More boldly this time she approached the old building, after all she now had a personal interest, one might almost say a family interest in the station. Nothing had changed, but everything had changed. The platform still as dilapidated as yesterday, but now touched by a hand she could relate to. Granddad; although it seemed strange to refer thus to a man she had not known; had walked this platform, had touched these few remaining artefacts. Here he had gone about his work. In her mind's eye she could imagine a figure, striding up and down, quietly giving instructions to the Porters, (were there Porters?), waiting to greet the trains, nodding to the drivers, whilst looking pointedly at his pocket watch, exchanging the time of day with the guards, and importantly giving the right away to start the train on its journey once more.
Strangely, although she could see this figure, dressed in a railway uniform, and wearing a cap to denote his authority, she could not see a face. "What did you look like, granddad?" she mused aloud. "Were you tall, mum was tall for a woman. Were you handsome, and gentle? Was your hair brown, black, blonde, or grey? Black I think, because with your name you were probably a West Country man. I expect you had brown eyes, Mum's were brown, and so are mine. Have I got your brown eyes?" She stopped herself then, alarmed by the first watering in her eyes a prelude to genuine tears, as melancholy for a family she had never known swept over her.
Abby recovered her composure after a moment or two dwelling in sadness and deciding not to go down that route again, wandered down past the House at the end of the platform. She stopped and looked again with the sudden realisation that this was in all probability her grandfather's house, this was where her mum had spent her early years and had had grown up. The tears did flow now; this strange place that she had looked at so rationally yesterday, a catalyst for all the emotion that she had denied over the years since her mother died. Suddenly it was there in front of her, the past, not her past, but a past that in a way she owned, that she had never known about. "Damn, damn, damn, why did I come here?" Abby was beginning to think that perhaps this was not such a good idea. Eventually her tears dried, and she used a wipe from her handy-kit to dry the tear salt from her cheek. "Good job I didn't bother with make-up today, otherwise Mascara would be all over the place."
This done she stood for a while, looking at the house. Despite her earlier emoting she would have liked to get in there, but the boarding firmly nailed into place deterred her, perhaps it was better that she didn't, not from the emotional point of view, but she felt sure that the house was now occupied by other, less wholesome beings, such as rats. Wanting to get away for the moment, her gaze fell upon the old buildings just a hundred yards down the track, and set off quickly to avoid the re-surfacing emotion. She followed the little path, which wound through the masses of gorse and nettles. It became obvious that this path was a remnant of what had once been an access road, periodic clearings showed the road bed, or rather what had been a road bed, but now being swallowed greedily by the weeds. She became aware, as she had yesterday, of the busy and prolific bird population. The flutter and flitter of wings all around, heard, but only occasionally seen, as a bird would dart down, and lift, carrying some wisp of grass or straw. She had heard as well, the rustle from the undergrowth. Sensible enough to realise that whatever creature lay hidden there was probably more afraid of her than she of it. Nonetheless a shiver crept down her spine, she was a city girl after all.
Her trek brought her nearer to the derelict buildings and she could now tell that one would have been a small house, the other a Goods Shed. The hand that had designed the station had designed these, using the same rugged stone. The goods shed boasted large doors to which the rails had evidently approached, and presumably carried on inside. High windows were set in the wall above head height presumable denying the workforce of any excuse for stopping work. It had a foreboding, almost gloomy look about it which Abby dismissed as purely invention on her part. The path ended here just short of the buildings and opened out into a large gravelled area. Walking to the left, she encountered the undulations where the sleepers had been lifted from the track bed. From this viewpoint she could see quite plainly how the track would have curved into the Goods Shed, and also that another track would have run alongside. To the right of the shed she noticed a foundation of what would have to have been a small but substantial building. Why leave the others, yet pull down this one, she wondered to herself.
She pushed her way through the weeds, and getting closer spotted the large gap in the base of the foundation. "The Signal Box!" She exclaimed, "of course, the frame inside must have been worth recovery. Easier to tear the building down to get it out than take it to pieces inside." Pleased with her deduction, she turned her attention to the small house, which was a smaller version of the Stationmasters house, but single storey and not so grand. Situated here she assumed that it would have been provided for the Signalman.
"Hello, can I help you?" The voice startled her, and she turned to see the owner of the voice, a man, sitting a chestnut horse, on the other side of the hedge forming the boundary between railway and field. His voice may have carried to her, but there was no way that Abby was going to be able to shout a reply, so she started to wade through the weeds towards the rider. "Be careful," he called, "there are lots of bits of old iron scattered around." his warning was opportune for at that moment Abby stepped on a long Iron bar, which appeared to be hinged to a plate in the ground. She kept her balance, just, and continued until the gorse formed an impenetrable bar to further progress. She looked up, to find she had narrowed the gap to just ten or so feet.
"I'm just looking around, is that all right?" If she had expected a reply straight away she was mistaken, for the man was staring at her with astonishment. Abby looked around to see what it was that had so discomfited him, but could see nothing. When she looked back his face had adopted that bland look, of people who hate to let others see their emotions.
"Perfectly all right," he replied gruffly, "land belongs to no one now, just be careful of adders though, plenty about in that scrub. Good day to you." He lifted his crop in good manners, and urged his horse to walk.
How peculiar, she thought, someone who starts out to be friendly, and then goes all stiff and formal on you. If she had realised the shock in the rider's mind as he rode away, she would have revised her opinion. Abby retraced her steps to the station, with her mind active. On the one hand she was moved with her emotional response to these surroundings, a deeper emotion than she would have thought, being used to calm, clear-headed, analytical, processes of the mind in the midst of the shouting almost chaotic world, which was the trading floor. Yet her logical mind was telling her that she would only understand her grandfather's world if she researched the history of the line, and the society of the time. If there was ever a question in her mind about returning to this place, even with the strange emotions it stirred, then it was now resolved. She stopped in the forecourt and looked back at the station buildings, trying to imagine what it would look like during its working life, immediately she knew where she would start her research. There would have to be a local library, which would also probably possess a photographic archive. "That's tomorrow sorted."
With a goal in mind, Abby's steps which had become listless, regained their spring, and she turned back towards the village. On her walk to the station this morning she had noticed a sign for a public footpath, perhaps a diversion to see where it went would be in order. She found the sign within half a mile, in far better repair than other signs around here, but then a pressure group as well organised as the Ramblers Association obviously punched well above its weight, and of course the opinion of the actual landowners counted for very little. The sign indicated the footpath leading to "Huish Coppice". Abby turned on to the path, which, ran alongside a small field for a hundred yards or so before turning abruptly left. The turn indicated by a simple wooden sign with a foot seemingly branded into the pointed arm. The path was now gloomy as it was bordered by hedgerow either side. A tractor had used the path at some time carving deep ruts that were filled with dank, slimy water. She had to take extreme care finding the driest footing. Again the path turned, this time to the right, thankfully the tractor had driven straight ahead into a field, and the footing was much more firm, the hedge was to one side only now, and as the path gained height steadily, the hedge got lower, until it had vanished altogether. The path led over a hump in front of her, and upon gaining the crest she was back on the railway!
Abby looked around to orientate herself. To the west she could just see the station, and looking east the line curved away to the right eventually leaving her sight in a cutting. Once more she was astonished that the farmers had not reclaimed the old track bed. The boundaries were still clearly marked, sometimes by hedges, sometimes by fencing which appeared to be maintained. Of the track itself nothing remained. Satisfied she knew where she was Abby set off along the footpath once more. Another sign appeared guiding her steps to the east, this time on a course, which paralleled the railway. As the railway entered the cutting, the footpath climbed, eventually leading away at a tangent, rising steadily. The Copse on the hill in front of her was obviously Huish Coppice, and with the rise in elevation she was gaining a clearer view of this part of the valley, and also the village. The Copse was apparently the same one that she had seen from the window at the Inn that morning, the railway in its cutting being totally obscured from Combe Lyney, the meadows creating the illusion that nothing intervened between village and hill.
Warm from her climb, Abby paused at the top, and took a glucose drink out of her rucksack. She noticed a stump and Abby gratefully utilised it for a seat. From here the area was spread out in a panoramic view. The station away to the west, the old line curving through the fields and meadows before vanishing below her, and the village, its houses and Church set out like a model in front of her. As she studied it the shape of its development became clear. The original settlement, she could recognise by the old cob cottages, clustered, haphazardly around the Church. Behind the Church on slightly higher ground a larger house, probably the Manor she thought. And the later stone and then brick built houses, which filled in the gaps. Why the gaps she asked herself? Then of course were the latest additions, the concrete system built houses, likely put there by the local Council.
It was probably wrong to call it a village, as there were no more than about forty houses in total, the earliest buildings close to the Church, and the later set further away, part of the community but maintaining a distance. As Abby sat she was struck by the absence of traffic noise. Traffic noise was part and parcel of the city, even through the small hours of the night, the rumble and growl of cars, buses, and goods vehicles was a constant factor, to which city-dwellers became inured. When walking the lane, which had to be the main thoroughfare, this morning, the only vehicles she encountered were tractors. Even now as she sat the only sounds were those of the wind in the trees behind her, the occasional bleat of cattle, and the muffled grumble of a tractor, working in a field to the right of the village.
It really was most pleasant here. The sun warmed the land, the breeze, and this little enclave where she sat. Ruffling in her rucksack she found the packet of oat biscuits she invariably carried, and munched one contentedly. She had never intended to return to the Inn for lunch, even though she may have given Mary that impression. The truth being that the breakfast she had eaten at Mary's behest would suffice her for the rest of the day, particularly when faced with the prospect of an equally gargantuan evening meal. Far better to just sit, enjoy the view, and breathe the fresh air. A horseman rode along the hedge two fields away, but was too far for her to tell if it was the man, she had encountered earlier on, she watched his progress for a while until he rode into another field further away, leaning down from his horse to unlatch a gate, moving his horse through, and then leaning down again to re latch it. Perhaps he never gets off his horse, she thought.
