The Signalman

by Susan Hibbins

He couldn’t believe he was back again. He’d vowed he never would be, after the last time. And yet here he was, sitting in the darkness, listening to the cries and shouts, feeling the fear and despair surrounding him. Some of it was his.

Last time had been all his own fault. He’d had a good job then, as a postman, pounding London’s grimy streets, and he was doing well; he had good prospects. But betting on horses had been his weakness, even though he lost a lot more than he won. Losing didn’t make him stop. Just one more bet… He got into debt, borrowing from the wrong sort of people, and when they called in what he owed, he hadn’t got it. They weren’t the sort of people you crossed, or pleaded with. He became desperate. He would have to get the money somehow.

He knew by experience which letters he delivered were likely to contain banknotes, he could tell by the thickness. It took but a moment to put it swiftly into his pocket. How was he to know that its intended recipient was watching from an upstairs window and saw everything… as his awaited money went to the postman instead of through the letterbox? Back at the post office the police came calling, and his world began to fall apart.

Dismissal, the Old Bailey, sentenced, in prison for a year. And the hard labour of the treadwheel. He had never imagined such torture. The agony of lifting his legs three feet at a time, over and over; it could not be borne – and yet it had to be. When an inmate fell and was crushed, he was removed without comment; just a nuisance in the way. The guards were stony, implacable; the insufficient food uneatable; misery seemed to have permeated even the prison walls. Never again, he’s said, on his release. Not ever. If the treadwheel was designed to deter a man from crime, then it had worked for him.

And he’d kept his word. He worked, and applied himself as never before. He’d managed to get a job as a railway porter, and because he was willing and dependable, he was offered training to become a signalman. A step towards a better life. Before long he was qualified, and he was proud of how he’d turned things around. When he married Emily, a shy English rose of a girl he met at a church fete, he did not think life could get any better – until his children were born.

Something about their helplessness, their need of him, and the love they brought touched him as nothing had before. Emily teased him and said he was soft, running to their cribs the moment they whimpered, but he didn’t care. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for them; he lived to make them and Emily happy. The Old Bailey and prison belonged to someone else’s life.

By 1912 he and Emily, now with a family of five, had moved to Lincolnshire, where he became a signalman at Deeping St James station. It was a pleasant village and soon they were all settled, the elder children attending school. At weekends, when he had the time off, he would take them fishing for minnows in the river; in the autumn they went blackberrying so that Emily could bake a fruit pie for tea. When Christmas came they joined in the villagers’ carol singing and had snowball fights.

The winter was freezing, and in January all the children caught a nasty cold, which Emily picked up too. After a few days she took to her bed, and so did their youngest daughter, Katy. She had always been frail, prone to infection, and now she did not seem to have the strength to fight. After doing his best to care for them all, and frantic with worry, he went for help.

‘Nearly the whole village has this,’ pronounced the doctor, stomping down the narrow stairs. He looked grave. ‘Your wife will be all right, in a few days. The child… she’s another matter. Not many reserves. Give them this,’ he handed over a bottle of medicine, ‘and I will come again. Light a fire up there, though. Room’s like an ice box.’

He did as he was told, lugging the coal upstairs and piling it into the fireplace in the bedroom. Worry about money joined his worries about Katy. He would have to pay the doctor. And there was little coal left in the shed outside. His pay wouldn’t stretch to fires in the bedrooms, not with seven people to feed. He couldn’t think about that now, though. He took the bottle of medicine and helped Emily and then Katy to drink, making sure they swallowed it.

Two days passed, and Emily began to recover, though she coughed constantly. The doctor came back, but said very little. Katy lay still in her cot, as though the effort to get better was too great. After the doctor had gone, he sat by his child, stroking the damp hair away from her forehead, willing her to live. A pain grew beneath his heart.

The fire was low and he went downstairs to fill the coal bucket, but there was barely anything left, and it was mostly dust. He had spent his weekly wage – there was nothing due for another three days. There was just about enough food in the house till then, but Katy – Katy needed her medicine and the warmth of the fire.

He didn’t even think about it. At the station there was a huge pile of coal – they wouldn’t miss a few buckets of it. And he was careful, he only took a small amount, just enough to keep fires in the kitchen and bedroom going. It was only until he was paid, he told himself. It would be all right. His child – all his children – had to come first.

But the station master, going home late one night in the darkness, did not see it that way. He saw only one of his signalmen, hitherto a trustworthy employee, stealing coal.

‘You were sent to prison the first time to learn a lesson,’ said the judge. ‘Clearly the lesson needs to be longer this time. Three years with hard labour. Take him down.’

It was the day of Katy’s funeral. He sat, head in his hands, as moonlight crossed the narrow space of his cell.