The Enginemen, Chapter 11/3

He kept himself out of trouble until the following week. Over the weekend he’d been following the final Test Match being played out in Karachi. The first day was very satisfactory with Pakistan being dismissed for 253, and then England piled on the runs, but to James’ frustration it was Dexter who starred eventually amassing 205 of England’s first innings total of 507.

On the final day of the Test he and Plunkett were on the 7.30 Paddington to Plymouth routed via Bristol, where they’d remove 5008 and return on a parcels train. That morning he’d not been able to stop himself setting targets for the day under penalty of forfeits should he fail to meet them. He put his performance on the 7.30 on the line, with penalties for each minute of lost time on arrival at Bristol, as the return parcels train was subject to delay out of his hands depending on the pathing of other higher priority services. And then he added, to raise the stakes, that he’d double any penalty he’d incur if England failed to win the match and would think of an additional penalty if Dexter took any further significant part in the game, for he was despondent that that man’s performance would signal the end of Peter May’s international career, which he deemed to be so unfair.

Things went wrong from the beginning. He caught the cricket score before setting off for work – already Dexter had taken 3 wickets. At least, he thought, England ought to win easily. Then when he reached Old Oak Common, he overheard a transistor in the lobby and found that Pakistan were still batting, putting up some rearguard resistance. Then someone on the train was taken ill just before departure time and an ambulance had to be called, with the sick man being stretchered from the train. They left behind the 7.55 South Wales train which stopped at Reading and Didcot and despite leaving steam on down the 1 in 100 to Dauntsey, speed rising to 92 mph, they were 22 minutes late into Temple Meads. During their break in Bristol he got the final score. Pakistan, against all the odds, had drawn, scoring 404 with 8 wickets down. England hadn’t even had time to bat a second time to attempt a quick win. The parcels train, as he feared, was badly delayed and they didn’t book off until nearly four o’clock.

He went for a solitary beer and pondered his fate. He didn’t know what to do. He’d earned 22 stripes, doubled, and on top of that he’d got to think of a further penalty as he’d heard the commentator describe Dexter’s performance in glowing terms despite the unsatisfactory outcome and a remark that he had secured the captaincy for the forthcoming return series in England.

Before he’d been ‘sent to Coventry’ he’d often heard bawdy banter in the lobby with some of the younger unmarried men - especially some of the Welsh fireman living during the week in the hostel – talking about their visits to prostitutes in Soho. He’d thought at first that they were joking, but amongst their own, they were quite open about it and he’d been a bit disgusted and always kept out of any such conversation though he’d listened to what they’d said. A couple of times he’d heard them laughing about some of the services these women offered and the fact that some of them offered ‘strict discipline’ – the term had caused much merriment – had stuck in his mind. One of the younger firemen, he remembered, had asked if this was really true or whether they were pulling his leg, and he’d been assured that a number of the women specialised in punishing men who liked that sort of thing. ‘Each to his own taste’, someone said, ‘can’t understand that myself, but if it gives them a thrill…’

Peplow went to the bar and got himself another pint. The barmaid tried to open a conversation with him, but he just grunted an answer and sat down by himself in the corner, ignoring other men who were beginning to come in as they booked off duty. Although he knew several, no-one attempted to speak to him, and he was glad. He continued to think about what he should do to carry out the penalty he’d set himself. He knew he could not ignore it, he’d tried the other night and it had been in vain. The thought of going to a prostitute and seeking punishment kept coming to his mind, but he really had no idea how to go about it. Despite his solitary state, he’d never been tempted to go with a woman and he’d always shied away from the suspicion that he might be homosexual, because he’d feared the potential consequences. Eventually he made a decision. He’d go to Soho and see for himself. Perhaps he could find out what to do. He promised himself that if he could pluck up courage to indulge his whim in this way, it would fully expiate the penalties he’d calculated that were owing.

He felt a bit light-headed, having had no food to soften the impact of the alcohol. He took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and got out and walked back slowly to Soho. It was dark and drizzling gently and there were few people about. He passed couple of women who were loitering under street lamps and wanted to ask one of them about his need, but sheered away at the last moment in a near panic. He went into a pub and got another drink, then bought a sandwich at the bar and sat down to have another think. He began to realise that he’d never have the courage to open a conversation with anyone on such a subject, he was too fearful of making a dreadful mistake. When he’d drained his glass he got up and decided he’d better go home and punish himself there. He was reluctant though and wandered slowly through the back street and came across a newsagent’s shop with a number of handwritten advertisements in the window.

He began to read these, then realised that many of them were obviously written by prostitutes touting for business. He saw that two or three said things like ‘a strict schoolmistress punishes naughty boys’. He waited until no-one was near then took out a notebook and scribbled down the addresses on a couple of the cards. Both were nearby and James Peplow found the first and stood for a long time looking at the door and the row of push buttons for the three flats that occupied the building. The address he had was in the basement and when at last there was no-one in the street to see him, he slipped down the steps and stood before the door. He felt quite dizzy and flushed and at the last moment his courage deserted him. He turned and came up the steps again and almost collided with a man who gave him a most peculiar look. He fled.

When he got home he found he was still shaking. He poured himself a glass of brandy, spilling some of it on the carpet, winced as the fluid burned his throat and went upstairs. He flung his clothes off in disgust, ripped his belt from his trousers and lashed himself, on and on, with a rage that obliterated the self-inflicted pain. He only stopped when he was exhausted and his muscles ached so much that he could scarcely lift his arm for another blow. He staggered into the bathroom and stared at the angry red stripes strewn haphazardly about his back and buttocks, some weals streaking across the top of his thighs. He touched himself. The flesh was sore. He pushed hard against his bruised skin until he wanted to stop the pain but made himself prolong the hurt until he felt he’d paid the penance.

The next day James watched Jim Plunkett carefully, but he didn’t seem to have noticed anything. ‘Why should he?’ thought James to himself, everything looks the same on the surface. After the debacle of the previous night he determined to put such nonsense behind him and not succumb to the childish obsession with such idiotic forfeits. He tried to engage Jim in conversation – about nothing in particular, but the communication dried up quickly because James could think of nothing of import to say, and Jim only answered in monosyllables without volunteering anything himself. 5008 was in good form as usual and there were no out of course delays for the next three days so that he incurred no forfeits. He was relieved at first but the tension in his flesh was rising again and by the third day he felt almost disappointed. On the last trip, leaving Reading on time with a heavy twelve coach train, he almost deliberately let the engine find its own speed, surprising Jim Plunkett who’d therefore overfired, causing 5008 to let off steam continuously from Slough as far as Southall, when Jim quietened the engine by injecting more water into the boiler. They had a miraculous clear road in, however, and Jim thought it was uncanny how exactly his mate had judged the run, drawing up to the bufferstops on platform 8 on the stroke of the appointed time.

They had the Friday relief to the 6/10 Paddington –Wolverhampton at the end of the week, coming back with the empty stock as soon as they had gone onto Stafford Road shed, turned and cleaned the fire. The heavy 6/10 went first with a Stafford Road ‘King’ and they followed at 6/23 with a nicely manageable ten coach load. They were on time to the first stop at Bicester, then surprisingly got stopped before Aynho Junction and crawled all the way to Banbury station. At first James thought the 6/10 must be doing badly, but the culprit was on the adjacent platform as they ran in, a very late running cross-country train off the Southern, headed by a run down looking Reading based ‘Hall’. It was taking water, so James and the 6/23 got away first, but they were over 15 minutes late away and missed their path after Leamington behind an all stations DMU into Snow Hill, which lost them all the time they’d regained on Hatton Bank and more besides. They were finally 27 minutes late into Wolverhampton and didn’t get back to Old Oak carriage sidings until nearly four o’clock in the morning and it was six o’clock on a bitter winter morning before James got to bed.

He awoke after a fitful sleep and tossed and turned. He was ashamed of his previous cowardice and was now battling an urge to put himself to the test again. Eventually he made up his mind. He bathed himself carefully, cooked himself an omelette and got the groceries in from the corner shop. Then he took the tube into central London. He knew what he was going to do. He looked at the address and phone number he’d scribbled down from the newsagent’s shop advertisement and when he got out at Tottenham Court Road, he found a telephone kiosk off the main Charing Cross Road and dialled the number he’d been given. He heard his heart pounding as he waited for the handset to be lifted at the other end and for a moment thought he’d steeled himself to no avail, then he heard an old woman’s voice asking him what he wanted. He stuttered into the phone that he wanted an appointment, and was told to come at six. Asked his name, he answered ‘Jim’, the first name that came into his head, and then cursed himself after he’d put the handset down. It was too near his own.

He’d a couple of hours to wait. He didn’t know what to do. His resolve was already draining away. He thought he might go to a film, but there was nothing suitable - films advertised at cinemas in the area were already half way through or would not finish until well after his appointment time. So he found a pub and bought a pint and sat in a corner evading the look of others who might have sought to join him. At a quarter to six, he could sit still no longer and made his way very slowly in the bleak darkness to the Soho basement flat. This time he determined to go through with it. He gripped the handrail hard and stepped down into the well when no-one was near enough to see him clearly. He pushed the buzzer. Eventually just as he was half hoping that no-one would come and he could go away, the door opened and an elderly badly made up woman beckoned him inside. His senses revolted at the sight, but before he could say that he’d made a mistake, she’d ushered him into a tiny waiting room and told him to sit down, she’d be back to see what he wanted in a minute.

He looked at the magazines strewn on the little table and felt turned off by the crude sleazy black and white photos of big-breasted women adorning the pages through which he half-heartedly skimmed. He’d just made up his mind that he’d made a terrible mistake and was about to get up and look for an escape route when the door opened and a young woman in fishnet tights, skimpy pants and a black bra came in, flashed him a smile and asked him what he wanted. It’s £5 for hand relief, £10 if you want a quickie, £20 if you want a full hour. He realised he didn’t want sex with this woman, attractive though she was compared with the old crone who’d ushered him in. He shook his head and indicated that he wanted to go, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook.

“I saw your advert,” he mumbled. “What else do you do?” He looked away, embarrassed.

“Oh!” said the girl without any inhibition, “You want our disciplinary service. The Head Mistress is occupied at the moment. She won’t be ready for half an hour. You can have me if you like. I’ll give of six of the best for £10. Do you want that?”

James Peplow swallowed hard and looked at the floor. He muttered something which the young woman treated as an affirmative.

“Give Annie your tenner and give her a pound as her tip, then come upstairs. You can undress there.”

He followed the woman up the creaking narrow stairs, his eyes level with her fleshy thighs and walked into the dimly lit bedroom, where a large double-bed covered with a crimson silk sheet dominated the remaining furniture – a small bedside table and lamp and an armchair of similar hue. A large wall mirror reflected everything back at them and exaggerated the apparent size of the room. In the corner was a waste bin and half a dozen canes of various thicknesses rested there, their crook handles leaning against the wall.

“How do you want it?” The woman – or girl, she did not look much more than twenty in this light – was quite matter-of-fact as though she dealt with this situation every day, which of course she probably did. James hesitated. He didn’t know the form.

“Do you want it on the bare or over your pants? You’d better drop your trousers to start with and bend over the bed. Have you done this before?” she added as an afterthought.

James shook his head.

“OK, I’ll give you six over your pants to start with and we’ll see how you take that. If you want more, you can try six more on the bare.”

He unbuckled his belt and let his trousers drop to his ankles and the humiliating boyhood experience in the barn came flooding back to him. He felt stupid exposing himself to this young lass, but felt the tip of a cane touch his thigh and heard the woman say, “Come on, you naughty boy, don’t mess around or you’ll earn extra strokes.” He let his torso relax over the bed and buried his face in the sheet and awaited the first cut of the cane with trepidation wondering if he’d make a further fool of himself by finding the pain excessive and yelling. He felt the cane placed against his backside, then there was a dull thwack and a slight stinging, no worse than when he’d administered the belt himself. Five more strokes came rhythmically and none stung him any more than that first blow. He was disappointed, he’d built himself up to take this punishment and now it seemed an anti-climax. The woman pushed her hands inside his pants and felt his bottom which felt mildly warm.

“You want some more? Did that hurt you enough?”

“Yes, I can take more. It didn’t really hurt.”

“OK, push your pants down to your knees and I’ll give you six on your bare bottom.”

James wanted to tell her that he was owed 27 strokes, but he thought she might insist on increasing the charge and he wasn’t sure about whether he’d be able to afford much more.

He did as he was told and lay there feeling the cool draught on his naked buttocks. For the first time he felt a sexual thrill. He waited and the woman held back letting him anticipate what was coming next. Then she brought the cane down harder and it drew a short gasp from his lips as the sting registered then quickly faded. She was caning more slowly now, letting him absorb the pain from each blow which quickly passed. When she was finished he felt her hands running over his buttocks and she massaged a little cream into his flesh.

“Well, was that what you expected? Did it hurt? Do you feel properly punished?”

She made him stand up and look at the stripes in the mirror. He could see the marks of the last six, particularly where the tip of the cane had bitten into his flank.

“Don’t worry, the marks will soon fade and no-one will know you’ve had a caning,” she said. It didn’t matter to him for no-one would see him naked. “You took that well. If you ever want something more than that, come and ask for the Head Mistress and she’ll give you a proper thrashing in her study in the basement. But give a ring first to make sure she’s free.” As he pulled up his pants and trousers, she handed him a typewritten card with a telephone number. Before he’d even pocketed it and done up his flies, the door opened and Annie came to show him to the front door and out into the street. He looked at his watch. He’d barely been there for more than twenty minutes. When he got home, he hurried to the bathroom and looked at his bottom in the mirror. The weals had almost disappeared already. He could just make out the faint pinkish outline of one stroke. By the morning that had disappeared completely.

His tension had been replaced by relief that he had completed the act and had survived. He knew what to do now. Each day he carefully measured his lateness. He did not try to be late. On the contrary, he was proud of 5008 and felt that – at last – he was getting some rapport with his fireman, who occasionally volunteered some remark to him instead of only answering when there was no other option. Other staff at the depot had dropped their avoidance of him. He wouldn’t say that they were friendly, but they’d grown bored with the demonstration of antipathy to his anti-strike actions. A sort of communication was restored, as much as James had ever needed or even wanted.

5008 continued to be his pet project, his pride and joy. One day he hoped that someone would time his train and that he’d appear in Cecil J.Allen’s article on train performance in ‘Trains Illustrated’. That was the height of his ambition. In the meantime through February, March and April he totted up the minutes lost by signalmen’s errors, infrastructure failures, cows on the line and other delays over which he and 5008 had no jurisdiction and visited the prostitute regularly to confess his aberrations, receive her admonition and endure the appropriate penalty. It was costly. He was eating into his savings for his weekly expenses now exceeded his income. But it didn’t bother him. His bank balance was very healthy. And it was his secret. No-one knew and he was confident now that no-one would ever know.