The Enginemen, Chapter 15/1

Chapter 15: October 1962

James Peplow was annoyed. He stomped out of the appeal interview – he didn’t even thank George Munday for his eloquent plea on his behalf which had caused Doig to reduce his punishment from a ‘Severe Reprimand’ to just a ‘Reprimand’. What did he care about that? It was still a blemish on his record. He walked over to the siding behind the Factory where 5008 was stored along with 5034, 5011, 5032 and 6019. He stared at 5008 and began to rub the dust from the splashers and cabside. 5008 was a lot cleaner than the other engines in the condemned line, but then no-one else had seen fit to spend hours of their off-duty time polishing a locomotive that would run no more. He looked at the discolouration on the cabside where the brass numberplate had been. That had been removed for safe keeping along with the nameplates and that of the other condemned locomotives and now resided locked in the Stores for safe keeping. They would go to Swindon in the next few days for collection by the lucky sods who’d put their names down and reserved them years ago, long before he knew 5008 was his. It was unfair, surely he was entitled to first pick. He’d pay the price; that was not the problem.

He hauled himself into the cab of the stricken engine and began to wipe off the dust that was already gathering again on the regulator and reversing gear. He sat carefully – he was still a little bruised and tender after all these weeks – on the driver’s tip-up seat and opened the regulator peering out of the cab window to the line ahead. Well, not really, the grimy tender of 5034 was right in front of 5008’s boiler, it reminded him of being piloted over the South Devon banks. He was off today, leave to attend his own appeal. It was still here, far from the activities of the shed and Factory. They were quiet in there now. Some fitters had moved from the Factory to the main depot as any engine that suffered a major failure would be withdrawn without even consideration of a repair. There was just a skeleton staff there now to undertake a few ‘Valves and Pistons’ exams and they wouldn’t come out to bother him.

He looked at his watch. It was nearly noon. The morning weak sun had disappeared and clouds were billowing up, dark and menacing. He watched them coming over the Factory roof from the south west, scurrying, heralding wind and rain. He felt his anger subsiding. He was at home here, he fitted. There was no-one about to call up to him or question why he was here. Was it only two months since that wild night on the newspaper train? Had this old girl really touched the magic 100 mph – well, nearly anyway - in the depths of the tunnel under the Severn estuary? He remembered the thunder and lightning of that trip – there was to be no repeat now, it was too cold. The increasing wind swirled round the cab and James huddled against the unlit fire, pulling his jacket closer round his body. He could go and find a meal at the canteen or get a can of beer but it was too much effort. He’d stay here and keep his old engine company, his beloved machine, waiting here to die.

Shortly afterwards the first drops of rain spattered onto the cab roof and against the fireman’s window. He got up and began to tidy the footplate once more. There was still a brush in the tender locker and he began to sweep the cab floor, kneeling. As the rain blew inside the cab and moistened the metal cover between cab and tender, he swept it back over the wooden floor using the dampness to quell the dust. He walked into the gaping hole of the tender. Most of the coal that had been there was gone, but there were still a few lumps amid the dust. He tended these carefully into a small pile just inside the tender opening, as if ready to feed into the firebox should the engine be needed once more. As he gathered the lumps of coal, the rain beat down harder until he realised suddenly how wet he was getting and took refuge once more under the cab roof and stood, back to the firehole door as if to dry himself from the non-existent blaze. The storm now raged, a winter storm, the gusts of wind buffeting the defenceless engine. James took refuge once more on the driver’s seat and watched the rain, hugging himself. His clothes felt damp but he didn’t care.

He watched until it began to get dark. The rain had eased a little, then he caught sight of a movement in the fence beside the canal. Two young boys were scrambling through the gap in the wire strands, oblivious to the soaking they’d get from the wild nettles and dead buddleia. Once they were through they shook themselves and looked about them wondering if they’d been spotted. One boy drew a rumpled notebook from his trouser pocket and they began to march up alongside the row of cold engines noting their numbers as best they could, for all the numberplates had been removed and only a few scrawled chalk marks revealed their identity – all except his own engine for James had taken a piece of chalk and carefully inscribed in elaborate script ‘5008’ where the brass numberplate should have been. He waited until they drew level with his engine and poked his head through the cab and called to them: “Hi, you, do you want to come up?”

His voice surprised and panicked them and they turned on their heels and made as if to escape back through the hole in the fence. James called after them.

“Come back! I’m not the foreman. You can come in, I’ll not tell on you.”

The boys both stopped and looked at him nervously. They were about ten or eleven years old, still in short trousers. Their grey socks were rumpled about their ankles and both wore worn grey pullovers looking damp as they wore nothing waterproof.

“Do you want to come up? Do you want to cab it?”

One boy immediately began to haul himself up while the other looked anxiously at his friend and waited to see that it wasn’t a trap. Eventually both stood in the cab before the old seated driver.

“Do you know which engine this is?”

“Yes,” one of the boys replied, “it says 5008 on the cab here.”

“And do you know its name?”

“No, but I can look it up when I get home,” said the other.

“It was called ‘Raglan Castle’. Do you know where that is?”

Both boys shook their head. James began to tell them, then seeing that they looked bored at this, began to ask them if they knew how it worked and started to describe the production of steam and helped them open the stiff regulator and wind the reversing screw. He lifted one to see through the forward cab spectacle and told him to pull the whistle chord. No sound came. As he lifted the boy he felt how damp his clothes were and as he set him down he brushed his hand on the surface of the boy’s leg and realised that they were soaked from their unorthodox entry to the shed. If there’d been a fire he could have let the boys dry their clothes there, but he had nothing to offer except the cloth he’d been using to polish the smooth steel regulator.

“You’re very wet,” he said to the younger boy, “let me dry you with this.” He held the cloth up and beckoned the boy to him.

The older boy began to look frightened. “Can I get down, now, mister, I want to get the other engine numbers in the shed before it’s too dark to see. And if we’re late home for tea, our Mums will belt us.”

The smaller boy started to climb down from the cab before James could say anything more and the other on scurried after him. James watched them go sadly. He didn’t want the company of anyone he knew but he’d liked the presence of these boys and had wanted them to stay. He couldn’t explain why to himself. He’d spent all afternoon dreading anyone else disturbing his silence and now here he was embracing the opportunity to talk to these young lads.

“Be careful, then,” he’d called after them, “don’t tell anyone I let you come up here or we’ll all be in trouble.”

The boys fled.

He watched them go past the Factory doors into the nearest roundhouse and disappear in the darkness. He kept watch then. He knew they must go out the way they came in. He gave them twenty minutes or so, that would be enough to complete a tour of the shed and get all the numbers of the engines clustered round the four turntables, then he climbed down from his engine and walked, buffeted by the wind, to the fence where the nettles and undergrowth had been trampled and the wire fence had been broken. Sure enough, he’d hardly reached the spot when he heard voices, the lads were comparing which engines they’d ‘copped’ and didn’t see him until they were close. Then they stopped in alarm seeing his silhouette in the darkness and made as if to turn back.

“It’s only me,” he called to them. “I’ll give you a hand to get through the fence. You don’t want your Mums ticking you off for tearing your clothes on the jagged wire ends, do you?”

They approached him nervously weighing up whether to trust this strange man, or not. The older boy pushed his friend and accomplice forward and James parted the fence and as the boy bent to go through, James guided the lad’s bare thigh past the protruding wire. He stepped back ready to give the other boy a similar helping hand, but he looked panic-stricken and brushed his arm away and rushed at the gap, catching his pullover on the wire just as James had warned.

“Stop a moment, let me untangle you before you make it worse,” called out James, but the boy didn’t listen and pulled himself free, ripping the garment badly as he pushed forward onto the canal path.

“I told you that would happen!” shouted James at the retreating forms as they ran off on the weed infested towpath. “I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he added lamely as the lads disappeared into the night.

James returned slowly, disturbed. He’d been aroused from his afternoon stupor and somehow now the conclusion had disappointed him a little. He couldn’t quite work out why he should feel this. He looked at his watch. It was after five o’clock. The middle shift clerks and fitters would already have left and the place seemed deserted. The door to the Stores was open and he looked inside. There was no-one there. He saw the key to the lock-up where the nameplates of the condemned engines were kept – it was hanging on the hook where he’d seen the storeman put it after carrying the articles destined to be sent to Swindon for disposal. He looked round. He couldn’t see anyone about so he took the key, had another quick glance to make sure he wasn’t being seen, and let himself into the hallowed place. The nameplates were stacked against one wall. ‘Tintagel Castle’ was on top, he went to pull it up to see if ‘Raglan Castle’ was underneath, then thought better of it. A nameplate would be too conspicuous, he’d never get it off the depot unseen. There was another pile of headboards from the named trains – the ‘Bristolian’, the ‘Merchant Venturer’, the ‘Cambrian Coast Express’, still in use and awaiting their next call the following day. Then finally, he saw the brass numberplates scattered on the floor, where they’d slipped from the stack leaning against the wall. One of the ‘5008’ plates was visible, and checking that no-one was observing him from the doorway, he picked the heavy object up and hid it under his jacket. He emerged just in time.

“Hi, James, “ called the storeman ambling up. “What are you doing around at this hour? I thought you were on leave today.” Knowledge of his disciplinary appeal would have spread round the shed – everyone knew such things; there were few secrets.

‘Damn and blast,’ thought James, ‘he’ll know where the plate went if he discovers it missing.’ “Had some business to do in the office, and thought I’d take a last look at my old engine before they cart her off for breaking up. Do you know when the condemned engines will be leaving?”

“Haven’t a clue! They’re putting out contracts for them, I gather. They’ll go to scrap merchants in due course, Swindon’s got more than it can cope with already.”

James hitched up the plate under his armpit – he was worried that the weight of the brass object would cause it to slip from his grasp and clatter to the ground in front of the person responsible for its safekeeping. He resolved to get away as quickly as he could. With a brisk ‘goodnight’ he turned on his heels and strode across the nearest turntable passed a couple of ‘Halls’, a ‘Grange’ and a 9F, through to the passenger part of the shed which housed half a dozen ‘Castles’ of which only a couple appeared to be in steam. He set off at a pace up the slope to the main gate, adjusting the position of the numberplate so that it would not seem obvious to the gateman as he left. He continued to conceal it when he was on the underground and only took it out from his now aching body when he was in sight of home. He put it down on the front step as he unlocked his front door and took it into the room he’d made into his study and placed it on a table where some of his magazines were strewn. Then, even before he removed his damp clothing, he found a cloth and began to wipe away the dust and grime and began to polish the brass numbers until ‘5008’ shone like new. He propped it up in pride of place and only then went to find some food, for he now realised for the first time that day that the pain he felt in his stomach was hunger.

A couple of days later he bought the November copy of ‘Trains Illustrated’ and turned to read Cecil J. Allen’s regular monthly article, ‘Locomotive Practice and Performance’. And he saw it immediately – pride of place to an account of his run on the Fishguard Boat Train. It commented on the rarity of this train ever coming to the attention of train timers, then explained that the late running service had given his correspondent the opportunity to catch this train instead of the intended next Swansea starter which in all probability would have been ‘Hymek’ hauled. The timer had been surprised to find steam haulage still and even more to find a high mileage Castle on the job that had performed so well. The article confirmed his reading of 92 mph down the bank though Hullavington and consistent running after Swindon in the low 80s and finished with a hearty commendation of the crew’s enterprise in attempting to regain so much lost time. Regrettably, the article said, the correspondent had failed to note the driver’s name.

James read the article a second time before browsing through the rest of the slim magazine, then he placed the copy, open at the page recounting his exploit, on the table beside 5008’s numberplate. He tidied up the other magazines left there and put them away and selected a couple of the best photos he’d taken of his engine and the guidebook he’s bought when he’d visited Raglan Castle. He fussed around for a moment, experimenting with the layout of his artefacts. Satisfied at length, he got his camera, opened the curtains wide to let in as much light as possible, and took three shots of the display that he’d arranged.

Each morning and evening now he took his place in front of the shrine that he’d created and stayed there for ten minutes or more reliving the highlights of his partnership with this engine. But it always finished in dissatisfaction, for he knew that the experience could not so easily be recreated. He had still to go to work and undertake lesser roles with lesser locomotives. It seemed criminal that so much waste was now condoned as the steam locomotives remaining eeked out the last few months before complete dieselisation.