The Long Bustard Narrow Gauge Railway. Part4

Chapter Eleven.
A glimmer of hope.

Russell trudged along the railway track in his heavy steel-capped safety boots. He did not drive a car so relied upon local transport to get him to the railway, unless he could cadge a lift from anyone who was passing his house. Today he had had to catch the bus, but that only passed the railway at one of the town’s many level crossings, so he had alighted from the bus and was walking to The Henge using the track bed as a path; it was after all the shortest route. It was the same reason that there were lots of plastic fizzy drink bottles and empty crisp packets lining the track edges as the local school children also used the track bed to walk to school on, and as a litter dump for their purchases from the local shop. Russell was chuntering away to himself about all this litter and that it was about time something was done about it. He was a bachelor and now half way through his fifties, another single male member of the Railway who still lived at home with his parents. Russell was known to go on and on about a subject, sometimes to the point that others would consider running outside and committing suicide. He meant well and was more often than not right in his conversation and comments, it was just that he would go on and on, and on.

He was on his way to assist at The Henge, work being done to replace rotten sleepers and greasing fish-plates. It was a Tuesday but this permanent way team were the usual crew, Martin, Dave, John who also helped in the shop and Ted who did the Café and edited the Society’s award winning magazine. These four were already at The Henge and well into setting about sorting out new sleepers and ripping out the rotten ones. Replacing sleepers was a job for life. Because Russell had to walk the couple of miles there he would arrive later. His time was not wasted though as he discussed with himself and the odd nosy rabbit why ‘clamping the rails to sleepers was better than spiking them. Spikes could split a wooden sleeper and this would let water in and rot them and that meant a much shorter life span. Sleepers were not to be wasted and anyway the old creosote soaked, wooden sleepers the LBLR had been getting second-hand from British Rail were running out. The railway would have to buy its own soon, cutting in half old BR sleepers was soon to be in the past.’ Unnoticed by Russell, a nearby rabbit who had been listening fell into a trance, threw itself at a barbed wired fence and killed itself. Russell walked on talking his thoughts out loud as he carefully stepped between each sleeper as it was dangerous to walk on slippery, wet sleepers he told another startled rabbit. Having seen its mate commit hara-kiri it dived down its burrow before Russell’s monotonous conversation got to it as well.

It was as he walked past one of the many field access, gated crossings, that the line ran over that he saw the old cardboard boxes. Alas, these gateways were often used to fly-tip rubbish. An honest citizen would employ a driver of a white van that only had a mobile phone number on it to remove rubbish for them. The driver would accept cash-in-hand for the job and just then dump it in any convenient gateway, ditch or verge. This was the case here, but the contents of the box caught Russell’s eye. Whilst many thought him a bit simple, he did in fact have a very sharp eye for detail and a high IQ. He often watched television programmes about antiques and was well up on railway-memorabilia items. He stopped and had a rummage about the box. In it he found some old picture frames with sepia photos of an old railway plus quite a few loose photos. There were other items that appeared to be railway related amongst the tat so he gathered up the boxes and carried them the rest of the way with him intending to study his find all more closely later. When he arrived at the little station he put the boxes in the tiny staff canteen. Calling it a canteen was a bit much really as it was an upstairs room above the old stables beneath. The red iron-stone building dated back to the first world war when horses were used to shunt wagons about the quarries thereabouts. Downstairs was a small machine shop with an earth floor, upstairs was the canteen and a carpenter’s workshop. The whole lot was still as it had been in 1919 apart from a microwave oven, an electric kettle and lighting.

After putting on his overalls, Russell went out to the top shunting yard to assist the volunteers already there in re-laying the old track work. The goods trains had de-railed so often during industrial shunting displays to the public on open days something had just got to be done to cure the track. Luckily the great British public thought the re-railing was just part of the afternoon’s display, in truth a fact almost typical of a normal working day on any poorly laid quarry railway.

Time for a cup of tea arrived and Russell dutifully went to the staff room to boil up the kettle and mash the tea. Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil he stood out on the top steps that led onto the first floor of the ancient workshops that once were the quarry company’s stables. From there he had a good view of the whole area around The Henge Works. Amongst the industrial museum display was a Ruston Bucyrus RB10 shovel. This is a crane with a bucket on its jib that can lift sand or gravel to load into skip wagons. This 1930s crane was in full running order and was being put through its paces that morning by its custodian, who just happened to be Pete, the guard. Pete could be grumpy at times but he also enjoyed a joke. As Russell watched the jib swing round ready to drop sand into a skip wagon on the railway, just as it would once have been done when the industrial Light Railway was working, Dave on the PW team shouted to Pete. Russell could not hear his words due to the diesel engine in the crane. But Pete had heard and grinned and nodded.

Pete dropped the sand into the wagon and then swung the jib upwards and sideways. He did this just as Dave threw a lump of wood at the jib bucket. They were playing RB10 cricket, Dave was bowling and Pete batting, though in this case he was using a five-ton crane and its bucket as a bat. By pure luck the bit of wood hit the swinging bucket and soared off towards the lane that runs past the works. Everyone stopped to watch it. Its trajectory saw it sail over the hedge and down towards the road.

Coming down the road was a little blue Nissan Micra. It was looking nice and shiny as Mrs Angela Smith sat behind the wheel. It had just come back from the garage after having almost all of its front end renewed. Mrs Smith had recently bumped into a train on a level crossing which had not done her car any good at all. Her insurance company had almost written the car off due to the extent of the damage. But she liked her little car and had offered to pay the difference between the insurance repair value and the actual costs. The car was almost a new one now. She was unaware of The Henge Works behind the hedge as she drove past it, not being interested in trains or engineering she took no notice of the advertising board on the gates telling one and all of the Long Bustard Light Railway Works. Then a loud bang made her nearly jump out of her skin. Only her seat belt stopped her. Her car’s windscreen went all misty as it crazed with the impact of the bit of wood which once imagined itself as a cricket ball. She swerved, skidded and then pulled up by the verge. Taking her mobile phone from her handbag she phoned the police and asked for help in a very shaken voice.

*******

That evening the Big Boss of GGD had an appointment with the Long Bustard Town Council. This little railway was beginning to become a real nuisance. The Rolls Royce glided up to stop outside the posh front doors of the huge headquarters of the company and after collecting the Big Boss it purred off towards the little market town some thirty miles away.

It was not a very nice evening, the wind had got up and big low grey clouds threatened rain. By the time the Rolls Royce pulled off the motorway the rain had begun to fall. As the big car entered Long Bustard the rain had become very heavy and it was getting dark. In the rear compartment the Big Boss was going through his speech to the Council. The chauffeur was peering out through the rain blasted windscreen when he suddenly saw a boy with a red flag in the road. The car was travelling at thirty miles and hour and the boy had simply appeared from nowhere. The brakes were slammed on and the modern ABS system stopped any skidding, but there was a loud bump as if the boy had been struck. The chauffeur was out in an instance to see if the lad was hurt, but he stopped as he could hear a woman crying. Looking about him he saw they were just across a narrow gauge railway level crossing. As the railway was only used as a tourist attraction and never ran at night, the level crossing road signs were unlit. The very wet road was awash with water so the rail lines were under water. Of the boy there was no sign.

“What the hell is going on?” the Big Boss demanded from inside the car of his driver. He had become aware they had stopped.

“It is rather odd Sir. I thought I had hit a lad with a red flag, but there is no one here. I then heard a woman crying, but then I thought it might be the wind in the tree’s branches,” he explained.

The Big Boss was a tough businessman but no child killer, “Better get the police here quick and see what the hell is going on,” he said.

The chauffeur then used the telephone in the car to dial 999.

*******

At the little Police Office in the town a group of people were talking in the foyer. One was the Sergeant, one Dave and the other Pete. They had been through the routine paperwork after earlier in the day being ‘invited’ to attend the Police Office that evening to see the duty officer. The officer who had attended the scene had taken a statement from Russell who had witnessed the whole thing.

“Now tell me again what you were doing?” enquired the Sgt.

“We were just having a bit of fun. We call it ‘RB10 Cricket’. I throw a bit of wood at the crane’s bucket and Pete thwacks it one. Usually it just drops about ten or fifteen feet. Today as luck would have it I scored a six,” explained Pete.

“And your explanation please?” the Sgt asked Dave.

“Same really. No way did we intend to smash the lady’s windscreen,” he replied.

“Well, you’ve committed the same offence as a youth who drops a brick off a motorway bridge and smashes a windscreen. You have committed the crime of ‘Criminal Damage, Reckless as to Whether it Endangers Life’. Maximum sentence of life imprisonment by the way,” the Sgt finished with a very serious look on his face.

“Oh my God,” gasped Dave wide eyed.

Sitting in a room down the corridor was Mrs. Smith. She was a bit shaken by the whole incident but not injured. With her was a very young WPC.

“What will they do to them?” Mrs Smith asked of the young lady police officer. Mrs Smith secretly wondered just how this tiny girl could see over the dashboard of a Panda Car to be able drive it. Perhaps she used a cushion on the seat; maybe two cushions.

“The Sgt is talking to them now. I think he intends to give them a caution each if they offer an apology and to pay for your windscreen,” she told the elderly lady. “Did you really run into a train?” she continued.

“Yes I did,” Mrs Smith confided, and told her the whole story.

Just then a radio message came over the station radio for any officer to attend a child hit by a car accident. Both Pete and Dave overheard the accident location. The Sgt and the WPC had to leave so as the Sgt ran out of the front door he yelled at the two, Pete and Dave, to return to the ‘nick the next evening at seven. Then the two officers leapt into a panda car and drove out of the station yard with blue lights and sirens blazing. The WPC was driving and all you could see was her eyes and the top of her head looking over the dash through the windscreen.

Pete and Dave along with Mrs. Smith then also left the station.

“Do you think we ought to lock this door?” Mrs Smith asked the two LBLR volunteers as she came through the front office outside door.

“Looks like we will have to it seems. There is no one in there now,” commented Pete.

“Well really, what a bloody hopeless police force that leaves doors open. So much for their so called crime prevention advice,” added Dave.

Dave slammed the door shut. None of them realised that the door only opened into a foyer and that the swing door inside into the actual office had a security lock on it with a code worked from a button pad. They had shut the front door so no one visiting could now get to the wall telephone inside that was connected to the Dunston police station seven miles away. What was worse was the keys to this front door were still in the office key cabinet inside and Dave had dropped the latch.

Back in Dave’s car on their way home, Dave said to Pete. “Did you hear what that radio message said about a child in an accident?”

“Yes I did. It sounded like it was up Stanbridge Road near our level crossing. Let’s go and have a look,” replied Pete. Neither knew of the recent history of this crossing over supposed ghosts.

When they arrived at the crossing in the rain, they did not get out of their car but observed that there was a Rolls Royce parked nearby with a panda car behind it. There seemed to be a man in a chauffeur’s cap sitting in the back of the panda talking to the two police officers.

“Nothing to see here it seems,” Dave said, “Let’s go home, it’s cold and wet.”

*******

After the police had dealt with the supposed accident that turned out to be nothing as no injured party was found, the Big Boss continued on to the Town Hall. Upon entering he apologised for being late but did not say why. He suspected his driver had been having delusions, or had been at the whisky bottle again. The police had not breathalysed him either, but then there had been no accident had there.

The meeting was all one sided. The Town Council had not a leg to stand on. Nothing had been in writing. The Big Boss denied that he had promised to build a new station, that was just what the council had suggested themselves, he told them, not him to them. Being a very clever and politic speaker he soon had them so confused some began to doubt what was going on and others simply did not understand. The evening finished with the Mayor thanking him for attending and explaining everything. Nothing in reality had been explained but it would be a day or two, after the council members had mulled it all over in their minds, before they saw that.

“The only way that railway will build a station on that land, will be if they pay me two million pounds for it,” were the Big Boss’s final words on the matter.

The Council all just sat there and just blinked at him. Where on earth would such a little society get that sort of money, they all thought to themselves. This could spell the end of the railway. The Big Boss then took his leave.

********

It was another Tuesday and the engine shed was a hive of industry. It was early spring and green leaf shoots were just beginning to show on some of the earlier blossoming trees in the Town Park next door. Horse chestnut are often the first to herald spring with their big sticky buds. Nearly every locomotive was outside the shed being serviced. Smoke boxes were open with feet hanging out of them as boiler tubes were cleaned out with what looked like a huge pipe cleaner. Mid-morning the crew all went into the shed for a cup of tea and a biscuit. The ‘tea-boy’, who was in his early seventies, had a set of lottery tickets in his hand. He had not had time to check the numbers and had borrowed a daily newspaper from someone with the weekend’s lottery winners in.

Suddenly he jumped up waving a ticket. “We’ve won the bloody lottery, whoopee!” he yelled. Everyone then crowded around to see the numbers.

“You bloody plonker, that ticket is a Wednesday one, you are looking at last Saturday’s winners,” Dave lambasted the poor chap.

“Oh yes. Oh dear. Sorry chaps. This ticket is for tomorrow. Sorry,” he stammered. “Should have put my glasses on, if I can find the things,” the tea boy continued.

“They’re on the top of your bleedin’ head,” Dave snapped him. Dave’s charm and manners were legendary.

“Wow, I thought for a minute then our troubles were all over,” said one of the two ancient pair of wrinkles who turned up every Tuesday.

“Yep, would have been nice. Nice cup of tea though this,” said the other. “Did you fix No4’s regulator last week?”

“Yes, it has been to bits and reassembled so often I can do it in my sleep now. It’s a crap design as all its rods and links are inside the boiler, not outside like the other steam engines. That means they get all coked up with lime scale and the like, causing things to stick,” the first old chap told the second. “It will have to be fixed every few years unless they redesign the damned thing. Another of those British designs that hides all the workings making life difficult.”

Bert and Rodney were also in the shed under a big green diesel locomotive. They were both standing in the pit underneath it inspecting the huge chains that drove the axle sprockets.

“Rodney, I must say I am a little surprised at you. You do seem to have a flair for things mechanical it seems,” Bert commented.

“Well, I do find it interesting and I enjoy being able to do things myself and understand it all,” Rodney said.

It was true that Rodney had even borrowed some books from the little library in the town centre on diesel locomotives and had begun to read up on the subject. His mother thought that perhaps he was ill as he was so quiet in his scruffy little bedroom. She had sneaked up to look in and assumed he was looking at dirty books of naked ladies. But no, they had been books on trains. He must be ill. She would talk to her brother about him. That funny little lad Tom did not seem to come round for him any more. Funny little fellow he was, only looks about fifteen but is nearly as old at Rodney.

Rodney had ignored a number of mobile phone calls from a chap who wanted to talk to him about the LBLR.

********

Russell was at The Henge the same day doing some housekeeping. Russell looked after the drains as one of his self inflicted little tasks. No one else would bother with them, but when it rained hard the soak-a-way in the museum yard flooded. This meant visitor would have to wade through inches of water to look at the world-renowned display of industrial wagons of all sorts and nationalities. It was whilst he had his arm full length down a drain removing the detritus within, that he suddenly remembered those cardboard boxes he had found some weeks ago. He was avoiding Dave and Pete over the RB10 cricket game and the fact he had given a statement to the police that had the two bang to rights.

Up in the little staff canteen in The Henge stables were Dave and Pete drinking tea. They had been back to the police office and accepted their cautions. Mrs Smith was happy as she had a new windscreen but was studiously avoiding the lane that ran by the railway and past those stables buildings they had. At least she had been able to tell some good stories to her cronies when they all met on Wednesdays at each others houses for tea and cake. Behind her back they discussed how on earth she had not seen that train she had run into the middle of. But then they all talked about the one who was not there so often each was afraid to leave first.

It was Dave who spoke first after taking a swig of his tea.

“You know that supposed accident at that level crossing we saw the Rolls Royce at?” he said to Pete.

“Yes, what about it?” Pete replied.

“Well, it seems that in that Roller’ was the chairman of GGD. He was visiting the town council for a chat about our station being bulldozed,” Dave told him.

“Oh yes. So what do you know about it all?”

Chapter Twelve.
Getting better and better.

It really was a terrible late winters evening. The wind was blowing strongly and the rain was lashing down in thick sheets drenching everything in its path. Visibility was awful. There were rivers of water running down the gutters and into the drains; at least those drains that were not blocked with the local sand. It was late as the mayoral car passed along Stanbridge Road taking its passengers home after another civic function at the council offices at The White House. The rear seat passengers were the Mayor and his wife. Their driver was their son who ran a local taxi company and the ‘mayoral transport’ was a well used, second-hand, black London Austin taxicab. The olde single-speed windscreen wipers were struggling to keep the rain at bay and the view ahead difficult as the car wended its way along the empty street. As the driver peered out into the wet, soggy gloom there was no conversation as everyone was worn out. The rain still lashed down and condensation made the view out of the side windows difficult as well. As the taxi climbed the gentle hill out towards the old RAF station of Stanbridge, the headlamps picked out the shining steel narrow-gauge rails of the level crossing ahead. Once these railway lines had carried the industrial life-blood of Long Bustard in its huge sand and gravel industry but since WW2 most of this local quarry product had been transported by road. Today the little railway only ran at midweek in summer and weekends most of the rest of the year, as the town’s main tourist attraction. It carried tourists and keen young and old steam railway enthusiasts as well as being a renowned industrial museum.

Old black Austin London taxicabs are not very fast vehicles but they were well designed for town use. The driver mused on this fact as he peered ahead into the wet, soggy gloom ahead as he approached the level crossing. Then he became aware of a slight movement near to where the railway exited the crossing and disappeared towards Town Park, the railway’s town terminal. There were few street lights out this far so the road was dark. As the taxi driver drew nearer he swore he could see a boy holding a red flag standing in the middle of the road. He lifted his foot from the accelerator to slow the cab and to take a better look. Nothing was clear in the rain, but there in front of the taxi was a boy, about fourteen years old, walking out into the road waving a red flag, and it was almost midnight. The brakes squealed a little as the cab came to a standstill at the crossing. There was no other traffic or signs of life other than this very wet boy in rather scruffy clothing. The cab driver wound down his window to listen. He and his passengers could hear the unmistakable sound of an approaching diesel locomotive over the pelting rain bouncing on the road and the taxi’s roof. Not a big loco, but that of a Bedford Simplex loco of the old industrial railway working hard pulling a long train of full quarry skips. The boy stood his ground on the crossing as the approaching train got louder. By now the rear seat passengers had begun to take notice of what was happening. They too were utterly amazed that a train was running so late at night. All of them were well aware of the use of this line almost up until the early nineteen seventies as a quarry line, but it was now the twenty-first century! No sand trains ran any more, there was no longer any interchange sidings with the main line at Billington Road. They had since long gone and had now been an industrial estate for over thirty years. What on earth was this boy and this train doing here?

Then the rain really began to fall so heavily that the single-speed wipers could no longer cope. The taxi’s occupants thought they saw a train cross the road with a dozen or so skips but it was very dim. Then there was a terrific and horrific scream. The train had not completely crossed but the boy had disappeared. This was just too much for the taxi driver and his father. Both jumped out of the cab into the lashing rain to investigate. But as they leaned forward into the wind and pouring rain and walked towards the crossing both looked up; the train has disappeared. The level crossing was empty. They ran over to look down the line to see if the train was there. Nothing. Then they both noted that the white painted, metal gates on each side of the road blocking off the railway were closed and still padlocked as they usually were when the railway was closed. These gates only closed off the railway, not the road, as they were set too far back for that. Then, out in that awful winter’s evening they hear a soft crying noise. It was a sobbing noise that sounded like a distressed woman. They both turned to see a shadowy shape huddled out in the road wearing a wet-through shawl. She was cuddling a young teenage boy to her chest. There was blood on the rails near her feet. Then a big heavy goods vehicle could be heard in the distance coming their way. Both looked towards it but it turned into the industrial estate up the road. When they looked back in that split second the woman and child had gone. Both men were by now soaked to the skin and neither could find any sign of the train, the shadowy shape on that crossing or of any blood. It was as if it had not happened.

They looked at each other and then ran back to the waiting cab. Once inside their wet cloths steamed up the interior and they sat silent for a while. Neither was drunk, neither had suffered delusions nor did they believe in ghosts. The Mayor’s wife had also seen the same scenes as they had, but she had stayed firmly in the dry, safe cab. Should they call the police? Would they be believed? The driver would certainly be breathalysed. Instead they went home to mull it all over.

Once in the dry, warm house the son went to the bookcase and picked up a copy of a book about the Long Bustard Light Railway by a local author. To his surprise he found a reference to an accident on that railway in the late nineteen thirties where a boy who had just left school had died. He had been the flag-boy and as such sat on the front of the loco. He had jumped off at Stanbridge Road crossing in the rain, and once the loco began to cross he had jumped on again. He had misjudged his jump and fell under the loco wheels and was then caught in the driving chains before its driver could stop it. His mother had been informed and she had run to the scene to cuddle her dying child.

It seemed this location was a bit of a black spot. The son then decided to phone the police anyway. At the police office Sgt Bloggs picked up the phone. He had just brewed up as he had lost at snooker to a young, little WPC and making the tea was the forfeit.

“Sgt Bloggs here. How can I help you?” he answered.

“Hello Sgt, I want to report an accident but not one that you might normally think of as such,” the son explained. Then he told the whole story to the officer who listened quietly, nodding from time to time though the caller could not see him.

“I’ll come and see you and your Dad at your home. I’ll come now but I will be getting the Railway’s manager to come as well. Is that OK?” the Sgt told the Mayor’s son.

Then the Sgt contacted Martin via his mobile phone at home and they agreed to meet at the Mayor’s house in fifteen minutes, even though that meant it would almost be 1am in the morning.

******

The next day Martin was thinking hard. His visit to the Mayor’s house, the chairman of the GGD reporting a near miss, that member of the public who came in months ago; they were all about that level crossing. Now, was it kids mucking about, were they real near accidents, people imaginations or was there really something very fishy going on? Many years ago a few totally unconnected people had reported some very similar incidents at that crossing. Martin was not suspicious nor was he very religious but there was nothing to lose about visiting the town’s All Saints Church and having a chat with the Vicar. So he picked up the telephone handset in his little railway office and dialled the number of the church.

The taxi driver, the son of the current town’s mayor, thought very differently. He had told the local reporter of the LBO who showed a great interest in the matter. This would make a nice front page in the next issue so the reporter set about interviewing the people he knew must have been involved. His first stop was the little police office to see Sgt Bloggs.

The police Sgt was busy drinking tea in his little office. He too was mulling over the previous days and nights event. He was looking up in the files to find who the people were who had been involved all those reports years ago. He wanted to speak to the drivers of the cars that had seen similar apparitions back then, not the actual fatal incident he knew of that happened back in the nineteen thirties. His gut feeling was that it was a practical joke by someone who also knew something of the railways history. What really worried him was the detail the Mayor’s party in that taxi could give and the fact they think they saw a train as well as people and heard a scream. The other recent sightings were very dodgy in that only a flash of a ‘boy’ was seen and crying heard, nothing else. Perhaps they might put in a time-lapse CCTV camera for a few evenings? But then, just how would he explain this to his bosses at Dunston Divisional HQ? This did not quite fit any of the current government’s performance indicators. It was well known that the police had long ago stopped fighting crime or even trying to prevent it. The criteria now was to tick boxes on forms and fulfil that months quotas of performance indicators. Now, how could this little job be twisted round to fit one of those indicators? Having had a good nights sleep to think it all over might be a good idea. It also might be a good idea to get the Mayor and Martin, the railway’s manager involved in this. Perhaps the Force Diversity Advice Officer could help as well. Then the phone rang. It was the LBO reporter, Mick Queen, wanting a story. Right, he would get one but not the one he expected.

*******

Russell had found the boxes he had hidden at The Henge. He was a bachelor so had no family ties and would often come down the railway for something to do. There was always something that required attention somewhere on that railway. Someone had tidied up and moved them into another part of the ancient stables building. They had possibly assumed the boxes were just more junk someone had bequeathed to the railway under the ‘might come in useful someday’ system but usually ended up as more clutter. The whole upper floor of The Henge stables was a bit like that, for some it held untold treasures for someone to discover, or more likely more rubbish for the tidy tip or bonfire. It really needed someone to sort it all out as there were ‘donations’ up there covering right back from the mid-nineteen sixties. Russell was on his own, everyone else had gone home as the weather was none too good. He often went up there with the intention of, for once and all, sorting it all out but always got sidetracked over something interesting he might find. Outside it threatened to start sleeting though rain was falling at present. At least the building was dry inside though very cold and the contents of the boxes were dry when he found them, so they could not have been dumped on the railway’s verge by that field gateway for very long. The road that the LBLR ran alongside was also the way to the Council’s Tidy Tip. Should the tip be closed the Great British Public took the second choice of not taking their rubbish home, but dumping it in a nearby ditch or gateway. This was probably those boxes fortune, being dumped on the railway because the tidy tip was closed.

He carried the boxes through to the staff room canteen area. This sounds very posh but it was just a closed off end of the upstairs part of the floor, with a kettle, fridge, oven and sink in it, plus a table and a few chairs. There was a heater in there as well and Russell’s hands were freezing. Because of the cold and that none of the water pipes were lagged, every night who ever left The Henge last had to drain down the water system. Draining down was easy as it was just a tap outside, but another tap, the mains water tap, had to be turned off first. In order for Russell to get himself a cup of tea meant he had to go down into the workshop beneath and turn on the mains. In the ancient workshop full of Victorian machinery this tap was hidden behind a lathe and the taps little brass tee-handle was not screwed on. So it was quite common for it to fall off its shaft into the detritus behind the lathe. To recover it one had to perform quite complex athletic positions to be able to get over the lathe and down to the floor behind it. To add excitement to the fun the little brass handle often went down the grubby hole the water pipe came up out of. It was Russell’s turn to play this ancient game. This handle had been falling off this tap for about forty years and no one had yet got round to finding an 0BA brass, countersunk screw, to refit it permanently. Such a minor thing but oh, so damned annoying.

As Russell managed to recover the handle with the very ends of his cold fingertips he mused on the running of preserved steam narrow gauge railways. Why was everyone so concerned with authenticity, running and correct procedures of those steam locomotives, but no sod could fix a water tap? It would never occur to Russell to fix it himself but that did not mean he could not complain about it

Once the water was flowing and Russell could fill the kettle for his cup of tea, he went back to the boxes now on the table. He carefully took everything out and studied the items. It seemed most were old photographs, in fact some were very, very old prints with a few negatives in old envelopes. In the bottom of one box were some glass plates of the type used in very early photography. Being Russell, he soon had them all sorted out into what he considered the various years they might have been taken. Then he studied their content. Then he studied those photos content very closely indeed and the scene on some of the glass plates caused his eyes to open wide and his chin to drop.

********

At the headquarters of the huge GGD Company the lackey was scurrying along the corridor to the posh office of the Big Boss. He knocked politely on the massive door and then entered. Sitting behind the equally massive, deeply polished desk was the Big Boss himself.

“Boss, I have some news about that little railway thing in Long Bustard,” he told his leader.

“Oh yes, that damned nuisance thingy. Huh! That Town Council lot thought they could get one over on us with that non-existent ‘build a new station’ clause. I do not employ clever solicitors for nothing you know. Huh! Anyway, what have you got there?” the Big Boss asked.

“It’s the local newspaper of the town, the Long Bustard Observer. You should see the front page Sir,” the lackey said as he passed the paper over the desk.

The Big Boss read it for a while then grinned. “Whose idea was this then and what will it do for us?

“Well, it seems a local reporter got the local police to give the story. The Sergeant has told the press that he is seriously concerned that someone is playing a rather nasty trick on the public over a rather sad event. He says some sick individual is playing the fool at one of the railways level crossings, and if not careful they will get run over as they seem to chose times of very bad visibility and late at night to perform this act. The family who lost the child in the railway accident, now over sixty years ago, still live in the town and are not happy about all this,” he told the Boss who was now sipping his morning coffee. He continued, “The Police say that such a hoax may well lead to someone getting seriously hurt soon. Play-acting on dark railway level-crossings on wet nights was very foolish if not bordering on stupidity.”

“And what’s in it for us then?” he repeated.

“It is bad publicity for the railway is it not Sir? Do you think the bit about getting seriously hurt is a threat by the police?” the lackey replied.

“Could go both ways, might scare some off but then it might attract more interest. Lot of ghouls in this country you know. Who is doing it then?” the Boss asked.

“It’s my man who is behind it all. It was his idea when he found out from a book on the railways history about it. He only lives a few hundred yards from this level crossing so it is easy for him to arrange,” the lackey finished off. Then he remembered what the Big Boss had said at that meeting in Long Bustard. “Did you mean that bit about letting the railway buy that land for two million?”

“Ha! That grubby little railway is getting up my nose and holding up my business there. They could not raise two pounds let alone two million, especially as we will not give them a lease on the land their station is on, any longer than six months at a time. No one is going to lend or invest in a company that only has a six-month tenure,” the Boss leered and smiled evilly.

********

Sgt Bloggs and Martin were both monitoring the evening’s weather forecasts. They were looking for a rainy night. The idea they had hatched out between them, with the Mayor assisting, was to set up a CCTV camera at the railway level crossing to catch the people who were performing the little charade of the ghosts appearance there. With modern technology such a CCTV camera would be tiny and powered by a small battery, it could also be infra-red so as to see in the dark. It was to be set off by a pressure pad at each white metal gate that closed off the railway lines from the road. Anyone treading on one would start the camera. The gates were a fairly new addition, to stop local youths who stole cars to ‘joy-ride’ about the town and then dumped them on the railway and setting fire to them. They had learnt this trick from some travellers, it destroyed all evidence of their ever being in the car. Finding a burnt out car dumped on the railway line as you ran the first train did nothing for the temper of the Duty Manager, or for the timetable.

It was mid-March and a miserable evening that saw Martin setting up the CCTV at the level crossing. The Sgt had shewn him what to do with the equipment. He was doing it all from the railway side of the gates so as to not attract any attention from people living nearby or passing traffic. If any of the local children saw him it would be all over the town in about three minutes. The mobile phone had speeded up the local grape vine. Once the little camera was in place covering the road crossing he carefully placed the pressure mats by each gate and then walked back to the Park Station along the line. It was late but he had some paperwork to sort out. One of the letters he had on his desk awaiting attention was from a disgruntled passenger from the Santa Specials in December. It seemed the leaflets the railway had advertised the specials in promised a twenty-five minute steam train ride. This chap had timed his ride and it had only lasted twenty-three minutes. He was also annoyed at the five-minute stop half way so the locomotive could run round its carriages for the return trip. He was demanding a fifty percent refund. Such was the life of a manager these days.

******

Rodney had to admit that his heart was no longer in it He was with his mate Tom and they were preparing for another evening at the level crossing.

“It is ruddy cold and wet out there,” Rodney moaned.

“Yes, but this was your idea originally you know,” said Tom.

“Well, at the time it seemed like a good wheeze, but now I’m not so sure,” Rodney confided.

“You are going soft Mate,”

“No I’m not. I’m just beginning to understand the railway and I actually enjoy working there. I get to use my hands and I understand how a diesel loco works,” Rodney said.

“Good grief Mate, you are getting soft. What ever happened to the Rodders I knew? We get paid for this; you do not get a penny off the railway you know,” Tom continued, “and did you ever get round to clearing out my Mum’s loft for her as you promised?”

“Yes I did that months ago. Took it to the tidy tip. Well, nearly to the tip as it was closed. Dumped the boxes on the railway by a field crossing and burnt the rest.”

“Good,” Tom said, “ that rubbish had been in the loft for generations, left by my Gran I think. Have you finished your Community Service hours yet?”

“Yes, I finished them some weeks ago. I’ve joined the Society now, I’m now a fully paid up member of the railway,” Rodney told Tom.

“Bloody hell Rodders, are you about to go straight mate?”

Rodney ignored the question. They had both seen the front page article in the LBO and as publicity was their aim, they were pleased. Alas it was not to be the publicity they hoped. The two then crept along in the shadows to the level crossing some yards from Rodney’s home.

********

Russell had got himself organised. He did not drive but had roped in Ted, the editor of the railway’s quarterly magazine, to help. Ted had an ancient Landrover, so old in fact it had the headlamps each side of the radiator and not in the front wings. It was older than Dave’s Landrover. Ted had decided that made it a classic and as it was built before 1971 it did not have to pay any road tax. Its main fault was its awful fuel consumption but it was excellent for collecting stock for the Café and shop. Russell was to get Ted to transport the boxes he had now sorted through, to a specialist. This specialist was an antiques dealer who was also a railway enthusiast and whom would find the photos of very, very great interest indeed.

Russell liked to think out loud and poor Ted was to have to listen to him all the way to their destination.

“A very long time ago, “ Russell began, “in about 1860, the narrow gauge railway was quite a new phenomenon and much cheaper to construct. Great Britain had been building the ‘standard gauge’ railway based on a Roman horse’s bottom (Russell giggled here). This needs an explanation. A horse was for centuries the main means of transport. The horse was placed between two bits of wood hinged to a cart, or a trailer, or even a chariot. These two bits of wood were fixed to a big round bit that was held around the horse’s neck. The horse moved the cart by pushing on this round bit, called a collar. I bet you did not know that a horse actually pushes a cart from the front, not pulls it. The two bits of wood, called the shafts, are fixed to the front of the cart and have to be wide enough for the horses rear legs and bum to be able to move freely. The front wheels of the cart are fixed on the ends of the front axle outboard of these shafts. That dictates the minimum track of the cart. In Roman times this was about four feet eight inches. So all the cart tracks about were round about that width. So the first horse drawn wagons on railways were the same width; the width of a Roman chariot horse’s bum! The first railways were of wood and built to take carts pulled by horses. We ended up with our standard gauge railways being four feet, eight and a half inches wide. Funny that is it not?” Russell said, giggling some more to himself.

Ted made no reply. He had heard it all before. Russell simply could not hide his excitement and was bouncing about in his seat rubbing his hands together.

Russell carried on, more to himself than to his driver, “ But in some parts of the UK it would be much cheaper to build narrow gauge railways. This was very true in Wales up mountains in the slate industry. 1860 is an important date because it was when an American, General W.J. Palmer, visited the then new Ffestiniog Railway in North Wales. He came over to ascertain the viability of using such a small, cheaply constructed railway, for military uses for the USA. He ended up adopting a three-foot gauge for his famous Denver & Rio Grande Railway. What was not known at that time was the identity of the people who accompanied him on that visit. It was kept very secret.”

In the photos that Russell had, on ancient glass plates, were pictures of Queen Victoria and her Prince Regent, Albert, accompanying General Palmer’s visit to North Wales. There were five plates and the Prince Regent was clearly shewn taking a very great interest in the railway and its operation, chatting to General Palmer and Ffestiniog staff. The photos were priceless and had never been published. No one even knew of their existence never mind of the visit by royalty all those years ago. Sadly the Prince was to die the following year in 1861. Some one must have been clearing out an old attic and taken some to the tidy tip. The fact the tip had been closed was the LBLR’s luck. By now the boxes would have been landfill. One or two of the plates were slightly damaged but nothing that could not be restored. The other black and white sepia photos were of the LBLR itself, probably taken by the same photographer later in life. These photos in themselves were valuable as they showed the building of this industrial railway in about 1919, there being about fifty odd of them.

The old Landrover pulled up outside a very nice detached, brick-built nineteenth century house in its own grounds on the south-facing side of the Dunston Downs. Russell and Ted alighted and lifting the boxes out of the rear seat then walked to the front door. The specialist was already at his door waiting for them having heard their approach on the loose stone driveway. He was just as excited if not more so, as Russell. Ted was not so sure about the whole thing, he wondered if they were genuine or copies from old books. It was only when the specialist agreed with Russell that Ted began to wonder if perhaps Russell was right after all.

The specialist was the brother of the Reverend Wilberforce Pontifract, the old cleric who came to the railway often for his regular fix of Real Steam Engines, with his wife. Vernon Pontrifract was a well-known and respected expert on Victoriana, antiques and railways from that period. He also loved steam railways generally and narrow gauge ones in particular.

“Well Young Russell, what have you to show me then?” Vernon asked the pair. Russell had opened the boxes and carefully laid out the photos and glass-plate negatives on a beautiful polished, solid rosewood occasional table in the well-appointed sitting room they had been shown into. “Wow, these really are special. Let us study them more closely.”

With that the specialist took out a huge magnifying glass and held each photo to a lamp to study it all the more closely. He was quiet for some time and finally putting down the last one onto the table he looked at Russell very seriously. Russell had been studying the Adam styled furniture in the room trying to decided if it was Chippendale or not.

“To whom do these belong?” Vernon asked. Ownership would need to be established.

“Well, as they were abandoned on railway property as rubbish, I have taken custody of them on behalf of the LBLR,” Russell proudly told him. Russell had carried out his usual careful research and had studied the Police Property Act to find that out. If abandoned, the finder may claim ownership but only in a civil matter. The finder must try to establish an owner by advertising for them, but if no one claims the property after one month, ownership reverts to the finder. By trying to find an owner no one would be prosecuted for ‘Theft by Finding’ but this only absolved anyone from criminal proceedings. Someone could still take out civil proceedings to claim them. The items need not be handed over to the authorities unless they are declared Treasure Trove, and that only usually applied to things like gold and silver hoards. Russell had already put an advert in the LBO shortly after he found the boxes, as even then he thought the contents might be of interest. But he had never even dared to think what he and Ted were about to be told.

“These photos are of national importance. The glass plate negatives are undoubtedly by an amateur of the day, but one of great enthusiasm and ability. He, or she, may have been a young person in 1860 and a lot older in 1919, but I would say they were all taken by the same person in my opinion. The photos of the early days of the LBLR would fetch today quite a few thousand pounds. But the glass plates are going to be very, very valuable. I would suggest you put them into a specialist auction that will advertise them world-wide on the internet. You could be in for one very big reward. In the meantime put them in a safe in a bank,” was the advice given.

Ted could not contain himself, “How much do you think the glass plates are worth?” he asked enthusiastically.

“Well, before I have a guesstimate at that, you, the LBLR, could make quite a killing on publishing the photos of the building of your own railway in a book. That will certainly fetch in quite a sum. As to the glass plates, you are talking of over a million at least, possibly two,” was the astounding reply.

Both Ted and Russell sat down suddenly looking very startled indeed.

“A million,” repeated Russell in a squeaky voice, “ Really, a million, or even two?”

Thanking their host they left and drove straight to the bank in Long Bustard High Street and put the boxes in their safe.

*******

A national newspaper had got hold of the ‘ghost hoax’ story from the LBO. National papers editors often read local ones looking for fillers for their daily issues and this story tickled an editor’s fancy. It was repeated almost verbatim from the LBO who quite happily accepted the fee offered. Then when the same national paper was contacted by the LBO a few days later with the ‘Find of the Century’ story of Queen Victoria’s visit to North Wales’ which involved the very same little LBLR; they just had to print it.

This was not the publicity the Big Boss wanted, nor was it the publicity that Rodders and his little mate were trying to generate. Worse for them the Anglia Television programme ‘Look East’ were now also sniffing around for a story.

********

Chapter Thirteen.
A Final Solution ?

After their visit to the bank Ted had collected Jan from home and taken both her and Russell to the pub to celebrate. Luckily Jan did not drink but the two men enjoyed some real ale that this particular public house brewed itself. Russell had contacted Ann and Martin on his mobile to tell them of the result of the photos being inspected by Mr. Pontifract. Both had been pleased but both were of the type that do not count their chicks before hatching them. This was very wise under the circumstances, after all they may be fakes or just photos of old pages from old books until fully verified.

By about eleven pm it was time to go home so Ann drove the Landrover home. As she aimed it, this was the right word as its steering had seen better days, along Stanbridge Road out of town, it began to rain. Then the rather yellow headlights picked up the shiny steel rails of the railways level crossing. She suddenly stared and shouted.

“Look! Look! Look at that in front. You two look on the crossing,” she yelled.

There, standing in the middle of the road was a small boy of about fourteen with a red flag. The road dipped a little and the headlamp beam dropped down from the child as at the same time Ann braked causing the vehicle to nose dive. When the beam came up again, there was no sign of the boy. Now, they all knew of this so-called ghost, if not from the LBLR committee from the LBO and television news. Ted and Russell alighted quickly, Ted telling Ann to stay put. The two men ran to the crossing to hear a woman crying. The crying came from over one of the gates. Ted being very fit vaulted over the gate and ran down the line towards the noise. He saw ahead a shadowy figure doing its best to pick something up and then turn to run. But before the shadow could collect itself, Ted was upon it. At the same time Russell had climbed over the other gate and was pursuing a youth along the line in the other direction. The youth miss-footed it on the wet, slippery sleepers and tripped, falling over as Russell arrived to arm-lock him. Unknown to them all this was all being captured on CCTV, the two offenders had already tripped the sensitive pads by each gate and Sgt Bloggs was already on his way having also warned Martin.

Just as Ted and Russell frog-marched Rodney and Tom back to the level crossing, the police car arrived followed by Martin a few minutes later. Rodney had a small battery powered cassette player in his hand and Tom was dressed as a 1950s youth.

“Well,” said Sgt Bloggs, “ What shall I arrest you two for then? I think a Breach of the Peace for starters; I’ll think of others later, put them in the back of the panda please,” he told Ted.

“Well, that was exciting was it not? “ beamed Ted to Ann.

She was not too please, “ Damned good job I was here as if you had been driving, by now you would have failed a breath test my lad.”

“Oh would he now?” asked the Sgt. Then a quick explanation of the day’s events with the photos was related in great detail by Russell. Sgt Bloggs had to cut him short as his prisoners were falling asleep. No one related the boxes dumped by Rodney, with those that Russell was talking about and they probably never would we hope.

The panda car was driven to the little police office to collect the CCTV tape and then on to the Divisional police station as only there were there proper cells and interviewing equipment. Once Rodney and Tom had been interviewed additional charges of ‘Wilfully Obstructing the Highway’ were added to ‘Behaviour Likely to Lead to a Breach of the Queens Peace’, with five other similar offences to be taken into consideration. When this was read out to them by the custody Sergeant, the two friends objected loudly to five more offences, insisting they had only done four. When things were checked out it was found the pair had an excellent alibi. They had been in the very same cells at Dunston police station, when the level crossing incident the Mayor and his family had witnessed had occurred.

“Are you sure about this?” Sgt Bloggs cross examined the pair.

“Yes, your own custody records bear us out,” pleaded Rodney. “Why would we argue if we were not right?”

“Well, that lad who died that night all those years ago under that train, was my mother’s older brother. My Uncle!” said the Sgt. “The crying mother was my Gran. So I take the whole thing very seriously indeed.”

The two lads bowed their heads in shame. Even they could see that they had insulted a whole family now. The idea of getting bad publicity for the railway had gone completely wrong.

The Mayor really had seen a ghost.

*******

The local and national press loved all this ghost stuff. They went to town with one big national broadsheet giving a whole centre section over to the history of the ghost, the current danger the LBLR was in with its landlord and the finding of some abandoned ‘glass gold’ as they put it; the negatives of the nineteenth century Royal Visit to North Wales. The putting into a specialist auction of the photos was left to the brother of the LBLR’s oldest living supporter and enthusiast Wilberforce Pontifract, the antiques and railway-memorabilia specialist Vernon Pontifract. Also, following his advice, Ted the editor of the railways membership magazine had approach a local printer and a book was well on its way to be published of those sepia views of the first years of the railway itself with an explanation of each photo written by Ted.

The EC were sitting round their usual Formica covered table in the Café discussing all of these events.

“Well, who would have thought that it might be Russell who could be our saviour then?” said Martin to the smiling faces around the table.

“It is not just Russell, we have Ted to thank for the book which should produce some cash. Where are the glass plates to be auctioned?” Ann asked.

Ted replied to this, “There are some very famous auction rooms in Woburn called ‘Charles Rose’ who is well known worldwide. They are having a specialist photo auction in May this year and Vernon tells me we are a feature. These plates have caught the imagination of photo and railway enthusiasts world wide via the web. So there are two factions who are interested in buying them and hopefully they will bid even higher.”

“Right, back down to earth. We start our running season in a week, is the roster OK Ann?” Martin had brought them back to more immediate problems. One problem none of them had even a glimmer of would soon arise, and it was going to be very interesting how they dealt with it.

*********

“Two million! We could make five million from house sales on that site. Who on earth told this lot we would accept two million? They must have been out of their ruddy tiny minds. This land is on the plans as development land, not amenity land. Had their planning people not wanted to let it be used for urgently needed houses they would have added it to the Town Park next door to it. Why do I always end up dealing with idiots?” ranted the Big Boss at the GGD offices as he paced up and down wringing his hands. He had opened a letter from the LBLR solicitors stating that the railway was going to accept the offer of buying the land the station and sheds stood on for two million pounds. The council solicitors were involved as the planning department was frantically trying to back-pedal over its massive faux pas of wrongly allocating the land for development and the mess that had been made of the so called ‘new station and community rooms’.

“Two bloody million! That’s just chicken feed. They will never raise it. Come on, who ruddy well told them we would take two poxy million for this? Speak up you moron,” he shouted at his lackey.

Taking a very deep breath and standing well back out of range of any flying fists the lackey spoke. “ Well, you did Sir.”

“What? Me? Are you stupid? When did I say this and to whom may I ask?” was shouted back.

“You spoke to the whole of the Long Bustard Town Council and made the offer at the end of your speech Sir, remember?”

“I did? Did I? I must have been mad, drunk, in a coma. Oh ruddy hell, how am I going to explain this to the Board of Directors? They will rip me to pieces,” the Boss whined sitting down and cupping his head in his hands in despair. “I was being facetious, they will never raise the money.”

“Sir, looking at the way the media are reporting it all they may well soon be capable of financing such a large amount.”

“We are a business, not a damned charity. I can’t go round making offers like this. What on earth was I thinking of?” The Boss continued. “ But hang on a minute, if that land is re-classified as amenity land for a park say, then its value as building development land collapses. Perhaps two million is not a bad price after all, Eh? I wonder if the Board will swallow that?” Just then his telephone rang and his P.A. in the outer office told him a member of the press was outside to see him. They wanted GGD’s angle on this story.

“Tell them I’m in Ceylon or something,” he snapped into the phone and slammed it down.

His young female P.A. had never heard of Ceylon; she was not to know that this Indian Ocean island had changed its name years ago after getting its independence. Geography was not one of the Big Boss’s strong points.

*********

‘Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr’ went the ancient alarm clock on the dresser. The nearest body in the double-bed adjacent pulled the covers over its head in an attempt to ignore it. The alarm continued. It had been strategically placed far enough away from the bed so as to force one of the bed’s occupants to have to get up to switch it off. The body did so, reluctantly. Then it yawned and stretched its arms. It was 6.30am and time to go to work. The other body in the bed remained motionless snoring softly. It was Martin again who was the loco driver for the first operating day of the year. It was also the Spring Bank Holiday. Martin having got out of bed then dressed.

Upon arriving at the little Park Station in Long Bustard he unlocked the staff car park as he was first to arrive. Then he walked to the engine shed and opened it all up ready for the days work to begin. Dave arrived a few minutes later, now having found a job. He was working for a local printer who was having a great time running off the ‘LBLR Photo Album’, which was selling very well. It had been a one-man operation, but now Dave made it two-man. The pay was not terrific, but it was a paid job. Keith then arrived and brewed up the tea as Martin lubricated No4’s motion. Dave did his best when lighting the fire trying to turn everyone into a kipper with the cheap Polish coal they were having to use. This coal produced masses of acrid brown smoke, which got everywhere. It would be nice to be able to afford good Welsh steam coal, but finances this year did not stretch that far.

It was quite a cold Spring Bank Holiday and as such when Ann arrived an hour after the loco crew had begun their shift, she mused over how many passengers they would get, if any. It was hard to tell really as the weather and nothing else to do locally might boost the numbers past the usual 120 a day they got most years. It was early in the season. She went about unlocking the station building, the toilets, issuing the token to the loco crew and carrying out the now mandatory radio check in the control office. This was where the loco driver, Martin, radioed in from his radio set in the loco to the DM, Ann, in the office. The messages were all caught on a cassette tape and negated the need for signalmen and a controller on a ‘single engine in steam’ day. The token itself was still in use as it had the key that unlocked the three sets of gates across the railway at busy road level crossings as well as the points frames. Only a real anorak would spot the tiny radio aerial on the roof of No4’s cab.

Ann then heard some commotion out at the front of the station. She had yet to unlock the car park gates for the visiting public to use. She walked out to find a queue of full cars sitting waiting to enter the car park. The first train was due to run at 10.40am and it was only 9.30am. All the signs were that it was going to be busy.

An hour later the scene had changed completely. The press coverage of the finding of the photos and the ghost at Stanbridge Road crossing had had it inevitable effect. Everyone wanted to visit and ride on the LBLR.

“Ann, this first train is now full and I have a queue still waiting. We only have four carriages and that is ninety passengers,” Maria in the ticket office informed the DM, Ann.

“Right, let this first train go, I’ll get on the phone to George who can run the control. We will run a single train first, then when it returns we will go over to two-train operation. It’s the only way we will carry all these people,” Ann told Maria. It was going to be a busy bank holiday.

At dead on 10.40am little No4, an 0-6-0 steam engine of ninety years of age took up the strain of her four carriages packed with people; every seat was taken. She could only pull four carriages as that was the length of the platform at The Henge. Then her wheels spun on the damp track and smoke was blown fifty feet straight up out of her chimney as her cylinders raced away. The cleaner and the assistant guard were out like a flash with buckets of sand in their hands and they walked up just ahead of No4 sanding the railway lines so her little wheels could get a grip. She puffed away barking steam and smoke up out of her chimney as she hauled away with all her might at the heavy train. She had over twenty tonnes behind her and this was going to test her to the limit. Because her boiler only held seventy gallons of water she could very quickly run out of her steam. This meant the fireman was about to earn his wages, well he would have done if he got paid for all this. No4 was designed for shunting short distances about in a quarry in far off lands, running her for three miles there and three miles back on a twisting uneven line with many gradients and curves pulling a heavy train required careful driving. Running out of steam was unthinkable. Eventually she reached the top of the gradient out of the Park Station and onto the level. Here she managed to pull away from the two miles an hour she had managed up the gradient to a thrilling ten. The maximum speed of the line was fifteen miles an hour.

Back at the Park Station the crowds were beginning to gather, the car park was overflowing and now visitors were parking in the industrial estate roads across the way. Ann was right, it was going to be very, very busy indeed and the weekend was three days long, and this was only the first train. With a radio controller now in the office they could run two trains so that meant eight trips and not four. It transpired that every single seat on every train would be taken that weekend.

When No4 reached Stanbridge Road, there were photographers everywhere. All Martin could see was flash lights going off as he crossed the road. It was the same at every road crossing. When they finally arrived at The Henge it too was crowded so he radioed Ann to tell her. There was no public car parking at The Henge but the public had filled the narrow lane verges and the police would not be happy about this.

The second train was diesel hauled of necessity. It was all very well having lots of passengers but the LBLR was only a very small organisation and it relied totally upon its volunteer staff. Then the Café ran out of bread and milk. Luckily a supermarket was only a mile away so stocks were soon replenished by Ted. By the Tuesday after the busy weekend the shop had run out of cards and most books, the Thomas the Tank Engine stock was low and Mary the shop manager had never seen anything like it. She had sold over two hundred copies of the ‘LBLR Photo Album’ book, almost her entire stock.

Tuesday evening saw another emergency meeting of the LBLR EC.

“Well, that was a bit of a shock to us all then,” began Martin. “We carried, wait for it, two thousand and two hundred passengers over the three days. The first three days of the season. If it continues like this we will just not cope. We have yet to get the publicity over the sale of these glass plates by auction yet. This weekend was just mainly local parents, children and grand parents with a few anoraks thrown in. We need to very quickly sort ourselves out.”

“Well, for one thing we could extend The Henge platform and get carriage department to complete the carriage they’ve been building these last hundred years,” volunteered the head of the steam department.

“And for another thing we could get the steam department to finish re-assembling No11 which has been in bits for the last two hundred years,” came back the head of the carriage department.

“God, things never change do they?” Martin muttered to himself.

*******

It was early May and Russell and Ted were sitting in the auction rooms of Charles Rose in the pretty and well to do village of Woburn. You will not find any charity shops in this village. It was to be a specialist sale of railway memorabilia and the place was packed. It was standing room only. Along the back of the upper storey of the old village market hall used as an auction room was an array of telephones, each with a porter to take the bids from persons worldwide. The media was present and both Ted and Russell had been interviewed. A great deal was relying on the glass plates getting a good hefty price. The LBLR book was doing well but it would only reach a few thousand pounds profit. What was needed was a really good fight over buying the plates. The eyes of the railway world, the photographic world, millions of interested members of the public, all the LBLR and the Big Boss were on this auction.

It was now 10am and the auctioneer climbed up onto his platform. A hush descended on the assembly and the bidding began…….

*********

The End.