed my paperweights and sank into my chair to think. Quite clearly, Jack’s intention was to liven up a dull day at my expense.

  A short while later, Smethwick surprisingly having responded to being summoned in such a manner, and so quickly, cast his shadow across my desk and darkened an invoice for washing soda. I looked up, smiled, and greeted him evenly. Jack, misshapen by a hollow grin, remained outside my office to observe events through a side window.

  “I come, my Lord,” Smethwick mocked, then prostrated himself.

  I thought it prudent to ignore the jest, for the farmer was clearly no cooler in temper than he had been upon his previous visit. He straightened himself and leered at me menacingly, his half closed eyes now miserably familiar. This time, when he stepped back and began to sway, I knew his swagger to be caused by ill health rather than liquor.

  “I believe you have some badly brewed lamp oil,” I opened. “Perhaps you would care to explain how you came by it.”

  Smethwick submitted no reply so I tried intimidating him. I shook my head gravely and stared at him sternly for as long as I dared, then made notes about him on a sheet of company letter-paper. This also failed so I threatened him with arrest. Still nothing.

  The reason for the fellow’s obmutescence, although I did not know it at the time, was that he had indeed stolen the spiked lamp oil but not from the South Exmoor railway. Unbeknown to either of us there was an intermediate thief. Incredibly, therefore, the oil had been stolen twice! Consequently, from Smethwick’s point of view, my involvement in the sparkling lamp oil affair was as perplexing as the pyrotechnic scintillations of his handlamp the previous night.

  “The oil to which I refer is stolen property,” I told him squarely. “Railway property.”

  At this the baffled farmer found his voice and began protesting his innocence, doing so with such vehemence that I decided upon a passive response to avoid further provocation, for my keenest interest lay only in closing the matter and going fishing. Yet still the cur inflamed himself to such anger that eventually he reached across my desk and seized my lapel. A pot of ink toppled and a black puddle spread through my paperwork, deleting hours of arithmetical calculations.

  Amused by this, Smethwick did not apologise, nor did he release his grip of my lapel until the last of my tabulations had homogenised, whereupon the perverse smirk upon his face embellished itself with a twinkle of sheer delight.

  “There!” he said, emphasising the ease with which hard labour can be undone, perhaps sharing with me a taste of his own miserable life.

  I called out to my Booking clerk and observed a nose, at first pressed against my window, disappear in the direction of my door. Now, with a witness hurrying our way, I expected Smethwick to release my lapel. However, when it became clear that to render assistance was not Wheeler’s purpose, he maintained his grip.

  ”Just a minute, Jack…” I stammered as the clerk strode past my door without stopping.

  “I thought so, served by cowards,” Smethwick laughed and stepped around my desk.

  The sickly fragrance of writing ink did not mix well with the fetor of a perspiring pig breeder, and not being of the strongest stomach, when he pulled me eye-to-eye against his matted beard, I blacked out.

  When I regained consciousness I was told that Smethwick had punched me before leaving, and I was presented with a vanity mirror to view the evidence. I pushed this aside, for I did not require a looking glass to feel the pain, nor to deduce that there had been no rush to my assistance after the incident. With little more than some preliminary medical attention, administered by Mr Phillips, I had been left slumped in my chair with a dead gaze for at least ten minutes.

  Dismissing my heartless scrutators I applied a swab of iodine to my swollen eye and stared at the ceiling to keep it in place. While engaged in this painful but highly recommended form of medication my door creaked open, as if pushed by a draught, and Jack Wheeler entered furtively. Offering me a tin of live bait, maggots he had scooped from a lineside morkin, he advanced with unconvincing nonchalance and claimed that he knew no
thing of the assault.

  “I am a stationmaster, not a turnip,” I rebutted him.

  Removing the swab I became aware that Jack was pleased by my fluster, for it added to the rattling good yarn he would now tell down at The Shunter. I pushed the revolting maggots aside and told him to flush them under the station tap. The clerk ignored my instruction and squinted strangely, examining my eye from a convenient distance.

  “Jingo, you’ll ’ave a prize black’n there, Mr Jay!” he gurgled with token sympathy, afterwards asking a question to which he well knew the answer. “You got ’im tooth for tooth, I ’ope?”

  An ‘eye for an eye’ would have been the better analogy.

  “A stationmaster does not strike a valued patron no matter how provocative he may be,” I answered Wheeler boldly. “Now perhaps the venomous Mr Smethwick will find he is able to forget the matter of his tuppeny-ha’penny pigs.”

  Mr Wheeler twitched with surprise and I stared at him sternly.

  “Ay, that’s right, Jack,” I waggled my finger. “This bruise has nothing to do with your blasted lamp oil so your self congratulations are misplaced. That scoundrel Smethwick assaulted me to settle a score, plain as a pikestaff.”

  Since no one else had thought to do it, I set about mopping up the spilt ink, although by now much of it had dried.

  “You can tell your cronies at the public,” I continued, “that Smethwick punched the stationmaster for making him walk his infected pigs to market, not because you arranged a confrontation over a drop of measly lamp oil.”

  I took to my feet, became dizzy, and sat down. It did not occur to Wheeler to assist me.

  “Take it from me, Mr Wheeler,” I said, “Smethwick is a thoroughly nasty piece of work. The kind to bear a grudge.”

  Jack frowned deeply.

  “Everyone knows that,” he replied.

  My angry animations set the iodine stinging again so I waved the clerk away. Again, he ignored me.

  “So ’e didn’t own up to taking the oil then?” he quizzed me snappily, indifferent to my suffering.