The Enginemen, Chapter 15/2

One morning in the middle of the month he booked on for the 9.15 to Worcester, one of the top steam jobs still left for Old Oak men. He’d been looking forward to this – he’d get a good ‘Castle’, even if it was not his beloved 5008. He signed on and went to the chalked allocation board outside the lobby to see which one he’d got and couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw 4917’s number in the 9.15 slot. He burst straight into the Running Foreman’s office.

“Why the f***ing hell have you given me 4917 on the Worcester for? Where’s the booked ‘Castle’?”

Frank looked at the agitated man and tried to calm him down.

“It’s all I’ve got, Peplow. I had to send out 7032 on the 7.45 Bristol after a diesel failure, then Bert Greenwood reported that my standby ‘Castle’s’ brick arch had collapsed and he’s taken it out to drop the fire. 4917 was the only other spare loco in steam I’d got.”

“But there’s a ‘79’ in steam, I saw it as I came through the shed. That’s better than a ‘49’.”

“She’s already been ‘prepped’ by Joe Eager for a fast freight turn – I’m not taking that off Joe after all the work he’s already put in on that. That’s more than my life’s worth.”

“So you let me carry the can.”

“I’m sorry, James. You’ll just have to do your best. Your regular mate’s got a day off so you’ve Alec Mytton as your fireman. He’s not been with you before, but he’s okay. He’s fired express turns before.”

“F***, f***, f***,” muttered James under his breath and went out to find the engine in question. He found it on the far passenger turntable, filthy, its green paint barely visible below its coating of grime and ash. Its shedplate was missing and one of the nameplates had already gone, although he noticed ‘Crosswood Hall’ was still displayed above the middle splasher on the other side. The cab was in a state, coal littered over the floor, water dripping from the leaking gauge glass. He looked at the fire. At least that seemed to be in good shape, burning brightly and he saw with some relief that the coal in the tender had some good lumps and did not seem too bad. If they could maintain enough steam, at least he could time the train, rough old tub though this engine might be. The fireman joined him while he was fussing about the footplate, they greeted one another perfunctorily, and set about their business, James going into the pit to see that the engine was properly lubricated. Without further words, when the time was ripe, they eased forward, turned the engine and backed down to the water column to fill the tender. By the time they got to Paddington 4917 was blowing off steam and James instructed the fireman to get the injectors working to quieten the engine down. Alec Mytton struggled with the equipment but eventually got one injector to work and the furious eruption from the safety valve subsided to a more acceptable sizzling sound.

“Let’s get a few bloody things straight before we go any farther,” said Mytton suddenly above the din of the engine and tones of the station announcer, “you won’t f***ing bully me like you did Don Barnett. You’re just an old poofter and I won’t stand for any f***ing nonsense from you. And you can keep your eyes off me and watch the bloody road.”

“F***ing hell,” spluttered James Peplow, “what the blazes are you talking about? If that’s what you think, you can get off the bloody footplate now and report to the inspector and I’ll see you’re docked pay for the day. I don’t care how long this bloody train is delayed.”

“I’m going nowhere and you can get off yourself if you don’t f***ing like it. Don told me all about you and you ain’t killing me like you did him. And everyone knows you’re a pervert.”

James shook with anger and embarrassment. How dare they accuse him of being a homosexual! What had he done that had ever given them that impression? He was tempted to argue, then he saw it was hopeless.

“You can think what you like, I don’t care. It’s untrue but I’m not going to waste my time any more. Just do your job and shut up. I’ll do mine.”

Alec slung a few more rounds of coal into the fire, crashing the shovel against the metal sides of the firehole door. “Then do it and don’t tell me what to do.”

An angry silence followed, simmering with resentment on James’ side. He tried to put what the man had said out of his mind. He’d bloody well show him. This old tub would darn well keep time however rough it was. If the man didn’t give him sufficient steam, he’d report him.

They got the ‘right away’ and whilst the engine was sure-footed and seemed strong enough for the eight coaches behind them, she was undoubtedly very rough-riding. As they bounced and rattled through Acton doing 60 mph already, the fireman was having great difficulty in finding the firehole door with each shovelful and several metallic clangs signified a spillage of coal all over the jiggering footplate. James got the wretched machine up to a frightening 75 mph at Taplow and the fireman set aside his shovel and held tight to the cab handrail as the engine shook and bucked through the station and over the Thames bridge at Maidenhead.

They managed to reach Oxford on schedule despite the rundown state of their steed, but they were delayed for nearly ten minutes there as the travelling ticket collector had called the police to arrest a couple of obstreperous passengers who seemed reluctant to get off the train. Mytton had been taking the opportunity of filling the firebox during the enforced wait and the old engine did not seem to mind the treatment as it began to let off steam once more before the departure whistle was eventually sounded. As the minutes ticked away James looked anxiously at his watch. Mytton saw him getting frustrated and shouted above the din of the escaping steam, “No f***ing high jinks just because we’re late. I’m having enough trouble staying on my feet with this c*** of an engine, so watch it mate. You try any heroics and I’ll report you just as young Barnett did.”

Peplow ignored this sally and opened the regulator wide and the engine chirruped passed the loco shed on the down side and began to impart a violent ‘fore and aft’ movement to the coaches immediately behind the engine, causing discomfort to the passengers. Another rough trip as far as the Charlbury stop ensued, with the fireman continuing to remonstrate with James and indicating in sign language above the racket the engine was making that he should ease up a bit. They were still eight minutes late off Charlbury, and Peplow ignored his fireman’s gestures and opened the regulator to its fullest extent and dropped the cut-off to 25%. Half the fire was disappearing up the chimney and Alex Mytton looked none too happy. They entered Chipping Campden tunnel at a noisy 69 mph and the sparks flew in the darkness as everything on the engine echoed in the confined space. The fireman ceased firing and assumed that Peplow would shut off for the steep descent down the bank to Honeybourne.

They exited the tunnel and began the descent with the engine accelerating rapidly. The machine was now swinging wildly and still the regulator was wide open although Peplow began to wind up the reversing lever.

“For God’s sake, shut off steam before we all land in the six foot,” Mytton screamed above the deafening noise the engine was now emitting, but Peplow was now standing, peering unperturbed through the front spectacle, making no further effort to adjust the controls. The train must have reached a very uncomfortable 80 when Mytton reached across Peplow’s back and slammed the regulator shut. Peplow swung round and pushed Mytton backwards who lost his balance and fell into the clattering coal on the footplate floor, as he opened the regulator once more. Mytton staggered to his feet and grabbed Peplow from behind and soon both had left the engine to its own devices as they wrestled with each other, both men now furious and ignoring the possible consequences. They started punching each other, then Mytton grabbed Peplow round the waist and brought up his knee to the driver’s groin. Peplow yelped and with strength produced by extreme pain and anger hurled Mytton off him, just as the engine hit a set of points at the bottom of the bank and lurched violently. Mytton was thrown off his feet by the combined action of engine and driver and suddenly he was flailing frantically to grasp the cab handrail, then he was gone – clean overboard in the gap between engine and tender. Peplow reached instinctively for the regulator which he slammed shut and made a full brake application as he stared back over the side seeing the body bouncing as it hit the ballast, then falling away from the wheels of the train.

“Oh, f*** ! Now I’m for it,” was all he could think. As he began to slow, he realised they’d already passed Honeybourne Junction Box, and he might just as well continue to the Evesham stop before reporting the accident. As he moderated the speed and the engine ceased its St Vitus’ Dance, he began to think over the predicament he was now in. He began to hope, he felt guiltily, that the man was dead so that Mytton’s word could not gainsay his. He’d be in enough trouble when the guard reported the speed he must have been doing and if they discovered they’d been fighting, well it was unthinkable.

He ran into Evesham only five minutes late, he noted, looking at his watch as if nothing that unusual had happened. He beckoned to the platform inspector as they slowed through the platform and the man came walking slowly towards him as he came to a stand. James Peplow climbed down quickly from the cab, and found he was shaking badly. When the inspector had reached a few yards away, Peplow shouted to him, “Get an ambulance. Quickly, man, get an ambulance!”

The inspector broke into a run and noticed the empty cab. “Where’s your fireman? Is he hurt or ill?”

“He’s fallen. The engine gave a lurch and he fell out of the cab. He’s just the London side of Honeybourne, he’s on the ballast on the upside in the six foot. Stop the trains on the other road!”

“Stay with your engine, driver! I’ll deal with it.”

The man ran off and disappeared into the station building. James stood on the platform in the drizzle, shaking uncontrollably. He got back onto the footplate and put the blower on and began to shovel coal onto the fire without thinking. Then he turned the injector on and watched as a column of black smoke darkened the sky. As the minutes ticked by a number of heads began to appear at the carriage windows looking for reasons for the delay and could see no explanation. Eventually the inspector reappeared.

“Driver, the ambulance is on its way to Honeybourne Junction now and crew will gain access to the line there. Can you tell us more exactly where your fireman fell?”

James shook his head.

“I’ve asked Worcester to send a new train crew to relieve you and take this train forward. Can you just keep an eye on the engine and make it safe until they get here? It’ll be about half to three quarters of an hour. The police will be here soon – they’ll want a statement from you before you leave. We’ll get you back to London somehow. Are you alright or do you want someone from the platform to stay with you?”

“I’ll be alright,” he said and hurriedly sat down as he was beginning to feel faint, his head swimming, his mouth dry.

“Okay,” said the inspector, “as long as you are.”

Silence fell. The drizzle muffled whatever sounds there were. He thought he heard the siren of an ambulance or police car, then silence again. He looked at the steam pressure gauge. The engine would start blowing off steam again soon. He got up and turned the injector on again and left it on until the boiler was full. Then his mind began to dwell on the consequences of what had just happened. He was dire trouble, that much was inescapable. After the Severn Tunnel fiasco on the newspaper train, they’d not be lenient with him this time. And that is if he got away with Mytton’s death as an accident. He found himself praying that the man was dead, that he’d not be sufficiently conscious to say what had happened. He knew that to hope this was wrong and shuddered in self disgust at feeling this way, but he could not help himself. What would he say to the police? He’d tell them it was an accident of course, but what then if Mytton was alive? Should he get his version of events in first, say that Mytton had assaulted him?

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a train sweeping into the Up platform and screeching to a halt. He saw from the roof boards that it was a Worcester – London express. He waited for it to depart and then realised that it would have to wait until they had word about Alec Mytton. He heard the engine begin to blow off steam and observed that the signal at the end of the platform was at danger. Then he saw the police car draw up into the station car park and two uniformed men get out. They crossed to the main entrance and disappeared. Doubtless they were getting the facts from the station inspector. Then he saw them walking along the platform towards him. He suddenly felt a wave of nausea come over him, his hands were sweaty. He sat down on the cab seat and waited. The first policeman’s head appeared at the cabside and a voice called “Are you the driver whose fireman fell from the train?” ‘What a stupid bugger,’ thought James, ‘of course I am. Why else would my train be sitting here? Both policemen climbed into the cab.

“Are you fit enough to answer some questions?”

“I suppose so.”

He gave his name and particulars as requested, where he worked, the time he’d booked on duty, then some details about his fireman. Then they started to ask him about the accident itself. He said the minimum that he thought necessary, just saying that the engine was rough, they’d been coming down the bank fast, but not recklessly so, they were late so he was trying to regain some time. Then there was a sudden lurch, he heard a shout, then saw his mate had gone.

The police pushed him as to why he’d not stopped at once and he had to explain to them how long it took to stop a train of this type, over a mile from the speed he was doing, so he thought it best to carry on to Evesham where he could call an ambulance. They asked him if he or his fireman had been drinking and James replied that he certainly hadn’t been and he didn’t think his fireman had been either. Had there been any argument or problems between himself and Mytton? No, he’d replied, this was the first time he’d acted as his fireman, so he didn’t know the man at all. Was it possible that the man could have jumped, committed suicide? No, he didn’t think so, though James managed to sound sufficiently doubtful just to keep the idea in play. He hadn’t thought of that possible line of questioning. The more he thought about it, the more improbable it seemed, they’d soon establish that the man was not the sort to take his own life. He was young and full of bravado – the other men at the depot would vouch for him. So he added, as an afterthought, that he found the idea extremely unlikely.

At last he was rescued by the relief crew walking down the platform, and they took over without bothering him with questions about the engine – they’d clearly been told what had happened. The police helped him off the footplate and he heard the station announcer apologising for the delay as whistles blew, and the train drew slowly out of the station, now nearly an hour late, he thought as he glanced at his watch. A number of heads were leaning out of the windows, staring at him as he was being marched off the station between the two police. They think I’m drunk, he thought to himself, and hurriedly moved to the far side of the police to show that he was free, not under arrest. He was taken to the inspector’s office, where a cup of tea was poured for him.

“Here, take this. It’ll settle you a bit – you’ve had a bad shock.”

James sat opposite the inspector, took the proffered cup and sipped the tea. The two policemen stood in the office making the room seemed cramped.

“Do you need to take any more details from him now? You can see he’s in shock. I’m fixing to get him back to his depot as soon as possible. Surely he can be questioned there late today or tomorrow morning. I need to get the London train away as soon as I get the all clear from Honeybourne. The ambulance crew must have got to the body by now. In any case you’ll need to get statements from the guard about the running of the train after the Charlbury stop. I’m sure the guard will report at Paddington before he books off, but I’ll wire them just in case they don’t think of it.”

The policemen looked uncertain, so the inspector added, “Look, I need to get this man back to his depot as soon as possible. He’ll make a full statement there. I’ve got to get the London train away shortly and I want this man on it.”

The phone rang, interrupting further discourse, and the inspector picked the handset up and listened, shaking his head from time to time. “The stationmaster’s at the scene. The man’s dead, killed instantly apparently. I can’t let the London go until the police have checked the scene and photos have been taken and the body released to the mortuary. It looks as though we’re stuck here for another hour at least. But I’m told that police are on the spot with the ambulance. Perhaps it’ll be quicker…. ”

Then he turned to the police in the office – “Your colleagues at the site want you to report there and tell them what Driver Peplow here has told you. They want you to radio them and they’ll give you directions to the site.”

They went out and shut the door leaving James alone with the inspector.

“I’m sorry about the news of your mate. I guess it was to be expected, falling from a train at that location, given the speed you said you were doing. Did you know the man well? Does he have a family?”

“I don’t know. It was the first time I’ve worked with him and he didn’t have much to say for himself.”

“I just hope he hadn’t a young family. It’ll come hard on them if he has.”

James realised that he had no idea – they’d not made any contact at all about anything that mattered to either of them. He was still breathing a sigh of relief that the man was dead and couldn’t challenge the statement he’d made to the police.

“I’m sorry about the delay. You need to get back to your depot as soon as possible. I’ll take you over to the London train and ask the guard to look after you until you get back to Paddington. I’ll ring Old Oak, perhaps they can fetch you from the station. Have another cup of tea, then I’ll take you over to the guard – it’ll be a Worcester man, back on the 3/15.”

James drained his tea and was walking over the footbridge to the other platform when they heard the signal arm drop and the London train at length got line clear. The inspector shouted down to the porter on the platform to hold the train a minute until Peplow had boarded, then he found the guard and told him briefly of the circumstances and bade him see the London driver got back to his depot when they arrived at Paddington. Whistles blew and the train departed some hour or so late. The Worcester guard found Peplow a seat in an empty first class compartment and gave him copy of the Mirror, saying he’d not be disturbed until they got to Paddington. James watched the countryside slip past and then suddenly felt drowsy and slipped into a light sleep from which he stirred from time to time, just noticing where they were before succumbing to sleep again.

A taxi was waiting for him at Paddington and took him straight to the depot where he was met by Philip Doig. The shedmaster looked him up and down and decided that he was in no fit state to be put under police pressure that night, rang the authorities and fixed for Peplow to be interviewed at ten o’clock the following morning.

“You go straight home now. Try to relax and get some sleep and be here sharp at ten tomorrow morning. I’ve held the taxi and it’ll take you right back to your house. Get something to eat and go to bed.”

James went home as instructed, but couldn’t be bothered to cook. He bought fish and chips – and threw half into a waste bin – then went to a pub where he was unknown and got himself blind drunk for the first time in his life.