Free A Station In Life by James Smiley Page B

the
centre of the swirling, eerie scene a lifeless driver and his mate.  Both men were
twisted so grotesquely by the discharge that the sight of them caused me
nightmares for months.
    I hurried back down the
footbridge steps to meet Humphrey, whose normally ruddy face was now drained of
colour.  He too had been running, and at such a pace that the poor fellow
required several seconds to regain his breath before he could speak.
    “What be the matter, Mr
Jay?” he wheezed at length.
    “Lacy’s boiler has
burst!  Did you not hear the bang, Humphrey?  It must have been that faulty
safety valve.  We must summon helpers to the scene immediately.”
    Humphrey’s colour
returned instantly and the fellow began to rock with subdued laughter.  His
face contorted, and contorted further until, finally, he convulsed openly. 
There was nothing I could do but wait for him to recover from his
uncontrollable hooting.  Obviously I was mistaken about Lacy.  Nevertheless the
matter required an explanation.
    “Steady on, fellow,” I
cautioned him.
    “Forgive I, Mr Jay. 
Most reprehensible,” he choked at last.  “But they’m a blastin’ over at
Splashgate quarry today.  They does it every Monday.”
    Humphrey choked again
and pulled out an enormous handkerchief to blow his nose.  Too flustered to
speak, I returned to the footbridge to take another look across Bessam forest. 
A plume of steam further along the tramway revealed that Lacy was still busy
marshalling trucks at the logging station.  Relief overtook me to the extent
that I slumped against the handrail.
    Another blast from the
squire’s quarry thudded and echoed back off Upshott down, causing my nerves to
knot a second time.  When I straightened up I was embarrassed to observe Ivor Hales
staring at me with a restrained grin.  However, such was my deliverance that I
began to laugh myself.  Louder, even, than Humphrey.

 
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    Chapter
Six — Woe overload
     
    I explained to Miss
Macrames that I had been unable to locate her parasol but had alerted the Lost
Property clerk at Giddiford.  During our intercourse I heard the clatter of
wooden wheels upon cobblestones and the snort of eager horses outside the
station and realised that the squire’s coachman had returned from Bessam
forest.  I bade Miss Macrames good day and hurried through the Booking hall to
enquire how the unloading of the cabriolet had gone.  Before I could reach the
double-doors at the far end of the hall, Jack Wheeler sprang out in front of me
and blocked my way.  Ignoring the clerk’s feeble attempt to explain his rude
behaviour I squinted into the dazzling daylight of the forecourt beyond his
shoulder and beheld the silhouette of the splendid timber carriage with its
four white horses.
    To improve my view, I
bypassed Wheeler and stepped outside.  Here, while waiting for my eyes to
adjust to the light, Jack resumed his dodging about with unwanted excuses and
ignored me when I clicked my tongue with irritation.  I looked at the cabriolet
a little more closely and noticed for the first time how artfully was its wood
grain exterior enhanced by pale varnish, but the persistent bobbing of my
Booking clerk’s head prevented me from seeing the entire vehicle at once. 
Although it glistened like amber in the sunshine, the horses were a different
matter.  Just as Humphrey had predicted, the team’s fetlocks and hind quarters
were caked with mud.
    “Mr Albury’s coachman
would like a word with you,” Wheeler informed me furtively, settling down at
last.
    “Is the cabriolet
damaged?” I enquired with a degree of resignation as to the likely reply.
    “There’s a slight mark,”
Wheeler answered with a twitch.
    I dismissed the clerk
and crossed the forecourt towards the carriage, lured by the coachman’s angry
stare.  After studying the vehicle at close quarters, finding the valence
scored severally, I resolved to discuss with Wheeler the meaning of the