Darkest Before Dawn (5 page)

In addition to these tasks, it was a junior porter's job to fill the signal lamps with paraffin and take them to and from the signal box, and thus it was that Toby became friendly with John Giles, the signalman at Wateringford. Sometimes, John and Toby would sit in the cosy box and John would show his new friend how to work the levers. Toby loved his work but thought that it would be just grand to be a signalman and decided that, if the opportunity ever occurred, he would apply for such a job.

Now, Toby bent to pick up the empty trug in which he had carried the last of the chrysanthemum plants and turned back towards the station buildings just as his ears caught a faint and distant whistle. He did not need to glance at the clock above the waiting room to know that he was hearing the approach of the ten–past eleven express, and because he was still interested in the glamour of the mighty engines he stood where he was, pushing his cap to the back of his head with one earth-smeared finger, to watch the train as it thundered through.

As soon as it had gone, its tail disappearing round the bend, he turned and made his way back to the small shed where Mr Tolliver kept the gardening equipment. Toby was not on duty today but had chosen to come in to do the flower bed. His replacement was Joe, who was presently engaged in cleaning out the waiting room. Joe did not care for gardening, though he was quick enough to help a passenger with heavy luggage because this invariably meant a tip and Joe was saving up to buy himself a new bicycle. Though he disliked manual labour, he was by no means lazy since he pedalled everywhere at a good speed. He belonged to a cycling club and during his summer holiday had cycled all the way down to Land's End in Cornwall. That was the main reason for his wanting a new bicycle, for the existing one had barely made it back to Joe's cottage, and though Joe still used it for work you could hear him coming a hundred yards off, squeaking and rattling as he forced the poor old machine to do speeds for which it was never intended. Joe had a lady friend who worked at the nearby hall as a kitchen maid and she had promised Joe a small sum towards his bicycle fund when his birthday came round.

Toby stacked the tools in the small shed, having first cleaned and oiled them thoroughly, for Mr Tolliver was fussy about his gardening implements. Then he strolled over to the stationmaster's office. Thinking about Joe's young lady had reminded him of Seraphina and remembering Seraphina had put him in mind of the fact that he had still not told her about his change of job. She would write to him care of his landlady in Leeds, and though he had asked that lady to forward any letters which might come for him, he was beginning to doubt whether she had done so. Seraphina usually wrote weekly and he had not yet received any correspondence from her. I really have to make the effort and tell her all about my new job and how happy I am to be back in the country, he told himself. Oh, I know Seraphina's only eighteen, same as me, but I've always thought she and I would make a go of it, one of these fine days. I know she's beautiful and I am not, I know she's clever and I am not, I know she's going to have a career in teaching whereas I am just a railwayman and will probably never rise any higher than portering because I don't believe I'm very ambitious either. But Seraphina never seemed to care what I did so long as I was happy. So I can't let us grow apart just because I'm no great hand at letter-writing and the job here simply eats up all my time. Well, it's my day off today so I'll go back to the house, borrow some paper from Mrs Marks, grit my teeth and write Seraphina a really good long letter. It won't just be about my new job either; I'll tell her how dreadfully I miss her, how I long to see her again . . . perhaps I might even tell her I like her better than anyone else I've ever met. One day soon he would visit her because cheap fares were one of a railwayman's perks; he would tell her that too.

But oh, it was such a glorious day! September was almost at an end and in the woods and lanes, copses and hedgerows the leaves were beginning to turn and the berries, shining and scarlet, or richly black, were changing the countryside into a scene of such beauty that even five minutes shut up in the house would be a penance. His free time was rare because he used a good deal of his time off in the station garden and in his landlady's vegetable plot. I could write this evening, he told himself, because today might be my last chance to get right away from the station and enjoy the fine weather. Sometimes October brought gales which sent the glorious multicoloured leaves whirling from the trees to lie in great rustling mounds in every corner and crevice. Then he would be busy at the station, barrowing the leaves away to the far end of the platform where he would pile them into a great heap interspersed with broken branches, old copies of magazines and newspapers left behind in the waiting room, and any other suitable material. He and Mr Tolliver would choose a calm day and then they would light the bonfire; already he could smell the sweet country smell of burning leaves, hear the crackle as the flames caught a dry branch, see the blue hazy smoke rising into the clearer blue of the sky. He could almost hear Mr Tolliver adjuring him: ‘Add some more leaves over here, boy . . . give her a poke, she's only smouldering round this side . . . fetch out them old dried pea haulms and chuck 'em on top . . .'

Toby remembered the little lake set deep in the heart of mixed woodland only a short bicycle ride away. He rather thought it was private property because through the trees, if you looked really hard, you could just make out an old house, grey-stoned, slated, but with windows so grimed that he was pretty sure the place must have been abandoned years ago. So far as he had been able to make out, the trees had encroached on the house so that it had reminded him of Sleeping Beauty's palace. And there had been fish in the lake; he had seen them all right, clear as clear through the limpid brown depths. Trout perhaps? The lake had had a stream running into it from the direction of the house and running out of it on the other side to dive under a small road bridge. He had discovered the lake by following the stream and had meant to return with his fishing rod to see if he could bag a trout or two, which his landlady could cook for them. He could go today – why not? The evenings were still quite long; he could write to Seraphina as soon as supper was over. He could describe his fishing trip to the lake; he could make a point of fighting his way through the briars and brambles and discover in what state the house had been left. Yes, he would do that.

Toby headed for the stationmaster's office. It was only polite to tell Mr Tolliver that he was leaving now even though he was not actually on duty. He poked his head round the office door. Mr Tolliver's large booted feet were neatly crossed at the ankle and lodged on the desk, whilst the rest of him, eyes firmly closed and mouth agape, clearly dead to the world, was slumped in his leather chair, which was balanced precariously on two legs.

Wickedly, Toby cleared his throat in the manner of Mr Fellowes, the regional director. In one swift, though horribly uncoordinated gesture, the stationmaster's feet – and those of the chair – descended sharply to the floor and Mr Tolliver surged upright. His tiny gold-rimmed glasses were so crooked that only one eye could see through the lenses and he appeared to be trying to swallow half of his walrus moustache. He was still trying to straighten his tie, button his jacket and prevent the chair from falling backwards when he recognised Toby. ‘You young bugger!' he said wrathfully. ‘Tryin' to get my job, are you? Thought you'd scare me so bad I'd die of an apoplexy . . . well, not this time, you young devil. Why couldn't you come round the desk and wake me gentle, like?'

‘With a kiss?' Toby said innocently. He had just been thinking about Sleeping Beauty so the comment came readily to his lips. Mr Tolliver gave a reluctant grin, unbuttoned his jacket again and sat down in his chair.

‘No,
not
with a kiss, you horrible little heathen,' he said reprovingly. ‘With a gentle touch on my shoulder or – or a quiet word.'

‘I only cleared my throat,' Toby pointed out virtuously. ‘I don't see why you've got in such a taking, honest I don't. And I only popped in to tell you I'm off now. It
is
my day off and there's a lake . . . it's such a grand day I thought I might try for a trout or two.'

Mr Tolliver glanced towards the window through which dusty sunshine slanted. ‘Aye, when I were your age nothing would have kept me hanging round the station on such a day,' he said, with all his customary generosity. ‘Get the missus to put you up a few sandwiches and an apple or two. You're a good lad so I guess I needn't ask if you've planted out all the chrysanths.'

‘Thanks, Mr Tolliver,' Toby said gratefully. ‘An' I've finished the chrysanthemums; I spaced 'em out so they've gone from one end of the bed to the other. They'll make a grand show when they're all in bloom in a couple o' weeks.'

‘Off wi' you then. Good luck wi' the fishin'!'

Harry was making his way to work through the early morning streets. To his own secret surprise, he found he enjoyed his work at the warehouse. To be sure, there had been some initial unpleasantness from one or two members of the staff under him because they resented the fact that their old boss had been sacked. Harry, however, had recognised that the sacking of Herbie Hughes had been unavoidable once the owner had discovered that the man was a crook. Mr Hughes had had a neat scheme going whereby he had somehow managed to sell off large quantities of goods and put the money in his own pocket. If he had behaved a little less greedily he would probably have continued to get away with it, but unfortunately with every successful swindle he had grown more self-confident, more sure that no one would ever question the accounts which he handed in.

It had started long ago when a case of tinned salmon had slipped off the hoist and burst open upon the warehouse floor. Mr Bister, who owned three large warehouses, had taken Hughes's word for it that the tins were too badly damaged to be sold on. Herbie had put them into a skip but had returned that night with a handcart, on to which he had loaded not only the tins which had fallen from the burst-open crate, but also a sack of sugar and another of hazelnut kernels. He planned to say that both sacks had been damaged – torn open – when the crate had burst, and had wheeled his trophies off, probably in a state of some agitation, since this had been his first attempt to cheat his employer.

Mr Bister had suspected nothing. A good deal of stock went missing between the ships and the warehouse because the men working on the docks were, in Mr Bister's opinion, a fair set of rogues. So when his head warehouseman had filled in his receipt sheet with nine sacks of hazelnuts instead of ten, and nineteen sacks of sugar instead of twenty, he had assumed that the sacks had never even appeared at the warehouse. He had signed the sheets and asked no questions so, as he told Harry, in a way he had almost encouraged theft.

This had gone on for some time, but eventually, of course, Herbie Hughes had gone too far. It was partly because he had begun to sell some of his ill-gotten goods to respectable shopkeepers who began to talk amongst themselves, but also because one of the other employees at the warehouse had realised what was going on. He was a young lad and had begun to fear that, as the last person to be employed, he might be blamed, for even he had seen that the thefts were becoming more and more blatant. Herbie was taking anything he fancied, anything he felt he could sell for a profit. He had even handed stolen goods to some of the workers under him, assuring them that they were his perks for work well done and thus ensuring, he had believed, that none of them would split on him.

However, he had reckoned without the new young lad, and also he had reckoned without his employer's diligence. Mr Bister, who made a point of checking through each month's work, had been struck by the rising number of missing crates, sacks and boxes of goods. He had decided to keep an eye on the warehouse for a couple of nights, for though he employed a night watchman the man was old and was chiefly concerned with preventing break-ins. If the head warehouseman let himself in with his keys and helped himself quietly to goods which he had placed as near the staff entrance as possible, the night watchman would be unlikely to realise that he was no longer alone on the premises, or that a theft was taking place.

Mr Bister had watched for two nights and had been mortified – and furious – to realise that he was actually employing a thief. On the third night, the police had watched with him and Herbie Hughes had been caught red-handed. Mr Bister had sacked him and had then questioned the rest of the staff, most of whom had avowed total ignorance of what had been going on. Only the new young lad had spoken up.

Mr Bister had told Harry the story but he had not prosecuted his head warehouseman because he saw no point in doing so. He knew that without a reference Herbie Hughes would not get another decent job, and thought that was punishment enough. Harry, however, was rather uneasy about some of the men now working under him. He kept a close watch on all of them and knew they were not stealing at present, but he also knew they resented the checks he kept upon everything entering and leaving the warehouse and wondered, uneasily, how long it would be before one of them decided to chance his arm.

However, the recent fate of Herbie Hughes was still very much in the forefront of their minds and Harry hoped that the fact that he checked and double-checked would discourage malpractice. Mr Bister certainly believed it would do so, for, as he had said, only the head warehouseman held keys to the premises. He had explained to Harry that every warehouse suffered from petty pilfering and that this was not what worried him. ‘You can't blame the fellers for taking the odd jar of jam or pickles,' he had said. ‘It's when it gets to being a crate of jam or pickles that I have to put my foot down.'