Z - The Shed Cat

The working men of South London were gruff but kind, and the little
black-and-white cat had become an unofficial mascot at Nine Elms
locomotive shed. Maybe she caught mice - there were lots of grubby
unseen corners where rodents could multiply - or maybe she lived off
the titbits which the railwaymen brought in for her. As Stan and Pete
fettled up the grimy green Pacific for the last time they could see her
watching them at a safe distance; a railway depot is a dangerous place
for small children or animals, but the little cat had the sense to stay
away from the moving engines, hunting and playing among the lengthening
line of rust-speckled withdrawn locos at the side of the shed.

Stan drove the engine down to Waterloo Station, where Pete, the
fireman, climbed down and attached it to the rake of carriages bound
for Southampton, feeling like a film star in the blaze of brief
publicity which attended the passing of London's last steam trains. He
freely signed autographs and posed for the cameras, for he was young
and vain, and it was 1967 and the height of the Summer Of Love. Stan,
who was more than old enough to be Pete's father, morosely clung to his
corner of the locomotive footplate, seeing the only life he knew
disappearing before his eyes. Finally it was time for the off, and the
great locomotive departed the terminal for the last time. Once they
were under way, Stan settled down to the quiet professionalism which
marked out these unlettered but skilled men; when they were well clear
of London he would let Pete have the regulator for a while and tend the
fire himself, for Pete would one day show his children such a
locomotive in a museum and recount his all-too-brief times spent
driving a steam engine.

Later that day, as the evening sun cast long shadows from the ancient
bothies in the shed yard, Stan and Pete returned to London. They
brought the engine on to the shed, dropped the remains of the fire and
climbed down. There was no point adding to the line of condemned
engines, for now the whole depot and everything in it was obsolete, and
the engines which had been rostered for the final day were left
scattered around the yard to cool and die. There was no farewell party;
for men who had spent their whole life on the steam railway, this was
more like a funeral. Drivers and firemen, fitters and foremen awkwardly
said goodbyes and promised to meet up in pubs and clubs throughout
South London; a few were in tears, including Stan, who had taken the
offered redundancy. Stan had one last task to perform; he brought out a
cat basket from the back of the shed and sought the little
black-and-white cat; he had intended to take her home, for she would
need new lodgings when the titbits disappeared and the developers moved
in. But, to his astonishment, the cat scampered away, along the main
line and out of sight.

"Maybe it's better this way," said another old driver who was also
taking his final payoff.

Pete came across to shake Stan's hand in a manly way; they exchanged
addresses and Pete swung his bag over his shoulder and sauntered out of
the shed whistling the tune from "Waterloo Sunset", the Kinks' recent
evocative hit single. He did not bother to give a last glance to the
engines on his way out; he had a new girlfriend to meet and a disco to
attend.

Stan returned several times to the closed-down shed in the next few
weeks; technically he was now trespassing, but he didn't think anyone
would really mind. He had come for the little black-and-white cat, but
she was nowhere to be seen. Was that her, slipping quietly behind an
old wall, or was it just a piece of old cotton waste blowing about? He
called for her, but there was no response. The old engines had been
quickly cleared away, but he thought he could hear their ghosts on the
breeze; the hiss of a piston, the chime of a distant whistle, the
throaty chuff of a funnel&;#8230; finally he gave up and left Nine
Elms to its hauntings.

Pete started work the next day at the recently-built electric depot;
here there were no ramshackle Victorian edifices, no corners full of
rubbish and weed-strewn yards, and no need for a shed cat. The modern
electric units purred their way around Surrey, Kent and Sussex, some
now finding their way along the newly-laid third-rail to Southampton
and Bournemouth. Pete could now sit in a comfy seat, completely
protected from the elements, as he whiled away his shift with frequent
sups from his flask of strong tea. Those enthusiasts who mourned the
passing of steam obviously hadn't had to bend their backs and shovel
coal, or peer through siling rain to check for signals, in order to
obtain the meagre wages offered by the railway. He kept in touch with
Stan and exchanged Christmas cards for several years until Stan moved
away to spend his last few years living with his daughter where he
spent long days staring at the flickering fire.

So jump forward thirty-five years, and here is Pete, now a grandfather
himself, nearing retirement after a life spent on the railways. He
joined for a laugh, for some quick money, for the appeal of being out
on the iron road instead of being cooped up in an office; he never
thought he would stick it out, but, as Stan told him long ago, railways
get into your blood. Though these days the pay is much better. Pete is
walking along Nine Elms Lane, past the site of the modern Covent Garden
markets; any residual ghosts were long since driven out by the hustle
of this revitalised area, but Pete doesn't believe in ghosts anyway and
scorns living in the past. But what is this? A small black-and-white
cat dashes across his path and suddenly, despite his scepticism, Pete
feels the prickle of d?j? vu; he can smell the smoke, steam and hot oil
once again, he can hear the scrape of shovel on coal and old Stan
declaring, "We're off, lad!" as the uncared-for green engine creaks
slowly into history. Pete closes his eyes, his senses swimming. When he
opens them the cat is gone.

For the working men of South London, now a multitude of races and
accents, are still gruff and kind, and the little black-and-white cat
has become an unofficial mascot at Covent Garden.