The Engine Driver

"Would you like to ride on the footplate? I'll let you blow my whistle!" said the engine driver with a cheeky grin.

It was a corny line, but I couldn't resist such an offer. It was, as Trevor had confided earlier, a great honour. He'd been working here for years, he told me, but had never been invited. I clambered up into the cab of the steam locomotive, as elegantly as my killer heels and tight skirt would allow. The fireman looked on with wry amusement. His eyes darting between me and Peter, weighing up the situation. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and then returned to his task of shovelling coal into the firebox.

We were on the return journey, pulling into a station to let a family board, when the guard had conveyed a message to me that I should pay the driver a visit. Enjoying my first stint as trainee volunteer ticket inspector, under Trevor's careful guidance, I had noticed Peter earlier, when he left his cab to stretch his legs on the platform and chat with the brakeman. Young and virile, he possessed a jaunty air and suave delivery: his conversation littered with outmoded words such as "spiffing" and "hellfire".

I felt out of place and in the way as we rattled along in the cramped hub of the locomotive. The driver and fireman were ever watchful and in constant motion, so that I wasn't sure where I should stand. However, I inspected my surroundings with delight, noting the chipped enamel mugs next to the roaring firebox.

"We cook bacon on there sometimes," shouted Peter, who was enjoying my obvious pleasure in what I saw.

There is nothing to compare to the thrill of hurtling through the charming English countryside in the cab of a steam locomotive. There was little chance of conversation over the din of the engine, but there was no need for smooth words: he had already seduced me.

On Saturdays I continued to help out on the railway. Before going on duty I would pick my way carefully through the engine shed to the mess hut, where the men would fall over themselves to make me a "brew" served in a black fingermark dotted mug. Dressed for elegance, rather than engines, I tried not to touch anything and avoided the filthy overalled men from 'Coach and Wagons' who were busy welding, sanding and hammering.

Everything had a patina of grease and grime, including the men who worked there, but as far as Peter was concerned, this only added to his charm. He smelled of fresh air, coal tar soap and engine oil. Far from minding the seams of coal dust in the creases of his skin, or the dirt under his nails, I found them highly erotic.

It was a heady few weeks of drives in the country, cosy dinners, shagging and Betjeman. Peter would recite lines of verse to me in bed, knowing from years of practise, that poetry and orgasms are a potent combination. I was the willing victim of his well honed technique, but I knew that our relationship was no more real than the vintage steam railway to nowhere on which we both travelled.

When I asked if I would ever get the chance to ride on the footplate again, he turned to me with unusual solemnity:

"No love, that's only ever a one-off."

I knew then that we had reached the terminus.