The Enginemen, Chapter 13/3

Chapter 13 (continued)

James left, humiliated and angry. He stomped up the steps from the basement and twisted at the top and a violent pain shot down his back. He rested for a while against the railings, then as he saw someone approaching he limped a few yards and rested again until the painful twinge had subsided. When the pain had seeped away, he went home and fretted. On top of everything else, he’d thrown good money away. And he was still facing his fate with nothing done to forestall his doom. He’d have to do something and it would have to be something more severe than anything he’d done before, because the trouble he was in was greater than anything he’d ever experienced.

He realised that there was no way he could go back to that basement flat now. He could try another establishment, but how would that be any different from the canings he’d already taken at the hands of the young women? He realised that he’d have to devise retribution himself, his fate was in his own hands. He looked round his house to see what self-torture he could devise. He was coldly furious with himself. His failure of nerve added to his self-disgust and the increasing threats he felt to his equilibrium if he took no steps to abate it. Then, in the kitchen, he saw his toolbox and bag of things he used for repair jobs about the house. Poking out of the bag was a length of coiled flex, electrical wiring that had been left over from an old hoover that had been disposed of while his mother was still alive. She’d made him cut the flex off. ‘You never know when you might need it’ she’d said, despite his annoyance at the time. Now he looked at it. He pulled it out and twisted it round his fist. He uncoiled it until a double strand of around two feet hung to the floor. He swung it at the door and it made a startling thwack. It was a suitable instrument. He breathed heavily.

He went upstairs very deliberately and undressed until he shivered despite the sultry night. He stepped into the bathroom and looked at his flesh. There were faint traces of pale lines from his most recent episode at the prostitute’s hands. He was now in control and he would deliver the penalty that would be his offering to assuage the fate that now threatened him. He would endure. The more it hurt, the more it would be necessary to bear it if he was to be absolved. He wound the flex very tightly about his fist, and moved everything from the bathroom that was at danger of being swept aside by the swinging cord. He struck the first blow. It stung. He swung again, harder and grimaced as the pain shot through him. Again, he struck, again. At first he left pauses between each stroke, while he reacted to the surging pain. He looked at the livid weals marking his flesh the curve of the doubled-back flex etched into his right flank. Then he began to swing the flex back and forwards striking each flank alternately, increasing the tempo, flailing with ever increasing intensity until his buttocks were a mass of red weals and swollen bruises. The pain no longer held him back, he was insane, it was if he was now anaesthetised to the damage that he was inflicting. He was shutting his eyes and hitting with all his might as fast as he could go, until suddenly he shrieked as a spasm hit his back and a searing pain ripped through him, paralysing his spine. He dropped the home-made whip and stared at his reflection, now dripping blood from his mangled buttocks. He tried to reach a towel to stop the flow and shrieked again as his backbone locked. He hobbled to his bed and lowered himself gingerly onto the bedspread face down and began now to burn with the throbbing pain that engulfed his body. He knew he’d gone too far. He lay there for what seemed like hours as still as he dare. He knew that he’d soon have to clean himself up, begin to try to repair the injuries he’d so recklessly inflicted.

He thought of taking a long hot bath, but worried that the heat would reopen his wounds and restart the bleeding. He touched the congealed blood on his flesh and grimaced. He finally made himself get up, make a cup of tea, took two aspirins, then swallowed a half glass of brandy and lay face down on the bed again and tried to sleep. The pain still throbbed, every move made him cry out involuntarily. The minutes, hours ticked past in slow motion. Sleep would not come, only self pity and maudlin tears for his own hopeless pit of despair. He wanted to turn the clock back. To book on in the morning and take his engine on a faultless trip to Worcester or Gloucester.

But in the morning, after a fitful two hours’ sleep of sorts, he tried to get off the bed and shouted in pain. He was stuck. He couldn’t move. He made another effort and nearly fainted from the agony. He lay still for a while, knew he had to get up to book on; if he left it any longer he’d be late. He made a supreme effort and rolled off the bed onto the floor, screaming out as he fell. He crawled to the bathroom door. Despite the fact that his back muscles were locked, he hauled himself upright hanging onto the door handle and lent over the cistern while he released his bladder. He saw himself in the bathroom full length mirror. His buttocks were purple and black streaked with red cuts and weals. He ran his fingers over his flash and touched the grooves and ridges, each movement causing a grunt of pain. He ached all over, he tried to walk out of the bathroom and fell to his knees and crawled back to bed.

He was so exhausted, he - at last - fell into a deep sleep only to wake an hour or so later as a pain shot through him as he began to turn over bringing him back to consciousness. He needed to do two things. He had to phone the office and report in sick. There was no possibility, he realised, of fulfilling his duties. And he would need a doctor’s certificate; he should get treatment, but how could he? He couldn’t get to the surgery. And if he asked for a house call, how could he risk examination? The doctor would see everything and he would be exposed. He would have to ring and make some excuse and see a doctor when his bruises had faded a bit, when a doctor’s treatment was not in fact so vital.

He lay there thinking of these things, wondering what to do. He went back to sleep then woke again an hour later, his flesh throbbing still. As soon as he tried to move, pains shot through his back. He’d pulled or strained his back when he fired his engine to Badminton, then exacerbated it during his self-inflicted flogging. He’d put himself into an impossible situation out of which at present he could conjure up no escape. He forced himself to crawl out of bed again and went on all fours into the bathroom and managed to swig down another couple of aspirins. He then crawled to the top of the stairs, reversed and went down one step at a time, resting for a few seconds from his exertion on each step, summoning sufficient energy to tackle the next, not trying to muffle his shouts of agony as there was no-one to hear him. Eventually he made it as far as the phone and rang in to say that he was reporting sick and that he’d put his back out and would ring again when he had an idea when he’d be fit for work.

Two day went past dragging like an eternity with James drifting between states of conscious and unconsciousness. He felt weak. He’d hardly eaten anything. He’d devoured a couple of slices of stale bread, and had taken aspirins as frequently as the instructions on the bottle allowed. Soon it would be empty and there’d be no food that he could reach. He would have to make contact with someone or he’d starve. With reluctance, for he’d never wanted anything to do with his next door neighbour, an elderly widow who spent most of her days in the local Salvation Army citadel, he banged on the wall. He tried again a few minutes later and still got no response. She must be out, normally sounds carried between the joined terraced houses. He waited until the afternoon and tried again. He rapped hard twice and this time there was an answering knocking and a couple of minutes later there was a banging on his front door. He crawled to the door, managed with an effort to push it open and faced the woman, who was regaled in her navy blue uniform and bonnet, kneeling on all fours in front of her.

“Good grief, man, what have you done?” she exclaimed in some embarrassment and stood there while he backed slowly to allow sufficient space for her to enter.

“I need you to help me if you can. I’ve done something to my back, slipped a disc or something and I haven’t any food in the house. Could you get me some bread and milk next time you’re going to shop?”

“Have you had the doctor?”

“No, it’s alright, I just need to rest.”

“Ridiculous! You men! My husband used to be the same. Never would go near a doctor unless I made him. I’ll ring him for you. Are you with Dr Hammond?”

“Please Mrs Curtis, I just need some food. I don’t need a doctor.”

“Of course you do, don’t be so absurd. Don’t worry about food, I’ll bring a dinner round for you when I cook my own. I’ll ring Dr Hammond now – his receptionist will just about be there ready for the evening surgery.”

James gave up arguing. He could think of no reason he could mention to this woman that would make any sense. Mrs Curtis used his phone and came back saying that Dr Hammond would be round the following morning and she’d told him to call on her first.

“Give me a spare key,” she demanded in a brisk and businesslike way, “you can stay resting in bed and I’ll let him in.”

He was too exhausted to protest at this invasion of his privacy. It was only when she was gone that he worried about how he could keep his other injuries secret. He found some soft ‘Rich Tea’ biscuits to assuage his hunger and dragged himself up the stairs and into the bathroom. He lowered his pyjama trousers and examined the state of his buttocks. They were a startling mixture of black, purple and yellow hues, with thin red streaks where the cane had broken the surface of his flesh. The bruising had spread to the top of the swelling of his nates and even tinged the back of his thighs. Under no circumstances could he risk examination there by the doctor. Could he examine and treat his back, he wondered, without requiring him to undress below the waist?

Next morning he forced himself out of bed and with much difficulty managed to pull on a vest and pair of pants under his pyjamas as an extra shield. He grew increasingly nervous as the morning wore on. Was his secret disgrace now about to be revealed? What would the doctor do or say if he saw those bruises? Would he guess what had happened or would he press James for an explanation thinking that perhaps he’d been attacked or beaten up? Could he try that explanation? Would the doctor believe him? Would it matter if he didn’t?

He heard the door open at half past eleven and two sets of footsteps tramping up the stairs. For heaven’s sake, surely the woman was not going to be present during the examination. Surely he could tell her to leave? They both entered his bedroom, Mrs Curtis holding a tray which she placed on his bedside table.

“I’ve brought you some breakfast. There was a letter on the mat so I’ve brought that up too. Now I’ll leave you with the doctor. I’ll be back at lunchtime with something and see what shopping you want when I visit the grocery.” And to James’ relief, she left him alone with the doctor.

“Okay, stay lying on your front. Let’s have a look at this back of yours. How did you do it?”

“It must have been when I took a turn at firing my engine,” said James, thinking rapidly. “I had a new fireman and he needed some assistance. I don’t usually do that. I must be out of practice.”

The doctor grunted. He pushed up his pyjama jacket and, discovering the vest underneath, extracted that from his pants and pushed that up too, beginning to feel up and down his spine. James cringed fearing that any moment now he would catch sight of the discoloured swelling below his waist and demand an explanation or decide to explore further, revealing everything. He did run his hands lower but only over his pyjamas. The pressure nearly made James cry out but he managed to bite his lip and the doctor obviously thought the grimace he detected was merely from the damaged back. Eventually the doctor lowered his pyjama jacket and said,

“I don’t think you’ve actually displaced any disc which is good. It’s just a bad strain which will slowly ease with rest. What is the work you do, you’re an engine driver I think you just said, is that right?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll manage work for a couple of weeks. Rest, I’ll prescribe you some stronger pain killers. Your neighbour told me she’d fetch any medicines for you. I’ll sign you off until Friday week. Come and see me at the surgery and if you’re fit by then I’ll write a final note for your paybill people.”

He heard the doctor letting himself out and breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs Curtis must have left too. He ate some of the cornflakes that she’d brought but left half as they’d gone soggy. His tea was also only lukewarm but he drank it as he didn’t want the woman fussing over him. He picked up the letter and tore open the envelope. He saw the typed document inside and realised almost immediately that it was a Form 1 disciplinary charge sheet. He read: ‘You are charged that on the 28th August 1962 you exceeded the speed limits at Filton Junction and Severn Tunnel Junction and proceeded through the Severn Tunnel at a reckless speed causing complaints from passengers and Newspaper Proprietors’ Association staff. It was signed by Philip Doig, Shedmaster. He knew he was required to answer within three days and noticed from the postmark that two days had already expired. He couldn’t be bothered to respond with a detailed defence and just scrawled ‘I was trying to regain lost time that was none of my fault to avoid complaints from the newspaper people about bad timekeeping,’ folded it carefully and waited for Mrs Curtis to return at lunchtime – she could post it when she did his shopping.

He was laid up for four and a half weeks before he felt fit enough to return to work. His back was stiff and ached if he tried to be active but he realised the Winter Timetable had been introduced and he was getting tense worrying about his engine and whether it would survive another Works visit. He was anxious to get his hands on the new rosters to see the extent of steam work remaining and find out whether his decision to turn down the opportunity for diesel traction training would have condemned him to lower link working. He’d been aware that most of link 3 men had now been diesel trained and that continuing rostering of drivers to the same engine was unlikely – but he still hoped against hope that his partnership with 5008 could be perpetuated.

A couple of days before the doctor signed him off, another official letter from the depot came through his letterbox. It was a Form 2 advising him that his record would be endorsed with a ‘Severe Reprimand’. Peplow swore at the bit of paper and saw that he could lodge an appeal within a week. He’d do that first thing when he got back to the depot. He’d see George Munday and ask him to act as his advocate.