A Station In Life Read Free

official notice of any such
outbreak but I could see that the Board Of Trade bulletin was current so I
thanked the Booking clerk for bringing the matter to my attention and set off
immediately for the south siding.  Puzzled that I had seen no pigs prepared for
market, I summoned the Goods clerk.
    “Which of these vans
contains pigs?” I queried him.
    “None, sir,” he replied,
somewhat bewildered.  “It would be an offence to transport pigs.  There’s been
a case of swine fever in the district.”
    “I am aware of this,” I
said brusquely.  “However, Mr Wheeler assures me that we have a consignment of
pigs aboard.  As the Goods clerk, Mr Phillips, I expect you to know of their
whereabouts.  Have you no docket for pigs?”
    The studious Mr Phillips
examined his papers and became increasingly irritated as Briggs rammed trucks
together rather brutally behind him.
    “If Jack Wheeler says we
have pigs then we have pigs,” he fussed.  “Jack misses nothing.  And he misses
nothing because he does not daydream up on the footbridge.  l suggest we
inspect the vans together, Mr Jay.  It is not uncommon for livestock breeders
to smuggle their animals aboard trains during a ban.  Many local farmers rely
on Market day for much needed cash.”
    Obligingly the pigs
began to snort and we located them quickly.  They had been squeezed in with a
consignment of sheep.
    “Whose pigs might these
be?” I asked Mr Phillips.  “Defying a Board Of Trade quarantine order is a
serious offence.”  The Goods clerk appeared troubled.  “Well, out with it Mr
Phillips, if you please.”
    “There is only one local
pig breeder who would go this far,” he said, having counted a total of one
dozen swine, “and that is Smethwick of Longhurdle farm.”
    “Get the pigs back in a
pen, Mr Phillips,” I instructed the clerk.  “It will be a sporting affair with
these stupid sheep in the same van but we shall have sufficient time if we make
haste.  I will ask the engine driver to work platform Three first.”
    I noticed Mr Wheeler
eavesdropping our conversation from the foot of the animal ramp.
    “The Giddiford baton
rider is away on time,” he called out unnecessarily, his purpose being to
justify his presence.  Mr Wheeler now pinched a pig’s rump and made the
creature squeal.  “Pity about these ’ogs, they’re fine and plump,” he said.  I
raised an eyebrow, inviting him to change the subject.  “I’ll get ol’ Smethwick
back ’ere then, shall I, Mr Jay?  I know a short cut yonder.”
    Mr Wheeler scurried off
past the horse-box shed and across a stream at the back of the sidings.  Mr
Phillips continued separating the pigs from the sheep and guiding them down the
ramp while I spoke to the driver.
    “Handle farmer Smethwick
carefully,” the clerk warned me upon my return.  “That man has a propensity
towards violence.”
    By the appointed time of
7.15am Upshott’s contribution to Blodcaster market had been entrained for
departure and the unwanted pigs assembled in a pen for their owner’s
collection.  I decided to give my first departure from Upshott the ‘right away’
in person, for which reason I stepped forward and polished my silver whistle
with the cuff of my coat.  Then, at the appropriate time, I raised my arm with
all the authority I could muster and blew the thing until my ears hurt.
    Briggs, having slaked its
thirst at the water column, dribbled spillage like a salivating dog as it
barked into life, suffusing moist, grey breath over the trucks it was heaving
into motion.  As it accelerated I held a handkerchief to my face to avoid
inhaling the sulphurous concoction oozing from its tall chimney, and stood back
as the effluvia swept across the platforms in disorientating swirls.
    The loosely coupled
cattle trucks and goods vans jostled each other clangorously as Briggs lost
footing briefly on the rising gradient, causing its wheels to spin, but were
soon thrusting in and out of the engine’s