by James Smiley
The two-van train, spurred by an uninterrupted descent through Widdlecombe, was now climbing Fallowfield embankment under dense coils of steam dyed shocking pink by a low, morning sun. The locomotive’s urgent thudding grew steadily louder with its echo bouncing back off the surrounding hills and its exhaust expanding dramatically across the water-meadows to create a ceiling of red plaster.
All went quiet and the train coasted politely into the station, halting with its two grimy footplatemen doffing their caps to me. Above our heads the blushing canopy of mist shredded into wisps and filaments and finally nothingness, whereupon Upshott regained its peaceful blue vault.
“Her’s goin’ to be a fine day,” Humphrey observed cheerily. “I reckons we needed that storm.”
“Upon this, sir, we do not agree,” I replied, dealing the porter a sour look.
Humphrey stared at me wondering what he had said wrong.
“I have a telegraph instructor coming today,” I advised him. “Therefore I shall not be at liberty to enjoy this fine day of yours. And since you will be in charge of the station while I receive my tuition, neither shall you.”
“Why need e a telegraph instructor?” Humphrey blinked incredulously.
I left his question unanswered.
Twice had the telegraph instructor postponed his visit, eventually arranging to travel with the passenger and timber empties of the 7.46am mixed train. Much daunted by the prospect of being tutored in the manner of a schoolboy I retreated to my office to ponder my fate. Here, after a little constructive thought, it occurred to me that should my tenure of Upshott station be terminated prematurely then a knowledge of Morse code might avail me access to an alternative career, perhaps in the Post Office. Resolving, then, to master the code at all costs I became at once less bleak, and in this triumphal mood squared myself to deal with another important matter. Accordingly I summoned Diggory.
“Master Smith, your habitual absence is increasingly troublesome,” I opened while he stood to attention before me. “Whilst I take account of your recent domestic distractions you must remember that the railway has a strict tempo of its own which must be adhered to.”
“Yes, sir,” he agreed solemnly.
“Now, boy,” I continued, “you are paid a total of seven shillings and sixpence per week for your responsibilities, and presently you are not permitted to handle cash, which means that you are not expected to sell tickets to the public. However, we both know that on occasions you do, and that you have demonstrated an ability to make out tickets promptly and give the correct change. I see also that your writing is legible, even if your vocabulary requires expanding, and that you have the rare gift of spelling place names correctly. Moreover, it has not escaped my attention that you frequently assist Jack with clerical work behind the ticket window. Most important of all, you have gained a reputation among your colleagues for being both honest and trustworthy. Therefore I am promoting you to the grade of Junior porter with cash responsibilities. I believe you will this find helpful.”
In the fluctuating light of the departing Mail train the contours of Diggory’s long, dimpled face reshaped to form a smile. While smiling back I wondered if this was the last assistance I would be able to render the Smiths. Since Élise had no guarantee of success in her new venture I decided to afford her what help I could while still able, Although, in truth I had little doubt that she could survive one of Lord Lacy’s famous probation periods with credit to spare. Indeed the Smiths’ future now looked more secure than mine!
“As you probably know, Diggory,” I continued, “this means an increase of one shilling and nine pence in your pay. In return for this I shall expect improved availability. Indeed I do not know what commands so much of your time lately but you will need to reconsider your priorities if I am not to regret my decision.”
Registering my caution, Diggory’s lineaments regrouped into a frown. However, he recovered quickly and asked a question.
“Will I have to wait until January to get my increase, Mr Jay?”
Handing him a form for his mother to sign, I answered favourably.
“As yet the London and South Western railway plays no part in SER staffing arrangements so your promotion will be effective from next week,” I replied. “Now, we have a consignment of semaphore signal arms from Saxby and Farmer which need separating into stacks. Some of them are ‘Home’ signals and others are ‘Distant’. You will consider which is which by referring to this manual.”
I handed Diggory a copy of the latest ‘Signals and Telegraph’ handbook, and when he left my office he was already studying it and continued to divide his attention thus throughout the day until colliding with the Telegraph Instructor striding purposefully in the direction of my office.
Within twenty minutes of my first lesson I had confounded the instructor, a tall and swarthy fellow, with my complete inability to absorb abstract information. At first this fascinated him and he rose boastfully to the challenge, but as the novelty wore off he became abusive. For despite my best efforts, the dots and dashes of the universal electric telegraph system continued to perplex me. Indeed, in desperation I suggested that we abandon Morse code and wait for the South Exmoor to install a Cook and Wheatstone circuit which, being alphabetical, could be operated even by a fool. To my disgust the lanky didact, who was clearly the progeny of two telegraph poles, laughed openly and pointed out that the old alphabetical system required too many wires. I had no understanding of this remark, and upon this sultry, humid day with my shirt clinging to me, I was told that I was lucky to have attained the rank of stationmaster without the power of comprehension. Simmering with humiliation, at last I understood the purpose of progress. It was to identify and weed out sluggards like me.
Of course, today’s tribulations had been inevitable. During my time on the London & South Western I had needed no knowledge of long distance communications because I had always worked at major stations employing skilled operators, or locations where there was no telegraph at all. Therefore my ignorance of the technicalities granted the instructor no leave to be impolite, and had he not the means to make my life still more miserable I should have struck him on the nose with the knob of my walking stick and made his eyes water.
The balance of power not being in my favour I had no choice but to demure, and this I did by way of a trick I had learned from a colleague earlier in my career. I retreated to my imagination where a fishing rod and pleasant spot on the breezy banks of Upwater awaited me. An insolent form of absence, I know, but by now I was past caring, and as the minutes advanced like a drowsy slug I improved upon the fantasy by adding a picnic basket. Of course, this was fetched by the adorable Élise, her female form in the dappled sunshine beneath a tree flattered by a lace dress of gossamer immodesty. It was now that I enjoyed an unexpected dividend. For as my lips drew closer to hers, our affection for each other energised by the hum of dragonflies hovering in the reedmace, I sensed that my conjured excursion irked my overseer to the same extent that it titillated me, for beyond the melody of birdsong and the babble of the river I could hear him clearing his throat.
At the end of the lesson the instructor prodded me back to life for the last time and shook his head with gloom. I followed him to the cool evening air as he stepped outside to recover, and bade him goodbye with a vigorous handshake. Recovering his limp hand from my grasp he boarded a train, mumbled something about seven days being long enough for the intelligent man to learn Morse code, then decided to extend me fourteen. Perhaps he was inclined to make sport of all his pupils in this way but his words churned my stomach nevertheless, for I did not know if I had fourteen days service left upon the railway. My wounded pride had me insist that I be given seven days like everyone else and a lugubrious shrug of the shoulders was the result.
It so happened that Élise was boarding the same train as the instructor, but before I could intercept her for an exchange of pleasantries the carriages lurched into motion. Stumbling to a halt betwixt twirls of st
eam scudding turbulently about the platform my face tingled, and whilst this was normally caused by vapour ejections from the engine, on this occasion I assumed it to be my numb head returning to life.
With the train clattering away in the distance I went to the Parcels office and gazed upon the dummy instrument that my tutor had installed there. It shared a dimly lit corner with the scales, alongside it the instruction book and a scribbled note to the effect that I should practise every day for a week. After its removal, stated the note, I would commence exchanging live messages with Head Office until my speed improved. Now my days were set to become as miserable as my nights.
Jack Wheeler sped into the room and gave me a shove.
“Urry, get behind the door,” he blurted. “I ’aven’t got time to explain.”
“I beg your pardon?” I resisted.
I received another push and the door was swung back to conceal me. As much intrigued as affronted, and bewildered that a rural backwater like Upshott could spawn such mayhem, I remained hidden to see what would happen.
Humphrey entered the room and took a nod from Jack in understanding of my whereabouts but seemed unable to settle. Succumbing to temptation he pulled the door forward and peered at me with a plump smile, dealt me a respectful nod, then returned the door to the end of my nose with a cluck of amusement. I was losing patience and about to break cover when Jack blurted another warning and the porter hurried across the room to adopt a suspiciously idle stance by the window.
“The weasel’s nearly ’ere,” the clerk hissed contemptuously, then joined Humphrey.
“Who is nearly here?” I asked.
“Clive Bannerman,” Humphrey whispered, adding under a squeaky breath: “He used to be an impresario but sold his provincial theatres to buy the brewery in Blodcaster.”
There was no time for finish our conversation and satisfy my inflamed curiosity. Jack stepped into the hall to greet the intriguing Mr Bannerman and invited him into the Parcels office. Shortly I heard the visitor’s footfalls upon the floorboards halt abruptly as if something was amiss. Jack stepped forward and offered reassurance.
“Don’t worry, Mr Bannerman, this is our top porter, Mr Milsom, who I was telling you about.”
I squinted through the gap by a door hinge and observed, to my surprise, the bookish dwarf who had argued with Rose Macrames and been watching me. With my curiosity close to combustion I maintained cover and waited patiently, for it looked as though the valley’s most artful trapper was about to spring a trap. Jack beckoned Bannerman forward to parley.
“I wrote a letter to the company like we agreed,” he began slyly. “And I told ’em the Stationmaster ’ere is rude and unreasonable and upsets everyone.”
“And I’ve just posted off a complaint myself, sir,” Humphrey put in. “I believe the sooner we gets a new stationmaster here the better. We’ve all just about had enough of this twerp.”
Bannerman was pleased by this news and swung the door closed to avoid being overheard. Perhaps he did not see me because he had removed his pince-nez, but I stood stock still and hoped that his blindness would continue.
“Well done, gentlemen,” he gloated. “Common passenger grievances on their own will not do the trick because everyone knows the public is never satisfied, but complaints from time served employees like yourselves should expedite Jay’s dismissal nicely, especially if you warn that he’s upsetting important people.”
Shrinking into my corner I prayed that Jack’s daft idea of a hiding place would serve at least until I learned the plot of this vile man, but then in a mirror on the wall I saw his smirk and realised that I was likewise visible to him. I bent my knees until the mirror reflected only the ceiling, and from this ridiculous position watched the dwarf remove his pretentious tweed hat and hold it behind his back as if respectful of Jack’s resourcefulness.
“Our reasons for wanting rid of Jay may be different, gentlemen, but I think truncation of his tenure here suits all parties,” he deliberated coldly.
“Oh, you think so,” I muttered, tempted to step out and take control of events.
The cove cast his eye about the room so Jack diverted him with a question.
“You ’aven’t said why you want rid of ’im, sir?”
Bannerman realised that he was dealing with someone as shrewd as himself so he answered very carefully.
“Well, let’s just say that I’m closing off someone’s avenue of escape,” he replied, his preparations to leave making his baggy overcoat heave like an angry bullock.
“Would that be Miss Macrames?” Humphrey asked rhetorically. “Word has it Miss Macrames danced for e at one time, then became Mrs Bannerman. I reckons she be your wife.”
“Common law wife,” Bannerman corrected him.
“And now you won’t let ’er leave you,” Jack tested him.
Bannerman grunted humourlessly and donned his hat.
“Well, e be one step behind, sir,” Humphrey advised him. “It be the miller over at Upwater e needs to ruin now, not the stationmaster. And for the record, let it be said that Mr Jay be an excellent stationmaster and worth a dozen of e.”
Roundly outwitted, Bannerman grunted again and resumed his departure. Whereupon I straightened up, stepped forward and obstructed him, staring down my nose at the dwarf with disdain. He recoiled with surprise and attempted to step around me, but I refused to be stepped around.
“So this is a trap, is it?” he protested.
“And it’s ’arvest time,” Jack breathed over his shoulder.
Seeing my uncertainty, Humphrey ushered me to one side.
“E see, Mr Jay, we noticed Miss Macrames be a terrible Jonah, taintin’ every gent she associates with, and when we put our heads together we calculated the most likely cause be Mr Bannerman.”
“Rose is a gold digger and deserves everything she gets,” Bannerman interrupted, then tried to push past Jack.
Jack stood his ground and I joined him.
“If you please, I believe we have business to discuss,” I insisted. “How soon can I expect a retraction of these phoney complaints you have whipped up against me? And what recompense have you in mind for the anxiety, sir, that I have suffered?”
“I’m afraid I no longer hire magicians,” came the sarcastic reply.
“Then we shall have to trade blows,” I declared. “I will begin by discrediting you in this community, and in the business of discrediting people you will find that I am in a position to do a better job than you managed, Mr Bannerman. Upon this you may rest assured. Unless, of course, you see fit to redeem yourself while there is still time.”
Bannerman made no reply, although by now the certainty upon his face had drained. He barged past me with the petulance of a music hall diva and slammed the door behind him.
“I reckon ’e don’t deserve to be let off the ’ook so easy, Mr Jay,” Jack complained.
“Have no fear, Jack,” I replied. “Bannerman is the self aggrandising kind of egotist who will fall heavily enough upon his own sword when the time comes. In the meantime he will devour himself with recrimination for being so gullible.”
“It was ’Umphrey who sniffed ’im out,” Jack explained reluctantly, then boasted, “but the trap was my idea.”
“Then thank you both,” I responded humbly.
“Twer nothin’ sir,” Humphrey warbled. Between e, me, and the fence post, Mr Jay, ’twer my brother in Blodcaster who set the ball a rollin’. He heard a whisper, e see.”
I resolved to remain worthy of the loyalty that my two colleagues had shown me but, as ever, Jack sought to deflate me before I grew too large.
“Anyway, we don’t need ’elp from a weasel like Bannerman to get rid of you, sir.”
Jack left, but Humphrey tarried.
“Mr Mildenhew were a fine fellow, sure enough, but he weren’t of the same high calibre as your good self, Mr Jay. E be a keen all-rounder who makes it a pleasure to work for the railway.”
I was abashed to respon
d to such fine remarks, but my blush turned to flush when the porter gazed in awe at the polished cabinet containing the dummy telegraph instrument.
“Poor ol’ Mildenhew… The fellow couldn’t even work the telegraph apparatus. Yet here e be, Mr Jay, striving for even greater mastery.”
Somewhat shaken I returned Humphrey to his work and sat before the dummy instrument to begin my first practise session. Not a notable success, my head was still chattering with ‘clicks’ that should have been ‘clacks’ and ‘clacks’ that should have been ‘clicks’ when eventually I stepped outside to ‘right away’ the 10.29pm ‘down’ passenger train. This was a Third class service known as the ‘Parliamentary’ because of its statutory, one-penny-per-mile fare limit to accommodate the valley’s poor folk. Upon its departure the overcrowded train caused me a most unpleasant nausea, for locomotives burning cheap coal of the kind purchased by the SER laid down a light grey fog smelling of rotten eggs. While normally not troubled by the stink, just now I was worn down and had to dash to my quarters to freshen up.
Regarding my future as a railwayman, this now looked generally more favourable, for Miss Blake’s resurrected heathen appeared to have lost his appetite, my dinner having been eaten by its rightful owner, and there was no hint of a thunderstorm. Furthermore, a clove of garlic now hung above my door and poisoned cheese supplemented the traps that I had set earlier. My only remaining concern was that I still had no time to attend church and consequently remained ‘a lamb separated from the Lord’s herd’.
Earlier in the evening I had seen Diggory returning from The Shunter surreptitiously clutching something wrapped in wax-paper. I had been unable to investigate the boy’s unauthorised excursion at the time because I was tapping out a message on the dummy instrument and too tense to speak, but being able to recognise mischief when I saw it I simply made a mental note. In all probability I would have forgotten about the incident had I not chanced upon the wax-paper and its contents while transferring the day’s takings from the Ticket office to the safe. Fat was oozing from the greasy bundle and spoiling documents laid out across the Booking clerk’s desk.