Free A Station In Life by James Smiley Page A

on her furiously.
    “Can’t you see the
Stationmaster’s busy,” she squawked.
    Judging by the
expression on Humphrey’s face as she shooed the timid young maid away I believe
the porter thought he was witnessing a predator chasing off a rival.  Lacking
the conceit for such a notion myself I settled my nerves and allowed Miss
Macrames to seize my attention again with a sweet smile.
    “The new link will also
put an end to gauge transhipment losses at Saint David’s,” she opined
knowledgeably.
    “Indeed so,” I agreed
with my wits insufficiently recovered to add anything of interest.
    Humphrey rumbled a
private observation and left.  Having composed myself, I cleared my throat.
    “Without the blight of
transit damage,” I said, “Ondle valley can look forward to a new era of
prosperity, for it is pitiful to see so much produce failing to reach the
markets intact?”
    Had Miss Macrames been my
Elisabeth I should have made her captivating lips say that places like Ondle
valley had little to complain about, its inhabitants enjoying the benefits of
progress without the growing pains.  Railways may have brought to every class
of citizen the opportunity to travel faster than the pull of a beast but the
foundries which cast them had sundered not one soul hereabouts from the light
of day.
    Once again the
imperative of railway life rented me from my thoughts.  Tipping my hat to Miss
Macrames and stepping out onto the platform I observed Herod storming
Splashgate embankment noisily, apparently having been delayed by the late
arrival of its baton rider.  I watched the engine’s thundercloud spread through
the telegraph wires and deposit a wintry snowfall upon lineside trees before
descending to erase the cattle that grazed beneath them.  Snow never thawed so
quickly, for in no time was Herod barking under Three Arch bridge and into the
deep cutting where the portal of Splashgate tunnel would turn it into a worm.
    To me, this spectacle epitomised
railways, for even our humble branchline cut through nature’s toughest
obstacles to bring people together along with the fruits of their labours.  How
easily I could visualise Herod bursting into daylight at the far end of that
tunnel with its ensemble of trucks joggling undulantly alongside the dazzling,
glassy expanse of Splash lake while making its steady climb to lofty
Blodcaster.  Passing through each hamlet in turn its wagons would tap out their
steely folksong of liberation in lyrics recalling tortuous roads and highway
robbers, to remind the moorland folk of their debt of gratitude to that
despised conqueror of the wilderness, the railway navvy.
    Something happened and my
blood ran cold.
    I felt my bones lock as
the report from a powerful explosion bounced to and fro among the hills and
died away reluctantly, leaving me unsure which direction it had come from. 
Along with the birds in the trees and the livestock in their pens I held still
with apprehension, and into the crevice of silence so formed tumbled Mr
Milsom’s words of warning about Lacy’s sticking safety valve.
    The footbridge steps seemed
impossibly steep as I floundered up them, at the top observing a giant balloon
of steam curling skywards from the treetops of Bessam forest.  I called
Humphrey.  I called so loudly and with such trepidation that my voice cracked then
failed altogether, causing Ivor Hales to throw open his window to investigate
the disturbance.
    “Humphrey!” I yodelled. 
“Lacy has exploded!”
    It chilled me to recall
that in my youth I had witnessed the aftermath of a boiler explosion in
Southampton and consequently understood how extremely injurious to footplatemen
such accidents were.  As a Junior clerk I had leapt from the Goods office upon
hearing that same fragor and encountered a shunting engine with its middle
section disembowelled in a mass of splayed boiler tubes.  Everything within
fifty feet had been blasted with the boiler’s scolding contents, leaving at