A Station In Life

by James Smiley

  “His Lordship still be lookin’ for someone to run the village drapery,” Humphrey informed me in one of his familiar tangents. “Mrs Sharpe, the dressmaker, told I the ladies of Upshott are findin’ the shop’s closure a terrible hardship.”

  I joined him in a brief chuckle then studied the telegraph wires. A new pair of conductors had been hung to accommodate a metallic-return circuit providing communication between adjacent signalmen. Ivor Hales could now send and receive electric bell codes to report the passing of trains. With four wires now spanning the lineside telegraph poles, the South Exmoor was beginning to acquire an air of importance.

  “No sign of earth-return telegraphy,” I reflected, baffling Humphrey.

  We observed with relief that the most bothersome improvement of all, that of rebuilding the platforms to a universal height of thirty inches above rail level, had now been completed. The labourers, hired from Lord Lacy’s estate, had come and gone sporadically throughout the work and caused protracted upheaval.

  At this point I should like to speak of supernatural stirrings, for all my worries combined as one amounted to nought in comparison.

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  Chapter Eighteen — Unrest in the spirit world

  Apropos my domestic servant, her engagement was destined to be something of a trauma. Indeed, the first of several disquieting developments came one Friday afternoon when I was waylaid by Humphrey on the ‘up’ platform, which was now deserted, and introduced to a strange woman wearing a black cashmere dress. The time must have been circa 3.45pm because I recall standing back from the platform edge to avoid the smuts of a circus special travelling non-stop to Exeter.

  “Meet Miss Blake,” Humphrey shouted above the train’s rumble, and presented the woman who was to do my chores.

  I was taken aback by the extraordinary person my Senior porter had recruited. Miss Blake was as pale-faced an icon of the female complexion as ever I had seen, but not in an attractive way, you understand, for her skin was more the texture of cabbage than alabaster. By way of two red dots, rather like the eyes of an albino mouse, she emerged from the cascading smoke and stared at me as if I were her executioner. Her ears were adorned with pendulous bobs and bangles that tinkled musically with her every move, and fluttering upon her shoulders in the wind caused by passing elephants was a delicate scarf embroidered with signs of the zodiac. Yet the woman possessed one liberating quality. There was no risk that I would dissipate myself fantasising about her.

  Although I have indicated that Miss Blake was staring at me, upon closer inspection I discovered that she was not. At least, I think not. You see, the focal point of her gaze appeared to be different for each eye, one being the sky and, as far as I could tell, the other being Upshott wood some distance behind me. As I have alluded, Miss Blake’s eyes were small and red, tiny vortexes of fire being a fair description, yet despite their intensity they had an incongruously skittish quality about them which quite transfixed me. They were the eyes of the startled.

  Since the spinster wore no bonnet, I could not help noticing her hair. It was as coarse, straight, and copper bright as the new telegraph wires glinting above the station. Also I noticed that ‘young’ Miss Blake, as Humphrey had described her, was forty if she was a day.

  The small, ginger woman returned my shocked stare with a demure smile and I reciprocated hesitantly. Remembering my manners I doffed my hat and welcomed her to my domain, in response to which she curtsied awkwardly and uttered my name beneath her breath. This she did as if in awe of me. Truth to tell, I was in awe of her. Had the smoke of the passing special reclaimed her I should have walked away and left it at that.

  At this point in my description of Miss Blake my pen falters because your perception of her would not be complete without an appreciation of her disturbing aura. Yet whilst such an aura begs description, equally it defies it. I would merely be scratching the surface were I to say that proximity to the woman Humphrey had visited upon me had a profoundly unsettling effect. It was a sense of dé·jà vu, her appearance and behaviour being unaccountably familiar. She was rather like someone half remembered from a dream, a troubled dream; and who should not exist in the cold light of day. The sensation was quite extraordinary.

  Humphrey, having gone out of his way to arrange the introduction, lowered his shoulders with disappointment at the bad chemistry of it, and was further disappointed when I dealt him a glare of disapproval.

  Just as I was on the point of announcing my change of heart regarding the engagement of a domestic servant the spinster, having overcome her bashfulness, narrowed her ember-like eyes upon me and spoke. I froze instantly and cocked an ear. She told me that she could not chat for very long because someone was calling her. Now, I could hear the fading rattle of the circus train, and I could hear the cheeping of sparrows upon the Goods shed roof, but I could hear no one calling. Consequently I made no comment.

  I forced a smile and waited patiently while Miss Blake struggled to remove an item from her vanity bag, something which I expected to be a reference from a previous employer. In the event it turned out to be a hairbrush, and with it she began preening herself in lengthy strokes. While doing so, and with all the indifference of an offended cat, she quoted me her rates.

  I was fortunate, word had it, to be securing the services of such a first class domestic. The word, mind you, was coming from the domestic herself. I also learned that because I was domiciled in a railway station, in particular Upshott station, I ought to view Miss Blake’s engagement as a very special favour.

  “Oh yes, I refused to do things for Stationmaster Mildenhew,” she revealed groggily, as if he had been a devil worshipper. “Yer see, trains frights I. This station frights I. But I came ’ere because Mr Milsom be a very persuasive gent. He begged me on your behalf, Mr Jay.”

  Humphrey’s silver eyebrows drew together sharply, suggesting this was something of an exaggeration.

  “Your trepidation is not unique, Miss Blake,” I consoled the spinster. “Many people are still frightened of trains. There are even scholars who believe that we shall one day discover a dreadful medical side-effect from travelling so fast. There are folk who believe that railway tickets spread diseases, and that passing through damp tunnels causes rheumatism. Why, I once met a clergyman who insisted that it is only the fury of demons trapped inside the boiler of a steam engine that makes the machine work at all. Imagine that! Modern industry based upon the roasting of devils until they are forced to escape by turning a wheel. Mind you, if this is so, then the more stubborn demons would appear to become so enraged by the imposition that they prefer to explode their way out of the vessel rather than cooperate.”

  Miss Blake flinched. The thought of a boiler bursting with evil did not amuse her. Consequently I adjusted my smile to indicate that I was teasing.

  “Luckily such ignorance is no longer widespread,” I recanted before succumbing to further mischief. “But then, who is to say what like of salamander breeds in the heat of these machines?”

  Discovering that I had succumbed after all and gone too far with my clumsy wit, I held my tongue at last. Miss Blake’s face had distorted badly, as if observed through a goldfish bowl. She flicked a speck of dust from my tunic and said gravely:

  “Oh don’t, Mr Jay. ’Tis not ’at which frights I, ’tis ’ere. ’Tis Upshott station.”

  I hastened to assure Miss Blake that my station was harmless, then quickly diverted the conversation to the matter of her hours and scope of duties. The details settled, Miss Blake left hurriedly by Stoney Way.

  Humphrey took my arm to speak confidentially.

  “Sir,” he opened. “Have e had no enquiries on a puppy-dog?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “I thinks e will, then. Someone must be missin’ the critter, for her fell from a train window early this mornin’. Diggory rescued the hound and found her well enough after the ordeal but the hungry blighter’s been drinkin’ water and eatin’ buns without end. Di
ggory don’t have time for to be runnin’ to the village to fetch buns for a stray dog, and at a penny-ha’penny a piece I can’t afford to be sendin’ him.”

  I halted the porter.

  “From which train did the dog fall?” I asked.

  “The rascal flew out of the empty circus special on her way up to Blodcaster,” he replied.

  “That was over six hours ago, Humphrey. Have there been no enquiries?”

  “Tis what I be askin’ e, Mr Jay. The telegraph were chatterin’ like a crocodile with the shivers but e weren’t around to decipher it so I don’t rightly know,” he complained.

  I had no wish to see the puppy for myself so I instructed Humphrey to deal with the matter.

  “If someone has reported the dog missing then it will have been the stationmaster of Blodcaster trying to reach me,” I reasoned. “Having failed to do so he will doubtless instruct the Guard of the Brewer’s train to pass on the message. Now, Humphrey, when the Brewer’s goods returns from Blodcaster at Five o’ Clock, have a quiet word with the Guard. If he bears no such message then I suggest you put the hapless hound aboard for Giddiford with a note to Head Office. If the owner cannot be found, the company veterinary surgeon will be called upon to destroy the canine. Sadly this is the most likely outcome so I suggest you take a saucer of ale to the doomed creature.”

  “Shall I fetch him a cigar too?” Humphrey asked.

  “This would not be the first time a member of the public has used a train window to dispose of an unwanted item,” I commented solemnly. “Now be sure to carry out my instructions, Humphrey. Diggory has been taxing me on the subject of a station dog lately but I perceive no need of one.”

  “Neither do I,” Humphrey agreed. “With Goods shed rats gnawing darn great holes in our sacks, I reckons it’s a cat we need.”

  A while later I was watching Snimple paste a new LSWR excursion poster to a billboard, ensuring that he did not crease it, when I chanced to see Mrs Smith alighting a trap beyond the forecourt. She was wearing an elegant peach coloured dress, clearly a legacy of more prosperous times, which featured a shroud of fine lace and shoulder sashes tied at the rear with an outer skirt drawn up and supported by a crinolette. Be she at large in public or ensconced in her work at home, Élise was always a joy to behold, and I imagine that she had accepted a lift into Upshott to reduce the strain upon her purse. Her unexpected appearance gave me an opportunity to approach her with a suggestion so I intercepted her as she turned for the High street. I was greeted with a smile as warm as propriety would allow.

  “Mrs Smith,” I opened, “I hope you will forgive me for the intrusion but I wonder if you would care to discuss a proposition with me.”

  “Of course, Mr Jay,” she replied with hushed intrigue. “Oh, but if it is about the coal, I suppose Diggory forgot to thank you. I gave him explicit instructions…”

  “No, no, it is not about the coal,” I replied as we walked towards the station.

  Inspired by Miss Macrames’ forthright approach to relationships I invited Mrs Smith to call me Horace.

  “And do please call me Élise,” she responded. “But Horace, I hope you do not invite such informality from my son while he is on duty.”

  “The boy does not call me Horace and I do not call him Élise,” I assured her. “Now, Élise, if I may make so bold, I should like you to consider a suggestion regarding your future dwelling arrangements.”

  Élise was taken aback and slowed her pace. I diverted briefly to congratulate Snimple upon his efforts. The poster was almost readable.

  “Something has come to my notice that might be of interest to you,” I began, having directed Élise into my office and made her comfortable by way of a padded chair facing my own. “To come straight to the point, and I hope you will not think me presumptuous, it has come to my attention that a vacancy exists in Upshott for which no one but yourself would appear suitable.”

  “A vacancy?” she frowned.

  “Lord Lacy, who owns the village drapery, is having trouble finding a new manager with the necessary business sense and understanding of fabrics,” I elucidated. “It occurs to me that you would make the perfect candidate.”

  Taken aback still further, Élise retreated to her thoughts before responding. Upon returning from her mental excursion she asked but one question.

  “What remuneration does his Lordship offer?”

  “I do not know,” I replied, knowing that her interest lay in the possibility of associated accommodation. “But apparently he is willing to make the upstairs stockrooms available for domestic use if necessary. He has done so before. And by all accounts he is quite desperate to restore trade.”

  Élise, having at first seemed hesitant, broke into a tentative smile.

  “It would certainly shorten Diggory’s walk to work each day,” she said.

  “What say I tell his Lordship that you are interested?” I gusted. “It can do no harm, and it would be no trouble to arrange, for his agent frequents my station.”

  “Yes, Horace, please do,” she agreed. “As you say, there can be no harm investigating the possibilities, although I must not presume that his Lordship would find my application the most acceptable. Perhaps he is looking for a gentleman to fill the post.”

  “He is too practical for that, Élise,” I assured her. “And I will happily vouchsafe your credentials should you wish. I can even accompany you to the interview.”

  “No, Horace,” Élise retorted anxiously. “I am grateful to you for bringing this vacancy to my attention but I must stand on my own two feet. As a female candidate I shall need to demonstrate independence of spirit. Besides, people would talk.”

  I curtailed my enthusiasm and escorted Élise to the forecourt. Here she took my hand gently while saying goodbye and I felt an affinity which I dared not voice with my flawed understanding of women, but which convinced me of the wonderful companionship her late husband must have enjoyed. For a man like myself, of course, there was the more accessible Rose Macrames, should I ascend safely even to this, but I had long resigned myself to the probability of bachelorhood. As if to toy with my uncertainties, fate brought Rose purposefully into view.

  “Horace, I have news,” she called.

  Unable to curb her excitement, this buxom woman closed upon me and gave my cheek a devouring kiss, her lips lingering afterwards as if having discovered a new delight. Élise smiled stiffly and left. When I hurried away to my office, Rose followed me.

  “Oops, I beg your pardon, Horace, it’s just that I’m so excited,” she explained breathlessly. “I’ve tracked down one of the people who complained about you and he’s all but admitted it was a lie.”

  I halted abruptly by my door.

  “Who is he and why is he doing it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s the capstan operator at Chapel pit,” she said. “I waited ’til he was on his way home drunk and flattered him with a kiss, just a dainty one of course, and he admitted to taking a bribe. Well, nearly.”

  “Nearly?” I queried her grimly. “Unless he can be persuaded to recant before railway officials, and reveal his paymaster, I remain a dead duck.”

  “But this is so unfair,” Rose slumped with disappointment. She took to my seat and sulked. Her next remark, however, was quite inexplicable. “Why does this keep happening to me?” she said, staring out of the window coldly.

  While I was studying her face for clues she abandoned my chair and hurried away. I removed my hat and sat at my desk, pondering my future with my buttocks warmed by the residual heat of hers.

  At 5.05pm Ondle arrived in the sidings pulling a jury car from which alighted one dozen platelayers who had hitched a ride home after their day’s toil. It was not customary for labourers, switchmen or platelayers to commute so commodiously, they often having to walk up to ten miles, but Ondle was due back ‘on shed’ at this time and could therefore provide a lift without repercussions. The men had been working at an isolated spot known as Chanting Bend on Lor
d Lacy’s private estate and clearly taken the opportunity to do some shooting. In such circumstances fowling pieces were not the poacher’s stealthiest tool, loud bangs tending to attract gamekeepers, but with a steam engine available for a quick getaway different rules applied.

  Jesting with each other boisterously, the labourers encircled the jury wagon and apportioned the spoils of their trespass. Mr Swain, the Chief ganger, plucked a brace of rabbit from the pile of limp carcasses and presented it to the locomotive crew, the two morkins shortly to be hung with a knot of pigeon in a corner of the footplate. Now the labourers threw the remaining bounty over their shoulders and repaired to the Shunter, in the hospitality of which establishment they would quench their thirsts and forget their hardships for a good hour.

  Observing this cameo of railway life was a solitary man standing upon Platform One. After switching his gaze he stared at me intently and I felt there was something familiar about him. When I stared back at him with the same intensity he looked away and pretended to be otherwise engaged. Nevertheless I knew that he was observing me, and decided that if he did not quit soon I would challenge him.

  By the look of the labourers their shoot had been good and much merrymaking was in prospect. With faces of liquorice and tattered waistcoats appended with epaulets of hare, duck and pheasant, they had begun chaunting songs and ditties even before reaching the bar, and by the volume of their singing I reckoned that between them they would drain a good barrel of cider before staggering home to their wives. Whereupon, incidentally, the real ding-dong would begin.

  The identity of the solitary man was revealed when he donned his pince-nez to read Snimple’s unreadable poster. Thus reconfigured, his face became recognisable as the bookish little fellow whom I had seen talking to Rose. Consequently I decided that if he was observing me then I would observe him back, from a distance. A direct challenge would be futile. Any explanation the cove might tender for his suspicious behaviour would probably be false.