Read Online A Station In Life by James Smiley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Smiley
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reluctant to embrace a newcomer, in the case of a
stationmaster it is different. Indeed, I had experienced a sense of belonging
from my very first day here, while being shown around the station by the
General manager, Mr Crump. At every step I had received a warm welcome from
local dignitaries. Even if, subsequently, I were to displease half of them I should
still have much to celebrate. Unless, of course, the half I displeased had the
power to dismiss me.
I did not allow myself
to be entirely fooled by the reception, however, because in these early railway
days a stationmaster’s ‘friendship’ could be cultivated with undignified haste,
this being due to his necessary complicity in everyone’s dealings. It was a
peculiar circumstance which could leave a fellow imperceptibly isolated, with
few genuine friends. But then, were it otherwise, the stationmaster’s
authority would have been compromised.
“Mr Jay… Horace… have
you had time to look for my parasol yet,” Miss Macrames asked tentatively,
manifestly aware that she was intruding upon my thoughts.
“I am engaged in the
search at this very moment, Miss Macrames,” I replied.
My delectable pursuer
gazed at me captivatingly then followed the line of my eyes. Her cursive glide
delivered her to Platform One where she was disappointed to see no parasol.
She returned her gaze to me.
“Oh, please, call me
Rose,” she insisted fondly.
Averting my eyes I
confined my reply to a brief smile. At forty years of age I had resolved never
again to be stirred uncontrollably by anyone of the fairer sex, and although I
had once been deficient in this virtue I now knew better than to foster the
notion that I merited female company. I had come to prefer life’s more durable
pleasures. A romantic heart abroad in Exmoor could delight without cloy in the
daylong melody of birdsong, purple sunsets and starry skies, my appreciation of
such things having been heightened by knowing the alternative. Overcrowded
towns and foul forests of chimneys had produced squalid labyrinths of disease, and
I baulked at the dreadful price some souls were paying for progress. It pained
me to contemplate the twisted manner of growing up that the industrial
conurbation inflicted upon childhood, myself having explored the path to
adulthood in the breeze of dancing trees and shimmering waters. Little wonder
the effect upon the formative mind of brick horizons, discoloured skies and evil
smoke. While others cleaned the capitalist’s machine without interrupting its
deafening, profit-making frenzy I was learning to trap and fish.
“Do you think my parasol
is out there somewhere, Horace?” Miss Macrames rented me from my reflections
again, her voice conveying a degree of hushed amusement.
“Perhaps,” I replied with
my eyes still under lock and key.
I sensed a smile
broadening itself upon her cherub-like dimples but continued to abstain from
the feast lest I succumb to improper familiarity. Alas, all was lost when
Lacy’s shrieking whistle startled us both and we shared a moment of spontaneous
laughter which Miss Macrames did not appear to find unseemly. With some reluctance
I brought our mirth to a close.
As the locomotive passed
beneath us, having returned from Bessam, I glimpsed the fireman refuelling its
hungry firebox. With each shovelful of coal he tossed through the fire-hole
the engine’s exhaust turned from white linen to dirty sacking, a rhythm which
drove Miss Macrames to the foot of the steps while I held a handkerchief to my
face.
With shouts and
gesticulations reverberating from its footplate the iron beast rumbled up to
the timber trucks and crashed into them mindlessly. Couplings jangled and wheels
chirruped, then clouds of glistening ivory engulfed me as Lacy reversed to the
headshunt with its rake of followers. As foaming steam curled about me and
spread away into nothingness the crew of the visiting engine cut short their
card
stationmaster it is different. Indeed, I had experienced a sense of belonging
from my very first day here, while being shown around the station by the
General manager, Mr Crump. At every step I had received a warm welcome from
local dignitaries. Even if, subsequently, I were to displease half of them I should
still have much to celebrate. Unless, of course, the half I displeased had the
power to dismiss me.
I did not allow myself
to be entirely fooled by the reception, however, because in these early railway
days a stationmaster’s ‘friendship’ could be cultivated with undignified haste,
this being due to his necessary complicity in everyone’s dealings. It was a
peculiar circumstance which could leave a fellow imperceptibly isolated, with
few genuine friends. But then, were it otherwise, the stationmaster’s
authority would have been compromised.
“Mr Jay… Horace… have
you had time to look for my parasol yet,” Miss Macrames asked tentatively,
manifestly aware that she was intruding upon my thoughts.
“I am engaged in the
search at this very moment, Miss Macrames,” I replied.
My delectable pursuer
gazed at me captivatingly then followed the line of my eyes. Her cursive glide
delivered her to Platform One where she was disappointed to see no parasol.
She returned her gaze to me.
“Oh, please, call me
Rose,” she insisted fondly.
Averting my eyes I
confined my reply to a brief smile. At forty years of age I had resolved never
again to be stirred uncontrollably by anyone of the fairer sex, and although I
had once been deficient in this virtue I now knew better than to foster the
notion that I merited female company. I had come to prefer life’s more durable
pleasures. A romantic heart abroad in Exmoor could delight without cloy in the
daylong melody of birdsong, purple sunsets and starry skies, my appreciation of
such things having been heightened by knowing the alternative. Overcrowded
towns and foul forests of chimneys had produced squalid labyrinths of disease, and
I baulked at the dreadful price some souls were paying for progress. It pained
me to contemplate the twisted manner of growing up that the industrial
conurbation inflicted upon childhood, myself having explored the path to
adulthood in the breeze of dancing trees and shimmering waters. Little wonder
the effect upon the formative mind of brick horizons, discoloured skies and evil
smoke. While others cleaned the capitalist’s machine without interrupting its
deafening, profit-making frenzy I was learning to trap and fish.
“Do you think my parasol
is out there somewhere, Horace?” Miss Macrames rented me from my reflections
again, her voice conveying a degree of hushed amusement.
“Perhaps,” I replied with
my eyes still under lock and key.
I sensed a smile
broadening itself upon her cherub-like dimples but continued to abstain from
the feast lest I succumb to improper familiarity. Alas, all was lost when
Lacy’s shrieking whistle startled us both and we shared a moment of spontaneous
laughter which Miss Macrames did not appear to find unseemly. With some reluctance
I brought our mirth to a close.
As the locomotive passed
beneath us, having returned from Bessam, I glimpsed the fireman refuelling its
hungry firebox. With each shovelful of coal he tossed through the fire-hole
the engine’s exhaust turned from white linen to dirty sacking, a rhythm which
drove Miss Macrames to the foot of the steps while I held a handkerchief to my
face.
With shouts and
gesticulations reverberating from its footplate the iron beast rumbled up to
the timber trucks and crashed into them mindlessly. Couplings jangled and wheels
chirruped, then clouds of glistening ivory engulfed me as Lacy reversed to the
headshunt with its rake of followers. As foaming steam curled about me and
spread away into nothingness the crew of the visiting engine cut short their
card
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