Read Online A Station In Life by James Smiley - Free Book Online

exception.  Having lost the thread
of our conversation I prompted the porter to expand upon his digression.
    “Trouble?  What trouble?”
    “A stickin’ safety
valve, by all accounts, Mr Jay.  Her aint blowin’ off all the excess pressure. 
I tell e, sir, I never heard a boiler groan like it.  Apart from my misses when
rain be due, course.”
    Visualising Humphrey’s
spouse of similar proportions to himself, groaning with pain, I heaved a
feckless sigh.  This turned to a gasp when the significance of his words
registered.
    “Saints preserve us!” I
jumped.  “A sticking safety valve is the most dangerous fault a steam engine
can develop.  Are you sure the footplatemen have not simply tightened down the
knurled nut?  They do this to get extra steam on a difficult run, you know.  It
is quite against the rules and extremely hazardous, but these drivers think
they are a law unto themselves.”
    “I knows that, Mr Jay,
but Lacy don’t have the Salter type valve so her be tamper proof,” Humphrey
advised me.
    “Well, if the safety valve
really is sticking then the crew should throw out the fire at once and have the
engine towed back to Giddiford,” I said.
    “Arr, e don’t know
Driver MacGregor, sir?” the porter wheezed.  “That man be too stubborn to admit
defeat.”
    “Driver MacGregor, is
it?” I fretted, returning Humphrey his pigeons.  “I shall have a word with this
MacGregor fellow.”
    The porter struggled
away with his consignment of feathered gossipers warbling noisily.
    With no sign of the
persistent Miss Macrames about I remained atop the footbridge to settle my
nerves and study the layout of the station.  Beneath me, simmering quietly
alongside Platform One, was the locomotive that had banked the troublesome
timber train from Giddiford, this being a visitor from the London & South
Western railway.  In front of it was a rake of goods vans, and in front of the
goods vans were the empty timber trucks awaiting return to Bessam.
    The axle loading of the
LSWR four-coupled locomotive was too heavy for the lightly constructed tramway
so its footplate crew, having no work to do, had settled upon the
wheel-splasher to play cards.  Beyond the marsh, above a dark apron of
deciduous trees covering the foot of Bessam tor, was a column of steam rising
from Lacy’s place of toil.
    On my left I could see
the river Ondle meandering like a silver sash through the valley’s turquoise
haze, and on my right I could see the village of Upshott manifesting itself
bashfully through a plush canopy of chestnuts and oaks.  At a glance the
village appeared to be no more than an assortment of sagging stone roofs but
with careful observation one could see one or two of its shops, the display
windows of the pork butcher and the candle-maker, and the occasional passing of
a horse and cart along the high street.  The one thing I could not see from the
footbridge, or elsewhere for that matter, was Miss Macrames’ parasol.  Which
was a pity because its owner was heading in my direction again with great
purpose.
    Such was Miss Macrames’
dedication to the recovery of her accoutrement that her negotiation of the
wooden steps to my lookout was that of a charging bull, and perforce I
concluded that the possession was of immense value, perhaps webbed with finest
Japanese silk with a handle of gold leaf.  Having no encouraging news to impart
I could think only to insulated myself from her approach and enjoy what remained
of my solitude.
    Upshott nestled on a
hillside shelf with breathtaking views to the south-west, being to the
north-east overlooked by three dappled tors, the lower slopes of which were
dissected by smallholdings and other residences stretching down to the High
street.  Here the eye was beckoned to dwell upon the Norman tower of an
Eleventh century church, the parish church of Saint Martha, its three bells
being noted throughout the district for their pleasant timbre.  Beyond the
upper end of the