Dragonne's Eg

Chapter Four

The Journey

After church the following day I started my packing. There was probably no need to parcel everything up, but even if I were to be away only a couple of days, my belongings would be safer packed away. So, into my father’s old cabin trunk went my clothes (what there were of them), the patchwork quilt, spare bonnet, best boots and linen. In the tray at the top went writing materials, sewing things, books and the gold-rimmed, rose-patterned cup and saucer that had been my mother’s favourite. I strapped up the trunk and labelled it, then also labelled the writing—desk, chair and footstool.

My dirty linen would go to Toby’s mother on Monday, for return on Wednesday, and I prepared a label for that as well. I would travel in my working clothes, but in my travelling valise went clean underwear, night dress, dressing-gown, slippers, washing things, an apron and my best blouse, skirt and jacket, plus the two books I had not yet read. It was so heavy by the time I had finished, I was glad I would be met at the other end.

I broke off to eat bacon sandwiches for lunch, and later warmed a pie for my supper, with an orange with each meal, but the time went so swiftly that it was after seven before I asked for hot water, one lot for washing my hair with my new shampoo, the other for an all-over wash. It seemed years since I had seen a proper bath-tub.

I asked the landlady to call me at six, plenty of time to clear out the grate, bundle up the washing, take it to Toby’s mother, Mrs. Jugg, buy fresh bread and ham for sandwiches, plus a couple of bottles of ginger beer.

I had thought I would spend a sleepless night, worrying about the morrow, the future in general, but surprisingly I slept like a top, was ready in plenty of time and was five minutes early at the offices of Messrs. Goldstone, Crutch and Swallow of 22A, Lincoln’s Inn.

Mr. Swallow was waiting for me.

"Ah, Miss—er—Lee. All arrangements have been made. You will catch the ten-thirty train from Waterloo, which will arrive at three at Deepling Crossing. There, our representative, Mr. Cumberbatch, will have arranged transport to Hightop Hall. The caretaker and his wife have been advised of your travel plans, and you will stay at the Hall until these matters have been—ah- sorted out satisfactorily. Mr. Cumberbatch will stay at a nearby hostelry, to be contacted when you are ready for your next move."

He handed me an envelope. "In here you will find your ticket and some travel expenses." He shook my hand. "I wish you luck, Miss—er—Lee."

Outside the office, treading through the fallen mulberry leaves, I opened the envelope. Inside was a first class ticket for a "Ladies Only" compartment and twenty bright shillings. A fortune! There were no cabs in Chancery Lane, so I crossed to Kingsway with better luck.

At the station there was over an hour to wait, so I bought a buttered scone and a cup of coffee, all the while marvelling at the great glass and stone edifice, echoing with the huff and puff of the engines, the shriek of whistles, the clatter of the hurrying passengers, the call of the newsboys and the announcements, through a megaphone, of arrivals and departures.

The air was thick with that rotten-egg smell that seemed characteristic of steam engines, and the ground thick with debris, amongst which pigeons and sparrows rooted for crumbs. I hesitated over buying a newspaper, but decided I had been prodigal enough. Besides, I had my books in my valise to read. After checking the platform from which my train left, and confirming the time, I retired to the Ladies Room, remembering Miss Moffat’s advice and visiting the washroom.

In spite of all this the time seemed to be crawling, not helped by the fact that I was checking my fob-watch every three minutes, or so it seemed. The waiting-room was nearly full; a woman with two grown daughters, a market-lady with two baskets of eggs, a severely dressed, thin woman with a satchel full of leaflets and another reading from her Bible. Small children ran around,whining at the delay, eager to escape and look at the engines.

Eventually, with still twenty minutes to go, I decided to see if my train was at the platform. It was, and a helpful guard showed me the way to my compartment and indicated my reserved seat, a corner one facing the engine. No-one had briefed me as to tipping, but he seemed grateful enough for the penny I offered.

It was all more comfortable and clean than I had expected from Miss Moffat’s reminiscences, but perhaps she had not travelled first class. My seat was well sprung, there was a sunblind at the window and a small upper window that could be slid open. I put my valise on the netted shelf above my seat, took off and folded my cloak and adjusted my bonnet in the mirror opposite. Then I sat back and watched the passengers hurry past my window; all shapes and sizes, men, women and children, laden and unladen, purposeful or hesitant, smart or shabby. Seeing the numbers, I was glad I had the luxury of a reserved seat.

In the event I was joined only by two nuns and a languid lady with a lorgnette, who shut her eyes and apparently dozed off as soon as the train started. The sisters meanwhile occupied themselves with their rosaries and reading their psalters, so I was not obliged to even open my mouth during the whole journey.

I had thought I would treat myself to a chapter of Mr. Dickens and one of my sandwiches, but I was too engrossed in the journey. The speed, the smooth motion, except when we passed over points, the ever-opening vistas of town and country that flashed past the windows entranced me, punctuated as they were by the chuff-chuff of the powerful engine and the diddly-dee, diddly-dee of the wheels on the tracks . . .

Once we had crossed the slow-moving Thames and cleared the smoke-grimed tenements of south London we emerged into a world I had almost forgotten: the green and pleasant land of rural England. I had not realised how much I had missed the fields, trees,streams and cattle that were so much a part of my childhood. I found my hands were clenched in my lap and I was filled with nostalgia as at one moment we plunged into a cutting with bosky woods stretching up on both sides, their leaves turning red, yellow and brown and fluttering down in the wake of our passage. Then we would have a straight run through fields bisected by neat hedges in which brown and white Herefords grazed or ponies galloped away, pretending panic at our passage, their tails held high.

There were long, low farmhouses, sheep dotting their fields; over there they were burning the stubble, smoke mushrooming up and drifting away north with the breeze; here they were already ploughing, the patient Shires straining against their collars as the straight furrows grew behind them.

Sometimes we rode high on an embankment, the sun throwing our shadow like a toy train onto the fields on our right. Now and again I would catch a glimpse of a stately home, in white or yellow stone, usually set on a knoll and backed by carefully cultivated woods. These set me to wondering what my uncle’s house was like. With a name like Hightop Hall it ought to be grand enough, and at least I would be spending a couple of days there in greater luxury, I hoped, than my London lodgings.

This was a stopping train, as opposed to an express, and we halted at every station, from those that serviced small towns to those that were only to offload milk-churns for a farm across the fields. I kept careful count of the number of stops, as Mr. Swallow had written in pencil on my ticket that mine was number sixteen.

Deepling Crossing, when it came, was just another halt, and I was the only one alighting or getting on, and I felt rather lost as I watched the train puff its way round the curve and disappear.

I looked about me. The downside platform on which I stood had no exit and was backed by fields. Across on the upside however there was what looked like a ticket booth, a gate and a lane leading away into the distance—but no sign of any transport. I glanced at my watch: the train had been on time, but perhaps punctuality in this part of the countryside was more lax. After all, even in these advanced times, many people didn’t own a timepiece of any kind, in or out of the home. Farmworkers relied on light and dark in the passing of the seasons; those in towns or villages on the striking of the church clock.

No point in just standing around. I walked to the end of the platform where it sloped down, crossing the line carefully in case another locomotive appeared suddenly, and walked up to the ticket booth, checking on the way that "Deepling Crossing" was clearly painted on the signs on both platforms: right place, right time.

I tapped on the closed shutters of the ticket booth, but there was no answer. I tapped again, a little louder this time—still no reply. I walked around to the back—but there was none! It was just a three-sided shelter, containing a stool, a broken clay pipe and two or three ancient ticket stubs: obviously the ticket-collector didn’t have much call for his services.

I walked over to the wicket gate and peered down the lane: still no sign of transport. Well, I could wait a little longer, but after a half-hour pacing the platform, I began to feel worried. I decided the best thing to do was have something to eat, because I was feeling distinctly hungry. I took the stool out of the booth, found a patch of sunshine and sat down to enjoy half my ham and chutney sandwiches, washed down by one of my bottles of ginger beer. I could have eaten the rest, but thought it wise to keep them for emergencies—like the non-appearance of any form of welcoming party.

By the time an hour had passed since the arrival of the train—during which time two expresses had roared through the station, one up, one down, causing me to shrink back as I was buffeted by their passage, I had decided that enough was enough. There was only one way out of the station so I would walk in that direction, to meet whoever had been sent out to fetch me.

I returned the stool to the booth, picked up my valise, opened the gate and walked out into the lane. I then decided it would be wisest to relieve myself before anyone turned up, found a gap in the hedge and a nettle-free patch, a lesson I had learned early as a child when running around the fields and lanes, too far away from home to seek our bathroom.

Thanking the good Lord that I was wearing my stout boots, kilting up my skirt against the dust in the lane and picking up my valise I started off.

The lane wound and turned on itself, obviously following some long-forgotten sheeptrack, and as I walked, changing my increasingly heavy valise from hand to hand, the land rose and fell on either side. I passed the entrance to two farms, but the houses were so far down the access roads that I didn’t dare risk asking for directions or aid, in case I missed my intended transport. I passed a couple of cottages too, but one was derelict, and the other housed a zany old man who apparently had never heard of Hightop Hall.

At last I came to a cross-roads. There was a sign: to the left Dorchester Thirty-six miles. To the right just the one word: London. Putting down my valise, I stood irresolute. Left, right, straight ahead? I looked at my watch: four o’clock, two hours since I had alighted from the train. Spreading my cloak out on a grassy bank, I sat down to review the situation. Here I was, apparently miles from anywhere, it was October, night would be descending soon, and—

Cartwheels ? I stood up and peered across the road to the lane’s continuation and slowly a cart came into view, the driver and horse looking half-asleep, their heads nodding in unison.

Springing to my feet I ran across the road and waved my arms frantically to halt the cart. The driver hauled on the reins and the cart came to a stop: "Jos. Carter. Carrier." I read on the side. Breathlessly I asked if he knew the way to Hightop Hall.

He looked at me suspiciously, then nodded. "Yerss."

"Is it that way?" Pointing back the way he had come.

"Yerss."

"How far?"

"Depends . . ."

"On what?"

"Whether you takes the high road or the low road."

"Which is the quickest?"

"High."

"How far that way?"

"Ten mile, give or take."

"Do you know where I could get a lift?"

For the first time he seemed to look at me properly. "You wanting to go there?"

I could have screamed. "Yes, I do. Urgently. It was my uncle’s house."

His face brightened. "You be Miss Lee?"

"Yes!"

He scratched his head. "Be you sure? You supposed to be at the station—sent to meet you, I was." He scratched his nose this time. "Why bain’t you at the station?"

I explained, as patiently as I could. "I thought I would be met by a young gentleman from London—did he send you instead?"

He nodded.

"Didn’t he tell you the time of my train?"

"May have done. But I be a carrier. Old Nan, she wanted that chair delivering from her daughter’s. Jones wanted them stores early. Got to keep in with the regulars . . ." He pursed his lips. "You coming then?"

The cart turned as slowly his conversation had been, and as cautiously. There seemed to be no attempt to help me up, so I hoisted my valise aboard and climbed into the back via a wheel and a flurry of petticoat. Not that the driver took the slightest notice. I settled myself on a pile of dusty sacks and off we went. After a few miles we turned off the lane into another, even narrower.

I tapped him on the shoulder. "Is this the high road?"

He shook his head. "The low."

"But I thought you said the other way was shorter!"

"And so ’tis. Horse prefers this way . . ."

After that I gave up, ate the rest of my sandwiches and drank the other bottle of ginger beer and even dozed a little as the miles slipped away with the creak of wheels and the clop of hooves. Two hours later I woke with a jerk as the cart pulled up.

"Are we here?"

"Yerss."

I lowered myself and the valise to the ground. The sky was already glooming over and the wind had turned chill.

"That’ll be five shillings, miss."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Five shillings to the station and back."

"But you didn’t—" I caught myself in time. "Didn’t the young gentleman from London pay you?"

He shook his head. "Said it was up to you. Said you’d have money."

I had been caught napping, literally. A good job Mr. Swallow had been generous with my travelling money. I paid the carrier and he trundled off down the lane.

I turned to survey my temporary lodgings. Open double gates, a small lodge, and a weed-infested driveway that led through tumbledown parkland uphill towards—

The most hideous mansion I had ever seen.