by James Smiley
Keeping my eye on this spy I strolled across the yard to the little 2-4-0 tank engine that had imported the platelayers and from here observed him through a narrow gap beneath the boiler. While so doing, I saw him adjust his location to improve his view of me, whereupon I cleverly relocated myself to defeat him. It was a game of cat and mouse, but with the Beyer Peacock foundry on my side in the form of forty tons of ancient ironmongery, the peculiar fellow had to settle for a general view of the yard, presumably satisfied that I could not slip away unseen.
The South Exmoor railway operated four locomotives in all, two of them of contemporary design leased from the LSWR, and two decrepit bargains of which Ondle was one. This old retainer was a visual conundrum and concealed me well. It’s glistening copper capped chimney and brass steam dome, both tall, curvy and pleasing to the eye, were insulted by a cab that was little more than a sheet metal box with square windows, and while reflecting that SER enginemen were lucky to have a cab at all, I peered with great effect through its haphazard conglomeration of tubes and rods.
Ondle’s driver leaned from the footplate. Expecting him to ask what I was doing, instead he shook his head soberly and handed me a crinkled copy of the Daily Chronicle. I straightened the newspaper and read the column to which he was pointing and learned of the slaughter of thirty people in a train crash at Clapham Junction, caused by an inexperienced driver missing a signal and shunting his engine across the path of a fast ‘up’ train.
Ondle’s driver removed his cap and muttered a prayer, his supplication being not for the passengers for whom he was doubtless sorry, but for the errable soul upon the footplate whose lapse in concentration had caused the dreadful smash.
“He’ll be cast into perdition,” said the engineman, his verdict reverberating around Ondle’s olive-green and black cab.
“God forgives all misdeeds,” I ventured, keeping a steadfast eye upon my mysterious observer.
“But not the maimed, or the next of kin,” said the ruddy faced driver, snatching back the newspaper and tossing it in the firebox. “When a simple oversight leads to such carnage there is death from both injury and shame.”
He was right, of course. Until the introduction of mechanical interlocking systems in the latter part of the century, which prevented conflict between signals and points, railway safety depended entirely upon staff vigilance. All it took was poor visibility or someone’s dull wit to give the grim reaper his next harvest.
Ondle’s fireman, returning from the station privy with a pack of curl papers in his hand, doffed his cap to me and climbed to the footplate. As he neared the top rung of the ladder he nearly caught my face with his boot and I backed away to preserve my dignity, making myself visible to the platforms. I backed away further still when the engine’s cylinder cock blew noisily into my legs. The driver, deciding that he had no further need of my society, coaxed his locomotive over the turnout and left me standing alone at the lineside. Feeling somewhat silly, I cast my eye about the station. The spy was gone.
Earlier in the afternoon I had given Miss Blake my spare latch key and knew that presently she was in my scullery skinning and gutting a hare, so I remained on duty until 6.16pm to ‘right away’ the ‘up’ Mail before retiring to my corner table in The Shunter. On this occasion the purpose of my patronage was but to steady my nerves with a malt whisky and cigar, for I was soon to see how good was the cook I had hired. I was stubbing out my cigar when Diggory flung himself through the door at me.
“Your dinner’s ready, Mr Jay,” he bellowed.
The landlord’s wife roused herself from behind the bar, crossed the room with haughty disdain, and removed the menu from my table. I broke camp quickly and followed Diggory.
To complement my steaming dish, Miss Blake handed me a bottle of sauce and two thick slices of bread, then bundled together my soiled linen to pass on to a local woman who took in washing. I set about the meal and discovered that the spinster could cook quite well, though it was easy to see why she had not snared herself a spouse, for her conversation was of a dreadfully morbid bias.
Furthermore, she was given to sudden bouts of staring. For no apparent reason she would stop and stare at a window, a wall, a corner, or perhaps a door, as do cats when tormented by invisible things, and be possessed of heavy breathing. I make no bones about it, the woman gave me the creeps.
Miss Blake spotted me placing her bottle of sauce to one side and took offence.
“We serves that down at The Pheasant,” said she stiffly, pushing the sauce back at me. Before I could think of a polite way to decline the condiment she had uncorked the bottle and tipped a portion upon my plate. “Garn, try it, Mr Jay,” she cajoled me. “I makes it special, and ’tis popular with them sewage workers.”
I dare say it was considered tasty enough by those with a stout stomach but such concoctions played havoc with my digestion, so I ignored her.
“Now, I be off to Parson’s farm for to collect some eggs for my mother,” the spinster continued in her thin voice. “More’s the pity I shall ’ave ter come back ’ere again for to clear the dishes.”
Upon hearing her last remark I looked up and discovered Miss Blake staring at a corner. Fortunately she recovered from the distraction and left without laboured breathing.
By the time Miss Blake returned I had finished eating and was preparing to invigilate upon the platforms again. The domestic had scarcely begun to clear the table when she dropped a handful of cutlery and emitted a piercing shriek. Thinking that she had seen a rat I cast my eye about the floor, but the floor was quite ratless.
“Oh, forgive I, Mr Jay,” she apologised. “I thought I ’eard a noise.” She then confessed: “Lor, ’ow this place do make I nervous.”
“Nervous, why?” I asked. “Are you so afraid of trains, Miss Blake, that merely being in a railway station distresses you? If so, why did you accept this appointment?”
I have to admit that until now I had not realised just how distracted the woman was. Her uncertain eyes gathered upon me in terror.
“Truth to tell, Mr Jay, ’tis this place,” she blurted. “I remembers what they unearthed ’ere when they were a diggin’ the railway.”
Miss Blake fell to her knees and clawed blindly at the scattered utensils.
“Unearthed?” I asked impatiently. “What do you mean, unearthed?”
“Dug up,” she advised me spuriously.
“Yes, yes, I know what unearthed means. What did they dig up?”
“Remains,” said she gravely, and began rubbing a fork as if it would unleash the Holy saviour. “Human remains, they were. Found right ’ere on this very site.”
Having no taste for spooky tales I called a halt to the spinster’s ghastly recollections immediately.
“They were the bones of a man,” she continued regardless. “An evil man accordin’ to parish records. But no one would tell I what ’e ‘ad done to be denied a Christian burial. Still, God gave I an imagination, Mr Jay, and if the dead man did ’alf the things I think ’e did then ’tis right they buried ’im ’ere. Course, in them days no one expected a railway to come through. This station were built on unconsecrated ground, yer see.”
“Like most,” I confirmed wearily.
“I found the skull,” said she. “While a courtin’ a navvy boy. We went among the mounds of spoil all around ’ere for to find some privacy, then it ’appened.” Miss Blake paused from clearing the table and narrowed her intense red eyes upon the untouched bottle of sauce. “My, ’ow that ’andsome lad did chase I for a kiss. Oh, I ran away, of course, Mr Jay,” she advised me with a seemly smile. “But not too fast, mind.”
She removed the cork from the bottle, savoured the spicy aroma unleashed by it, and giggled.
“This navvy boy liked your sauce?” I asked.
“Oh, ’e did, Mr Jay,” the woman purred confidentially. She flinched, and I sensed that we were back on the subject of the heathen burial. “Now, course, I wish I ’adn’t run away, for I ’adn’
t gone but a few steps when I fell down an ’ole,” she declared. “And when I opened my eyes I were face to face with a skull! Well, I couldn’t stop a screamin’, so frit was I. The navvy boy slapped my face but still I couldn’t stop a screamin’ for to tell ’im what I’d seen. Well, I reckon I must ’ave put ’is reputation in jeopardy because ’e ran away and never returned.”
“A sad tale,” I sympathised.
“Often I finds myself a wonderin’ where that navvy boy be now, Mr Jay,” the spinster reflected hauntingly. “But I don’t wonder where them bones is. Them’s right under our feet.”
“Nonsense. I have no doubt the remains were properly disposed of,” I assured her. “There is nothing unholy abroad in Upshott this day.”
Miss Blake did not appear to hear my words of comfort. Either she was in a trance or she was listening to something unnatural. Her wide-set eyes had become fixed in a glasslike stare from the corners of their sockets and I decided that I could tolerate her hysteria no longer.
“Come, come,” I chaffed her. “I tell you there is nothing abroad in Upshott this day. You may rest assured of it. Your imagination is playing tricks, Miss Blake. In my time here I have experienced nothing save the creaks and groans of any building this size.” I turned away and muttered under my breath. “Why have you done this to me, Humphrey?”
Miss Blake overheard my private lamentation.
“Beg yer pardon, Mr Jay?” she asked.
Before I could invent an answer, she twitched violently.
“Hear that?” she jumped.
“No,” I replied, disturbed by the frailty of my voice.
“I ’eard somethin’, Mr Jay. I tell you I did.”
“And I say you did not,” I retorted.
Truth to tell, Miss Blake had indeed heard something, for I had heard it too. Neither a creak nor a groan, it was more of a bump. Unlike Miss Blake, however, I chose to dismiss the sound as meaningless.
“You heard Mr Phillips going home for the night,” I insisted. “That is all. The clerk is inclined to slam his door at the end of a bad day.”
As I was the one who slept alone in the station house each night I preferred this explanation, even though it failed to match the facts. I could not allow this insufferable woman to poison my judgement and have me sitting up all night armed with a truncheon. With a wave of my hand I discharged her early so that I might forget the matter.
“Twern’t Mr Phillips goin’ ’ome,” the scaremonger advised me, donning her shawl. “The gentleman left five-and-twenty minutes ago.”
“If this station is haunted,” I erupted, “then why have I heard nothing peculiar before?”
“Tis my return,” she speculated with a quaver. “Things are attracted to I, sir. Things that can’t get through to normal folk. Sometimes I think a soul is a callin’ I from limbo; a repentant soul awaitin’ a Christian burial.”
“Miss Blake, I crave that in future you do not talk of evil spirits,” I instructed her firmly. Having dealt with the matter I flipped open my snuffbox and placed a small pinch upon the back of my hand. “Anyway,” I said after a long sniff, “if there is an evil spirit calling you, it must be doing so from within a locomotive boiler. And if by being trapped there it is making restitution for its evil ways, by powering one of our trains, then I would rather you left it alone.” I chuckled coldly. “Should we have a locomotive failure then you will be called upon quickly enough to stir new life in the machine. What do you say to that, eh?”
I closed my snuffbox with a loud snap and waited for my witticism to register. This it appeared to do nicely, for Miss Blake cackled like a duck. Unfortunately it soon became apparent that she had not heard one word of my quip, and that her cackling was not laughter. Indeed no. The spinster had heard another of her unaccountable noises and become hysterical.
While aiding her recovery with a chair and a tumbler of water my policy of denial suffered a further setback. The woman’s voice deepened with a most peculiar energy and her thin lips knitted a dire warning.
“Mr Jay, can yer not feel it? Somethin’ is arisin’ and we must be prepared ter face it.”
“I think not,” I riposted, my voice now thinner than hers.
“Truly, sir, I think my comin’ ’ere is a causin’ unrest,” she droned.
At last, this was something about which we could agree.
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Chapter Nineteen — Perpetual something or other
The following day, about Noon, I was patrolling Platform One pondering Miss Blake’s macabre tale when the signalman came by. This Saturday, Ivor was on half day leave and he had transferred control of the signalbox to a relief switchman from Giddiford. Ivor was wearing green corduroys and carrying a tartan blanket under his arm, a sure sign that he was off to Upshott hill to picnic with his family. I beckoned him to the shade beneath the platform canopy and set about testing the authenticity of Miss Blake’s story.
Convinced that Mr Hales would expose it as humbug or perhaps a long standing joke I discharged the details with some levity and a barely restrained smirk, afterwards folding my arms affectedly in anticipation of his equally sceptical reply.
“That’s about the length of it, Mr Jay,” he concurred with a heavy frown.
In sheer surprise I lowered my arms and my jaw, and gaped at him. He laughed self-consciously.
“But these events took place well before my time here,” he elucidated. “Have a word with Humphrey. Humphrey knows all about the curse.”
“Curse?” I retorted. “Who said anything about a curse? This is Devonshire, not darkest Africa. Surely you do not give credence to such nonsense, Ivor.”
Ivor smiled enigmatically and stroked his zigzag whiskers. I sniffed. The fellow seemed ever to smell of bluebells, which I believe came from the metal polish that he applied to his signalling instruments. He eyed me reservedly and grunted neutrally. I eyed him cautiously and grunted angrily.
“It has come to a pretty pass when a man of your substance believes the nonsense of the half-conscious,” I chided the fellow. “I had expected you, of all people, to pour scorn upon this ridiculous ghost story.”
I had been reminded yet again that education does not always unshackle a country fellow from his superstitions. I was also reminded that even when it fails in all else, education can sharpen the wit, so I studied my colleague carefully to see if he was baiting me. Frankly, I could not tell.
“It doesn’t signify, Mr Jay,” Ivor assured me pithily. “Folk believe what they will. Nevertheless, an Upshott stationmaster has yet to last more than twelve months, so something must be wrong.”
“Just so,” I concurred briskly, referring to the first part of his observation. A pensive mood overtook me when the second registered. “Twelve months?” I queried him.
Ivor confirmed this disturbing new fact and fell to a dead-eyed gaze.
“Come now,” I chuckled. “You shall have to do better than this to frighten me.”
The signalman grimaced, adjusted his woollen cravat, and left. I grimaced, adjusted my thoughts and retreated to the space under my hat which, by now, was a warren of ugly speculations.
I decided to take Mr Hales’s advice and consult Humphrey. Humphrey’s was the voice of sanity hereabouts and if he knew of the curse then, by the same token, he would also know that it was a myth. Unfortunately the porter was another of my staff who had finished early and by now would be walking home across the downs. Humphrey lived a mile or so south of Busy Linton on a smallholding managed by his two sons, and in good weather he would stretch his legs rather than ride the coach. Imagine my relief, then, to see him standing upon the forecourt waiting for the omnibus.
“Mr Milsom!” I called anxiously, striding towards the fellow. A number of heads turned to see such indecorum, and so to restore calm I slackened my pace and returned bland smiles. Upon reaching the porter I observed that my conduct was still under scrutiny so I furthered my composure by engaging the porter in a conversational tr
ifle. “I see you have been shopping, Humphrey,” I boomed casually. “Too much to carry over the hill?”
This was a mistake. Humphrey was so flattered that I should find time to make small talk with him that he unleashed upon me the grinding details of his every purchase. His heavy bag had been badly packed and was bulging in all directions. Suddenly it was open and I was invited to inspect its contents.
“Look, Mr Jay, I’ve some Horniman tea in one of them ingenious new packets where they puts a vacuum inside to take up the spare space,” he said. “Though, frankly, it be beyond me why they does such a thing. If a vacuum be nothin’ then how does her stop the tea goin’ mouldy, and why does her cost extra? T’aint cheap either, at sevenpence-ha’penny per quarter, but the misses gets this’n because it keeps fresh until we has company. And talking of the misses, look here, I’ve a tuppeny bunch of violets for to sweeten her. The misses always rounds on me, e see, for buyin’ a wrong’n. But her list do say flour, umbles, and a Cornish mackerel from Cubitt’s. Personally, I always reckons on pilchards myself…”
“Yes, yes, indeed. Most laudable, Humphrey,” I interrupted. “Now, what’s this I hear about a cur…”
“Course, I does my best at this shoppin’ lark, Mr Jay,” Humphrey resumed. “But rightly it be women’s doin’s. I can’t be holdin’ with all this idle gossip, e see. Never been one for standin’ in shop doorways chinwaggin’ about what Mrs Smicker be up to, or the price of black-leadin’ and pumice stone.”
“Or standing in station doorways chin-wagging about the contents of a shopping bag, eh?” I teased the fellow.
Humphrey did not hear me. He was rummaging again.
“Want e a piece of gingerbread, Mr Jay?”
“No thank you,” I rattled. “I would rather you told me more about this spinster woman you have loosed upon me, Humphrey. She is most unnatural and sets my teeth on edge with tales of human remains. Why, she claims to be responsible for the discovery of a burial site beneath this station. Do you substantiate her claim?”