A Station In Life

by James Smiley

  “What do you think?” I retorted. “Frankly, I doubt we shall ever get to the bottom of the business. As far as I am concerned, the case of the disappearing lamp oil has itself disappeared. It is best forgotten.”

  I stood up a second time, librated again, and sat down again. The show over, Jack left.

  With all my calculations to rework I could allow myself only two hours fishing at Upwater, and groggily took Jack’s advice to cast my hook upstream of the cress-beds. The clerk had assured me that the biggest bites were to be had at the mouth of the flourmill leat and I felt too sickly to make my own reconnaissance.

  Needless to say I caught no fish here, but I did find the lazy splash of an overshot wheel most relaxing, and relaxation was the chief reason for my sojourn. With a spritely dipper for company I watched a shoal of fry hovering in the crystal slipstream, and observed in the quivering backwaters a rash of lustrous whirligig beetles circling relentlessly over an inverted image of Bessam forest. All this teased my tangled mind into drowsy enchantment and my eye stopped aching.

  The mesmeric spell of the river was broken suddenly by a frenetic swirl of martins chattering and swooping to pick off the gnats that swarmed to the lambent watercourses of the area. After a few minutes observing the aerial antics of these birds, waiting for the bite that was never to come, I turned my attention to the sky, a cloudless blue void, to see if I could spot a skylark. Its melodious twittering was ceaseless enough for a troupe of songsters, yet its telltale speck I could not see.

  Later my thoughts turned to Mrs Smith, whose plight I came to ponder in great depth. There had to be something I could do to assist, but nothing seemed appropriate for such a proud person. One thing I knew, she was sensitive about receiving charity.

  I was still pondering the widow’s circumstances, scratching my head in the manner of a dunce, when my attention was drawn to the mill pond, for in that quarter the fish had begun to plop somewhat lively. At sight of this I put in hand the catching of my supper.

  Having set up my line again, and having found a large stone with which to stun my catch, I waited for my first tug. I did not have to wait long, and I departed Upwater with not only three trout gaping ruefully from my landing net but a good idea how I might help Mrs Smith. Anonymously. Arriving back at the station I summoned Jack Wheeler and Humphrey Milsom to my office immediately.

  “As you two fine fellows know,” I addressed them, flattering Humphrey and surprising Jack, “there is a considerable amount of coal lying at the foot of Widdlecombe bank. It is in a very inaccessible location but you can be sure the resourceful folk of Ondle valley will soon enough find a way to reach it. Therefore I need a decoy, for we are going to pinch the coal ourselves.” Eyebrows lifted. “Furthermore, gentlemen, I have a scheme by which this may be done. However, if you are to be part of my plan I must insist upon complete secrecy.”

  “If e means to boost our winter coal ration, Mr Jay, then I be game even if I has to flee the country first,” said Humphrey, harmonising with Jack’s sly nod.

  “Good,” I gusted. “Then to begin with I want you to start a rumour. I need you to spread word that something dreadful is abroad and mutilating sheep. Say that passengers on trains have observed an uncanny black creature roaming the countryside. Say that you have seen it yourselves, an abominable predator with razor sharp fangs.” I waggled a finger of caution. “Do not be overly creative, lest you contradict yourselves. Simply say that the creature is big enough to eat someone and has been seen leaping from trees making an uncanny wail, mostly in the Widdlecombe area.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr Jay, it’ll be the most terrifying monster ever to stalk the valley,” Jack purred keenly, as if there had been others. “I’ll say it’s got bloodshot eyes and gurgles, and falls down on you in broad daylight.”

  I thumped my desk to sober the clerk.

  “You are supposed to conjure up a frightening beast, Jack, not a drunkard. Indeed you must tantalise your audience with artful brevity. Make vague references to voodoo and people losing their sanity. Above all, confide in no one.”

  “It be a clever idea, Mr Jay,” Humphrey applauded me. “When everyone’s doors be bolted we salvage the lion’s share for ourselves. E mustn’t forget, though, Widdlecombe bank be a devilish place.”

  “We shall not nobble the lion’s share, Humphrey,” I replied. “We shall nobble the lot. Indeed, we shall furnish ourselves beyond surplus, a surplus for which I have plans.”

  “But ’ow many bucketfuls will Diggory ’ave to drag up the slope before we get it all?” Jack asked. “A wheelbarrow won’t be no good unless we ’aul it up on ropes.”

  “What makes you assume it is Diggory I shall expose to this perilous undertaking?” I asked, alarming Jack. “Having given the matter much thought I intend to exploit the efforts of the Civil engineer’s crew. The men are due here soon to clear out the culverts.”

  “Good luck with that,” Humphrey chortled. “Drainage men reckon all toppled goods be theirs by right. Spillage be a most jealously guarded perquisite.”

  “Yes, well, labourers deluding themselves with homespun privileges do not hoodwink the savvy stationmaster,” I replied. “And I have heard that the company engineer will not be accompanying his gang upon this trip so I shall outrank everyone and have the coal fetched without argument. In a railway truck, to boot! Furthermore, I shall have the coal flushed at the water tower to decontaminate it.”

  “Oho, I doubt you’ll get those awkward blighters to go that far, sir,” Humphrey laughed openly.

  “Oho, I think I will?” I replied. “We shall see how these company scavengers respond when I tell them that I am acting upon instructions direct from Headquarters.”

  “Well, sir, it be a bold plan,” Humphrey observed lingeringly, not yet convinced of its prospect.

  “Still, it can’t ’urt to try,” Jack panted keenly. “As every trapper knows, the best plan is always the scariest one.”

  “Then it is settled,” I concluded, breaking up the meeting. “I suggest you two begin your rumour-mongering at once.”

  Somewhat absent minded, Diggory reported for work and attempted to assist with the 1.08pm Blodcaster train. Observing his colour, I reduced his duties and set him the task of polishing my desk, refilling my ink pot, and cleaning my nibs. After the train’s departure I located Humphrey and had a brief word with him concerning the engagement of a woman to clean and cook for me. On my new salary of ninety-five pounds per annum, boosted by rent free tenure of the station rooms, I could now afford to take on a part-time domestic servant.

  “I knows just the woman e needs,” Humphrey chuckled. “Young Miss Blake. Her does for all sorts when her aint behind the bar.”

  “She is a barmaid?” I queried him.

  “Her father be the landlord of The Pheasant,” Humphrey explained. “I’ll have a word with him for e, if e likes. T’is a respectable public, Mr Jay, used by all them commercial travellers, and Miss Blake be very reliable.”

  “Please do,” I implored the porter, for I knew of no one else to approach and was falling behind with my personal requisites.

  The day before the engineer’s train was due I intercepted Humphrey on the platform and asked him if our bogus predator was gaining credibility. Before he could reply, Jack joined us breathlessly and overtook the conversation.

  “They’ve swallowed it ’ook, line and sinker at The Shunter, Mr Jay,” he gasped with a hollow grin. “And down the Coach House too. I’ve been telling of a peculiar black phantom with bloodstained claws that chased me through Upshott wood. In the Lacy Arms, a migrant fiddler reckoned it must be an escaped animal from darkest Africa, but when I told ’im it wasn’t earthly he turned white.”

  “Jack, itinerant musicians are of no consequence here. It is the locals we must frighten,” I reminded him.

  “Worry e not, Mr Jay, for ’tis all in hand,” Humphrey assured me. “Yesterday mornin’ I did a spot of shoppin’ in the village and told the shopkeepers there be a
rapacious gorilla monster on the loose, and everyone had best stay indoors.”

  “A gorilla monster?” I squeaked unintentionally, wondering what manner of hoax I had spawned.

  “Arr, the butcher wants to go after it with his shotgun,” the porter alarmed me. “But don’t e worry, I changed his mind. I reckons no one wants to be mauled by a wounded beast. Between e, me, and the fence post, Mr Jay, this be the most amusin’ prank I ever partook of. May I say, e be most welcome at Upshott, sir. ’Tis a blessed hoot havin’ a stationmaster like e. Why, they’m a callin’ my gorilla monster the ‘Beast of Exmoor’. I almost be afraid to venture out myself.”

  I joined my two colleagues in a hearty outburst of mirth and moved on.

  The following day, the Guard of the early Blodcaster train alighted and handed me a sealed envelope marked for my personal attention. My feet turned to lead as I retreated to my office to open it, and the shock of its contents had me reaching for the salts, for written upon an elaborate and unfamiliar variant of company letterhead was a summons to attend a hearing at Headquarters just one week hence. In addition to existing complaints against me were two more, one made in Blodcaster, the other in Upshott. I had no idea what defence I might mount against these accumulating allegations and thoughts of misconduct and its interpretation exercised my mind all day, a day throughout which I carried the summons about my person like a hidden scar.

  I was clutching the document when the engineer’s train arrived. Hauled by Ondle, a small tank engine of dishevelled external pipework and linkages, the train stopped just beyond the ‘up’ platform and disgorged six men from a jury truck. As the labourers gathered their tools to repair a collapsed drainage ditch, I walked over to them.

  “Where is your chief?” I asked, knowing that he had absconded to indulge a weakness.

  Of the six muddy faces before me, one eventually presumed to reply.

  “Blodcaster,” he said, suddenly animated.

  “Well, no matter,” I responded casually. “I have instructions from Head office regarding a blocked culvert at the foot of Widdlecombe bank. The ditch on the south side is obstructed with coal from a derailment and you are to recover it. You shall bring the coal here.”

  The mud spattered faces, various of size and elevation, had one thing in common. They were all suspicious. To persuade them of my authenticity I waved my summons at them, giving them sufficient time to see the boardroom logotype and header but not the incriminating text below. Determined that the document should serve at least one constructive purpose before bringing my career to an end I was relieved that the bluff worked.

  “When you have recovered all the coal you shall park it by the water tower,” I pressed my luck further. “And there you will flush it thoroughly to remove the mud.”

  The men nodded miserably and returned to their jury rig while I returned to my office with boosted self esteem. Minutes later I heard Ondle reconfiguring the works train to incorporate a coal wagon.

  Astonished by the swiftness of the recovery, an hour or so later I was outside my office watching Ondle detach the nicely filled coal truck alongside the water tower where the men began flushing its muddy cargo. Greatly impressed with myself, I summoned Jack, Snimple, Diggory, and William to my office.

  “William, I want you to issue shovels,” I said. “Diggory, have Mr Maynard find a horse and draw the coal truck as far down the ‘lost’ siding as possible. The ‘lost’ siding, I should explain, was a scarcely used siding which nature had all but reclaimed. Snimple and Jack, you two begin shovelling instantly it is parked there. I want that coal discharged into the bushes, or anywhere out of sight of the public, and certainly the gas house stoker. Oh yes, and cover it tightly with tarpaulin to maintain its volatility. It will take months to use up.”

  “What’s this all about, Mr Jay?” William asked.

  “I hope I am not detaining you,” I dismissed him.

  Only Diggory did I detain for a word.

  “Diggory, as you can see, we have purloined some extra coal for the station house this winter, there being a deficiency in the basic ration, but as is also evident we have greatly overcompensated. So I am giving everyone leave to help themselves. This instruction includes you, of course, so please feel free to take home however much your mother requires.”

  The young man thanked me most solemnly and my gratification was complete.

  “I suggest that you obtain a very strong bag,” I concluded. “Also, as long as you complete all your duties in time, you may take the last train home each night to save the walk. Coal is heavy.”

  A few days later I was standing upon the platform anticipating the arrival of the afternoon Blodcaster train when Rose Macrames entered the station, her face glowing with recognition beneath a pale green bonnet matching a frilly dress and parasol. She approached me directly.

  “How is my favourite stationmaster?”

  I returned her a droll smile.

  “I am afraid there is no news of your parasol, Rose. I fear that you may have seen the last of it,” I said.

  “I guessed as much, Horace,” she sighed, caressing the frills of her replacement. “But never mind. As you can see, this one suits me better. Don’t you think?”

  “Indeed it does,” I nodded, concealing my ignorance of the original.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Horace, but I’ve been hearing malicious stories about you around Blodcaster,” she blurted unexpectedly. “But what people are saying doesn’t correspond at all to the gentleman stationmaster I’ve come to know. Have you snubbed someone of influence?”

  “What have you heard, Rose?” I asked keenly.

  “That you are ill tempered and rude,” she replied. “Yet strangely I can find no one who speaks from experience. It all seems to be hearsay.”

  “Gossip is like wildfire,” I complained. “It usually begins with a careless or deliberate spark then spreads until quelled by someone’s ruination. On this occasion the calumny would appear to be the work of a detractor who prefers to remain anonymous. But never mind. Perhaps I will come face-to-face with my mysterious antagonist at the hearing, for official complaints have been made and I am to be officially reprimanded. Quite possibly dismissed.”

  Miss Macrames gasped.

  “Horace, no! This can’t be right. Let me speak up for you. Yes, I will speak up for you. We kindred spirits must stick together, don’t you think? Surely it’s plain to everyone that you’re incapable of any nastiness.”

  The Blodcaster train clattered to our sides and squealed to a halt, whereupon I opened a carriage door and watched my charming adherent settle herself inside a compartment. Sadly I was too on edge to appreciate this cosy moment. I closed the door and she opened a window.

  “Horace,” she declared, “I have friends in Blodcaster. I’ll make it my business to identify this scoundrel.”

  Greatly amused, I tipped my hat and left to attend to a lady needing assistance with a valise. A few seconds later, with the train departing, the Guard leaned from his cabin and thrust a mail pouch into my hand.

  “For you, stationmaster,” he said, vanishing into a wall of steam.

  I opened the pouch and found a confidential letter advising me that my disciplinary hearing was postponed until further notice, the Directors of the railway being preoccupied with joint Board meetings at Waterloo. This unexpected reprieve was delivered with such ethereal swiftness that I wondered if by sharing my concerns with Rose I had invoked divine intervention.

  Six weeks elapsed before the domestic from The Pheasant could take me on, during which time I had heard nothing from the directors of the SER. I believed they were so preoccupied with the impending absorption into the LSWR that no time could be found to deal with my alleged misdemeanours, though I had no doubt that I would be called to account eventually. Needless to say, Rose failed to unmask the malicious rumourmonger of her home town.

  By now I had become a valued customer of The Shunter which, albeit a dim and grimy publ
ic house frequented by labourers, was conveniently situated by the station entrance. In the shelter of its plain, red brick walls I had secured monopoly of a corner table at which no one else now dared sit, and such was my relationship with the proprietor that I had been invited to bring food from my own larder should the house menu not suit.

  This was a thoughtful gesture, for it allowed me to make use of the gifts I received from patrons of the railway, most of which were game meats. If I wanted a pheasant for my dinner, for example, I had only to deliver the bird to The Shunter an hour or two in advance and in return for a nominal payment it would be plucked, pulled and cooked by the time I was ready to eat. As a result of this special arrangement I felt awkward about hiring a domestic, for the engagement would put an end to my patronage.

  Much had happened on the South Exmoor railway in recent weeks, its branchline ambience now giving way to that of a mainline spur, with additional excitement caused by the commencement of London & South Western excursion trains from the metropolis. Traffic had been increased still further by the construction of two new passing loops, one at Widdlecombe, the other at Busy Linton, necessitating frequent permanent way trains conveying ballast, sleepers, and lengths of rail manufactured to a new Bessemer steel design.

  Upshott’s goods yard had been designated a temporary storage area for signalling components awaiting installation and become a cluttered emporium of railway contraptions. Humphrey joined me as I gazed at the stacks of wooden semaphore arms, signal posts, finials, steel rods, drums of cable, pots of tallow, pulleys, nuts, bolts, levers and all the paraphernalia one never noticed when installed and working.

  “I prefers men with flags,” he rumbled. “E won’t catch I on a train after this lot’s been installed.”

  “It will take more than this lot to make travelling at speed possible on the SER, nevertheless one is denuded of complacency, I grant you,” I concurred, unable to reconcile such flimsy devices with the blind faith put in them.

  Sundry other items, particularly tins of paint and sacks of clout-nails, were disappearing as fast as they could be delivered, but this had more to do with pilfering than the pace of work.