The Railway Station Man: A Novel

The Railway Station Man: A Novel

by Jennifer Johnston

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Seeking solace in the wake of her husband’s death, a woman embarks on a new life on the Irish coast, where her mysterious new neighbor offers a rekindled sense of happiness, however short-lived

Helen moved to a small ocean-side village for the isolation—to be alone with the waves, birds, and changing seasons. Newly widowed, she spends her days painting in her glass-walled studio atop a hillside on Ireland’s northwest coast. From her perch she can study the rocks and dunes of the land sloping into the sea, the fishing boats rocking in the tide, and the railway station, abandoned for forty years, now being refurbished by Roger, an Englishman and veteran of the Second World War. Her friendship with Roger develops slowly, but in tandem with her growing affection for him is an intractable suspicion over his past. As the Troubles continue to settle over Ireland, Helen experiences sparks of happiness with Roger. Meanwhile, her son Jack, a radical living in Dublin, is increasing his involvement with an impassioned group of Irish guerillas, unwittingly setting in motion a series of events that lead to a shocking conclusion for both him and his mother.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781497646469
Publisher: Open Road Media
Publication date: 06/24/2014
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 193
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Jennifer Johnston is a preeminent voice of contemporary Irish fiction. Her long list of accolades includes the Whitbread Literary Award for The Old Jest, the Evening Standard Award for Best First Novel for The Captains and the Kings, and a Man Booker Prize shortlist mention for Shadows on Our Skin. Her recent Foolish Mortals was shortlisted for the Irish Book of the Decade by the Bord Gáis Energy Irish Book Awards. Johnston has authored seventeen novels and five plays. She lives outside Derry, Northern Ireland.

Read an Excerpt

The Railway Station Man

A Novel

By Jennifer Johnston


Copyright © 1984 Jennifer Johnston
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-4646-9



Such a grandiose word.


There was the connection in the dictionary staring me in the eye.

No place alone or apart; to cause to stand alone; separate, detached, or unconnected with other things or persons; to insulate.

The good old OED puts things straight for you.

At this moment, as I write these words, the sky is huge and quite empty, no blemishes, vapour trails, not even the distant flick of a lark's small body.

They used to eat larks' tongues. A great delicacy I've read somewhere in a book. At least we're spared that now. The larks can sing. They have their own peace in the empty sky.

I am insulated from the sound of their song and other realities by the thin panes of glass that form one wall of this studio that I have had built on the hillside just above my cottage. That also sounds grandiose.

To be accurate, and it is in the interests of accuracy that I am struggling with these words instead of colours, textures, light and shade, visual patterns, Damian thought up the idea, and then set to work to build it for me out of three tumbledown sheds. I wanted the sea imprisoned there for me alone. Spring, summer, autumn, winter, to be able to watch it change. Morning and evening, insulated from its reality. Crack, shatter, scatter angry shards and splinters. Ploughing wind driving furrows through glasslike deep grey waves. I can watch. I know that to watch is my isolation. I have no other function.

I dream sometimes of catastrophes.

I remember occasionally in the daylight the shuddering of the houses when the explosion happened. Windows then, taken by surprise, cracked, some even splintered to the ground and for days the smell of smoke lingered in unexpected places.

But now, here, the glass holds.

Over here it is bare. No one visits. Sometimes the cat startles me as he pads across the floor and rubs himself against my leg. He doesn't much like it here though. He will pad for a few minutes, stare with almost unbearable arrogance at the canvases leaning against the wall. If the sun is shining he may sit in its warmth by the window for a while but sooner or later he will retire to the cottage, the comfort of cushions and the purring machines that keep us both warm and clean and fed.

I have an easel now. I bought it for a lot of money after my first exhibition. I thought perhaps I might then feel more like a real artist, no fly-by-night enthusiast. I don't use it very often. I have become accustomed to crouching, hunkered down on the floor, but I suppose as I get older, less flexible, I will be glad of the easel. Its cross-shape gives a certain class to the studio. Damian approves of it.

The cottage is quite high on the hillside. I look west from the windows across rough fields, scattered stones and squat bushes, over the peaks of the dunes to the wide bay. A bare rocky headland to the south and to the north a long spit of sand. There is no sign from here of the village nor of the little harbour from which the fishing boats set out on tranquil summer mornings. How romantic that sounds. That is when I am impelled to stand by the window and watch, when the half-dozen boats, Enterprise, Cailín Bán, Girl Josie, Queen of the Sea, Mary Lou and Granuaile slide across the early morning sea. The grey days, the buffeting days, I don't bother to watch out for them, then they look ugly and disturbingly vulnerable. The village is much the same as any other village in this part of the North West, the houses and shops clinging to the sides of a blue-black road. You swing into the village past the new Church, vulgar, triumphant and quite out of place in the almost stark landscape. Three or four shops, a couple of pubs, the licensed betting office, a few cottages, the Hotel and at the far end of the village the new estate, two neat rectangles of houses sprouting aerials from every roof. In the summer Sweeney's shop and Doherty's sell buckets and spades and brightly coloured plastic balls, picture postcards in revolving metal frames and both shops have installed machines for making whipped ice cream. In the hollow between the village and the dunes there is a caravan site, which takes a hundred caravans, permanently placed and discreetly hidden from the road. A great source of prosperity.

If you look with care you can see scattered through the surrounding fields the pattern of the village as it used to be a long time ago. Falling gables and piles of rubble are linked by the vestiges of tracks through the rocks and the whin bushes. A few cottages still stand, re-roofed with slates and with glass porches built to keep out the wind. These are, by and large, the homes of holiday people from Dublin and Belfast, England even. Though you cannot see the sea from the village you can smell the salt on the air and the heavy smell also of the seaweed that is washed up on great patches of the sand in the winter storms. On wild days you can hear the crash of the waves and the grinding of the stones as they drag along the beach.

About two miles out of the village on the side of this same hill is the railway station.

Since the closure of the railway in 1940 the square stone house had been uninhabited, the windows had been broken in the signal box and the wooden steps had rotted as had the gates at the level crossing.

Brambles and scutch had grown up on the permanent way and the platforms were covered with thick grass and weeds. That was until the Englishman bought it about three years ago and he and Damian restored and refurbished it until you would never have known that it had suffered nearly forty years' neglect. It is now derelict again and the weeds are beginning to take over once more. The engine shed by the level crossing was almost demolished when the explosion happened, and part of the gable wall of the house itself was badly damaged. No one has bothered to rebuild, or even shift the rubble, nor I suppose, will they ever ... The buildings stand there, and will presumably continue to stand there until they fall down, as a derelict memorial to the deaths of four men. Violent, and to use Roger's own word, 'needless' deaths.

Who is this woman with the cat who lives on the side of a hill and watches the fishing boats on tranquil summer mornings?

I had hoped not to have to explain. Explanations are so tedious for the writer as well as the reader, but having explained the place I feel I should also explain the person; sketch might be a more reasonable word ... sketch the person.

My name is Helen. Not the name I would have called myself if I had had the choice, but I have learnt to live with it. Two rows of wrinkles circle my wrists. My body is still smooth and pale, spotted quite nicely here and there with brown moles; in spite of that I don't get much joy from catching sight of myself in the glass, just too much flesh and pride.

I was born on a Sunday in 1930. The day of the week always seemed important to me. The child that is born on the Sabbath day, is bonny and blithe and good and gay. I at least had that over most of my friends.

My life was filled with safety.

We heard about the war on the wireless. The names in that distant game stuck in our heads, El Alamein, Monte Cassino, Dunkirk, Leningrad, Arnhem, Hiroshima, Ypres, the Somme, Balaclava, Waterloo, Culloden, Agincourt, Crécy. Nearer to home Drogheda, the Boyne, Wexford, more names. Words in books, newspapers, on the air, once more into the breach dear friends, we shall fight on the beaches, and gentlemen in England now abed have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. Just words. We received small wooden chests of tea from America at regular intervals and delicious pounds of yellow butter from friends in the country and there were no more banana sandwiches at parties. These were realities.

I drew and painted. That's really all I can remember positively about my education. My attitude to the whole process of learning was one of passive resistance. Something inside me didn't want what they were offering me. I didn't make any fuss about it. I didn't break their rules, I merely slept most of the way through more than ten years of education. My lethargy tired them out and in the end they just left me to sit in the back row and draw. My pockets were always full of pencils, finely sharpened leads, that snapped if you pressed too hard on the paper, and stubby rounded soft leads, almost grey on the page and soft enough to smear when you rubbed the lines with a warm finger. The art teacher didn't like me doing that. She liked perspectives, neat lines, colours that matched and stayed inside confining lines. Her greatest aspiration for us seemed to be that we should be able to draw perfectly a cardboard box. 'Just so,' she used to say as her pencil flicked across the paper, straight lines, angles, height and depth. I slept again.

I had great expectations when I finally persuaded my parents to let me study at the College of Art, expectations that revelations might occur, both artistic and spiritual. I needed a revelation of some sort at that moment. Of course no such thing happened. I didn't have the gumption nor the energy to realise that we have to create our own miracles. It was like being back at school. I retreated into my sleep once more. I left the College of Art with a dismal record and a confused dislike of art in any form. I remember quite clearly one summer night about a week after my final term had ended, when I carried all my sketch books, my canvases, the framed pictures that I had hanging on the walls of my room, down to the bottom of the garden, beyond the tennis court, and burnt them. I had to make several journeys through the house, up to my room and down the stairs, across the hall and out the side door. The raked gravel crunched under my feet. The sun was only just visible over the high escallonia hedge that protected us from our neighbours. I neatly stacked the whole damn paraphernalia of my life into a pyramid and lit it with pink-tipped Friendly Matches. As the papers curled down into ashes the smoke curled white up past the top of the hedge and disappeared. The sky shone, a deep blue, as if it had been enamelled by some old Italian master. Three gardens away they were playing tennis. I could hear their voices and the plocking of the ball. I stood by the fire until nothing remained but a pile of shifting ashes, the heart dying. The sun flashed in the western windows as I walked back to the house. My mother was standing in the drawing-room door.

'What were you doing down there?' she asked. 'Your face is all covered with smuts.'

'Burning things.'

'What things? I hope you didn't damage the grass.'

'Just a whole lot of rubbish. Stuff I didn't need any more.'

'Not clothes, I hope. I always like to send clothes to the jumble sale.'

'Not clothes.'

Soon after that I got engaged to Daniel Cuffe.

I remember no rapture. Perhaps, though, that is because of the passing of time, rather than the fact that it didn't exist. The snapshots I have of him are like pictures of some past acquaintance, I am not stirred in any way by seeing him sitting on a beach, or standing by a flower bed in my parents' garden, his eyes screwed up slightly in the evening sun.

When I first married him he was a teacher of mathematics at Kingstown Grammar School. I see from the snaps that he was quite a nice-looking man, with large eyes and a friendly smile. If he were still alive he would have run a bit to fat, in the way that men who have been athletic in their younger days do as their lives become more sedentary. He would probably have lost quite a lot of his hair by now, and he might have had the usual Irish trouble with his teeth. He had a good singing voice.

'Did you not see my lady, go down the garden singing.' I remember that, his pièce de résistance. 'Did you not see my lady out in the garden there, rivalling the glittering sunshine with her glory of golden hair.' Somewhat complacently I used to think he was singing about me, my glory of golden hair, but I don't think he had that gallantry in him.

We rented a small flat on the ground floor of a Victorian house down behind Blackrock. From the front windows you looked out across a low wall and the deep railway cutting to the sweep of Dublin bay. It was all urban landscape, but beautiful none the less, always changing with the light and wind, blue, grey, green, and evening, smokey purple and the squat houses lighting up, chains of light rimming the dark sea. At night the sky above the heart of the city glowed and lighthouse signals flashed. The Bailey light, the North wall, the South wall, Dun Laoghaire and through the misty summer nights the fog horns moaned to each other. Distant painful music. There were seldom strongly defined lines, for the most part roofs merged into the sky, walls seemed to grow from the earth; the sea, the sky, the hill of Howth all seemed to be part of each other, shading and shadow, no hard edges. A few days each year were so clear, bright that then you could see the realities of granite, slate and glass, the distant sea walls became three-dimensional, Howth moved closer affirming its solidity. On these days people would look at the sky in amazement, shake their heads and say, 'It's going to rain.'

They were invariably right.

Jack was born during that time. Eight pounds four ounces, all faculties intact. I suppose I was happy and anxious. All young mothers are anxious, most of them are probably happy, niche found, creativity fulfilled, something to love bundled fretfully in their arms.

There was also a little girl. She died soon after birth, a victim of warring blood. I remember quite sharply the pain of watching her die, not because I loved her, there hadn't been time for that, but because of the fact that she had been offered no choice but death. I don't mean to swoop into sentimentality, merely to state the facts, and though the fact of her short existence has no bearing on what happened eighteen months ago, her conception and her death are a part of me.

About ten years later we moved from Dublin to Derry where Dan became the head of the mathematics department in a large grammar school. I remember so little of those years. It's probably just as well or otherwise I might bore you with tedious domestic details. It is a curious reflection on more than twenty years of marriage that all I remember with clarity was the ending of it, and even that memory is electric still in my mind for what most people in the world would consider to be the wrong reasons. It was shortly before Christmas in 1975 and I was alone in the house. I was sitting in front of the fire. I could feel the heat spreading through me. Around me on the floor were the Christmas cards. Daniel always complained that I left them too late for politeness. He was out visiting the parents of one of his sixth-form pupils. I even remember the name of the boy. George Cranston. His father was an Inspector in the RUC. My shoulders had been stiff for days and the warmth was mellowing them. The bell rang. I put the top on my pen and placed it carefully on the floor beside the unwritten envelopes and got up and went and opened the door. A policeman and a policewoman were standing on the step.

It's strange how immune you always feel to violence, devilry. Snow mixed with rain feathered their caps. In the car parked in the driveway behind them some sort of a radio crackled.

'Yes?' I said.

'Mrs Cuffe?' he asked, moving his hands nervously as he spoke.


'May we come in a minute?'

'Of course. It's a horrible night for standing on doorsteps.'

I moved back into the hall and they came in through the door. He took off his cap and banged at it for a moment with his hand. Snow drops sprinkled onto the carpet and melted. The policewoman closed the door and they stood looking at me as if waiting for me to speak first.

'I'm afraid we have some bad news for you ...'

'I think,' said the woman, interrupting him, 'we should go into the fire. I think you should sit down.'

'Bad news' The words didn't have any meaning to me as I spoke them. 'What's bad news? I mean – I think you'd better tell me here. Now.'

'There's been an accident. Your husband's been shot.'

I laughed.

'Cuffe's my name. Helen Cuffe. You must have got the wrong person.'

The policewoman took me by the arm and pushed me into the sitting room. I looked at the piles of envelopes and cards on the floor.

'I was writing Christmas cards ...' I gestured towards them.

'Your husband has been shot,' she said.



'But how? Why? Dan?'


Excerpted from The Railway Station Man by Jennifer Johnston. Copyright © 1984 Jennifer Johnston. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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