The Enginemen, Chapter 19

Chapter 19: January 1963

As had been hinted at by the depot’s management a few months previously, George had been persuaded to apply for a Traction Inspector’s post and had been appointed from the New Year. Initially he was covering the remaining work on steam traction, but had been earmarked for a diesel traction conversion course in March and would take on full Traction Inspector duties after that. This meant that his hours had become more regular, although his new duties occasional took him onto shifts when he needed to examine or advise a particular driver or fireman on an evening or night turn. He had been minded to resign from his ASLEF organiser’s post but had been persuaded by colleagues (and surreptitiously by Philip Doig) to remain in that role until at least the autumn of 1963.

Despite the easier shift times, in the first few weeks of 1963 George had a job getting into work and even more problems when he got there. The snow was prolonged and deep and traffic on both road and rail was heavily disrupted. The snow ploughs had been out and the initial total stoppages had eased but many of the depot’s staff had not come into work, and in consequence trains were being cancelled or running very late.

On this day at the end of the first week of January, he’d gone into the enginemen’s lobby to brew his tea before checking if his train was running and picked up an old copy of the Mirror. The weather was the headline but inside he noticed a reference to the imprisoning of the ANC leader in South Africa. His union had been active in campaigning against apartheid and had had contact with Nelson Mandela and George had been impressed with what he’d read about the man, but now the South African government had accused him of orchestrating violence and shut him up. He didn’t know what to believe; he knew Arthur Campion would be raging to do something, but he felt powerless here in Britain to influence events so far away. He was just finishing reading the piece when Nellie stuck her head round the door.

“Ah, George, I was told you were about. Could you spare the governor a minute? It won’t take long, he knows you’re on duty this morning.”

George finished his tea and accompanied Nellie to Philip Doig’s office. The Shedmaster glanced up as he entered and waved his arm towards the chair in front of the desk. He looked up from a letter he was reading.

“George, I’ve got notification here from the coroner’s court that Peplow’s body has been released for burial. Apparently the police are satisfied that he committed suicide and have no further investigations they wish to make. Inspector Cresswell phoned me a couple of days ago to say that they’d interviewed the two boys and some of their friends at school and their parents and were assured that there was no evidence of child abuse. The missing £650 was a mystery to them and the boys claimed no knowledge of any promised inheritance, and clearly their families were totally nonplussed when the subject was broached with them. It’s just a complete mystery and one the police seem disinclined to pursue further. The coroner now wants the body removed and buried and has rung me because there seems to be no family contact for the man at all. We’ve gone through our records and the next of kin is still given as his mother who died years ago. I know you were dealing with his possible pension and health insurance through the union. Could you see if you can find out if he had any living relative, otherwise I suppose we had better make whatever arrangements are necessary?”

George groaned inwardly but promised the Shedmaster that he’d look into it. After his turn that day involving the supervision of a recently promoted fireman, which eventually got under way some two hours after the rostered time and finished with him booking off late even though his train had been terminated at Oxford, he’d checked his records he kept in the union filing cabinet and found no trace of any surviving relative of James Peplow. A couple of days later he’d obtained his house key from the police and had gone down to Kennington and searched for any papers that might have given a clue. He spoke to the woman who lived next door who confirmed she’d never seen anyone or heard him refer to any relative, even when she’d helped him when he was almost immobile with his back trouble. He’d taken her name in case she remembered anyone and said he’d contact her when the funeral arrangements were known.

At Philip Doig’s request - he really didn’t know why he’d agreed to do this - he contacted a local undertaker and made arrangements for the body to be interred at the cemetery in Acton. There was some resistance at first because Peplow came from south of the river, but George had leant on a local council official and a funeral date was fixed for the second week of January. He asked his own Methodist Minister in West Ealing if he’d officiate as he didn’t know anyone else - just a short committal service in the cemetery chapel - and as the Minister was anxious to support George (he’d tried to be there for him since Florrie’s death) he agreed, asking George himself to say a few words about the man at the service as he knew nothing about him whatever. The date and time of the funeral was posted on the depot notice board and George advised Mrs Curtis in Kennington.

The night before the funeral, George sat down in the study he’d created at home for his union activities, and tried to compose what he was going to say about James Peplow. He doubted that there would be many present, but it was possible that one or two from the depot might turn up, perhaps one of the Running Foremen, or people from the office or even Pete Ashcroft who’d been partnered with him for the longest time. He therefore had to be ready to say something as his Minister had requested and it would have to bear some relationship to the facts, but at least be positive as far as he could. When he’d had to go to Kennington to see if he could find any trace of Peplow’s next of kin, he’d poked around through various papers and found a few brochures about Cumbria and Snowdonia, but mainly a large quantity of magazines and newspaper cuttings about cricket, with much underlining - the man was obviously a Surrey supporter. He had also discovered a large collection of railway magazines, including a full set of ‘Trains Illustrated’ going right back to 1948 and the shrine to Peplow’s beloved engine.

He started writing, then his train of thought was interrupted when he heard Annie wake up and cry, only a few minutes after she’d been put down into her cot. He was tempted to go and help Eva, because Shirley had already gone home, and went out onto the landing where Annie, in her mother’s arms, gave George a beaming smile through the tears. He realised his presence would probably stimulate the child when Eva was trying to get her back to sleep, so he kissed Annie and ruffled her blond locks and went back to his self-appointed task.

He read through what he’d already written, puckered his brow, tore the sheet of paper out, screwed it up and threw it at the waste paper basket, missing it. He tried again. Several more efforts were destroyed before George eventually was satisfied with what he’d written. These were the words he proposed to read as a tribute to the dead man:

“James Peplow didn’t have a very easy life. His father died from wounds received in the First World War and he devoted himself to the support of his mother who suffered from Alzheimers for many years. He joined the railways in 1927 and became a top link fireman at Old Oak Common engine shed where he served throughout the Second World War carrying out essential work for the war effort. He became a locomotive driver in the post war years and towards the end of steam working, became the regular driver of engine number 5008, ‘Raglan Castle’ which he looked after like his own child. Memorabilia from this engine are on his coffin as he would have wished. With the replacement of steam by diesel engines, James, who was a true enthusiast, deeply regretted the parting he had to make from this locomotive and unfortunately he was unable to cope with this significant change and tragically took his own life. This was the more regrettable as it meant that he was unable in his later years to pursue his hobbies of watching Surrey County cricket team at the Oval near his home and to go hill walking in the great wildernesses of the country. I trust that the spirit of James Peplow will now find the peace he never found on this earth in the eternity of the soul.”

George stared at what he’d written for several minutes before he was satisfied. It was not untruthful, but equally it had, he hoped, avoided comments that at a funeral would have seemed mean and disparaging. It would be unnecessary to spell out the most likely reasons for the man’s suicide, he thought.

He arranged for the brass numberplate of 5008 to be put by the undertaker on the coffin lid – it could be recovered later to be restored to the Stores for sale as originally contracted – and Doig had authorised the purchase of a simple wreath. On the day of the funeral the weather was worse than ever, a blizzard in the morning preventing the attendance of the only guest he’d been expecting – Mrs Curtis, James Peplow’s next door neighbour. The Reverend John Kingsley had called for him and they’d struggled through the near ‘white-out’ and had to wait over a quarter of an hour for the hearse to arrive, similarly delayed by the weather.

When the short service began, he found that the mourners consisted of the undertaker’s pallbearers and – surprise – one young fireman from Old Oak, Daniel Simpson. George tried to remember why he might have been present and then recollected that he’d been the one ASLEF fireman who had reported for work during the September strike and had been put to work with Peplow. Perhaps they had formed some sort of bond against the rest of the world. George was grateful that his brief address had at least one valid person in the audience. They limped through one hymn, only the parson’s voice and a feeble effort of his own audible and then after a brief prayer he and Daniel followed the bier to the graveside. By now it was snowing again and the coffin was lowered in the minimum amount of time that could be reconciled with a brief show of respect. He looked at the pinched figure of Daniel and shuddered as the wind whipped the snowflakes into their faces. He couldn’t help comparing this event with the last one he’d attended, that of his own wife Florrie. The contrast could not have been greater.

He was relieved when it was over. He took the tube back to Paddington and went out ‘on the cushions’ of an empty stock train to the depot, where he reported ‘mission accomplished’ to Philip Doig. He returned the numberplate to the Stores and went over to the Factory and took a last look at 5008 which he felt Peplow would have wanted him to do. He couldn’t really understand Peplow’s obsession, although he had to admit that the old engine still looked reasonably presentable – possibly a result of James’ unofficial and unauthorised presence and amateur buffing up that he’d undertaken. He compared the engine with the hulk of 5034 standing next to it, his own engine he’d had until swapping it for 5056 when it became due for the Shops – or as it happened, the scrap yard. The poor thing looked scruffy compared with 5008, rust and ash predominant, such brasswork as remained, dull.

He felt a pang of regret for his former life, but things move on, he thought. He was an Inspector now, his domestic circumstances had changed almost beyond recognition. He thought for a moment about Florrie, looked for a last time at 5034, and turned his back on them and returned to his office, where he found a note asking him to pass out Fireman Ellis as a driver. He fixed for the man to join him on the 9.15 Paddington – Worcester as far as Oxford the following week – that would give him a sufficient test on a passenger train – and they could return on the afternoon Parcels.

The day before he’d come in early – despite the continuing freeze – to get things sorted for the man’s rules exam as well as practical test, when Frank, the Running Foreman on duty, asked him if he was prepared to cover a turn to Bristol. Two services had already been cancelled that morning and control was pressing him to run a special in the path of the 11.15, but stopping at Reading, Didcot, Swindon, Chippenham and Bath as there were a number of stranded passengers at Paddington and also reported from Reading. Then Frank broke the news that he’d no diesels, two ‘Warships’ had already been failed that morning with frost related damage, but would he take 7029, which was in steam and had an available fireman already on the engine.

George was not over pleased to be on what could be a long turn on such a dreadful day, but his sense of duty came to the fore and he was not averse to a steam run on the Bristol road for old times’ sake. He changed in the locker room from his office garb to overalls he kept for his inspector’s duties when training staff on steam traction and went to find 7029 in roundhouse No.1. He looked her over; ‘Clun Castle’ he knew was a good engine and appeared reasonably well cared for, and she’d already been fully prepared. He was astonished and pleased to find his fireman was to be Wyn Griffiths, his previous regular mate, and they brought each other up to date on their respective family news. Wyn had decided to go back to Canton and had been able to get a transfer even though he’d probably lose cash, but his wife was ecstatic as he’d be at home with her and his two young children. He was to move the following week. After conversing with Wyn, they made their way to Paddington tender first, braving the flurries of snow swirling around the unprotected cab and buffered up to the train waiting for them on platform 1.

When they got the ‘right away’ George quickly got into his stride and the team worked together as one. It was snowing hard now and they were raising a white mist behind them as they plunged through Ealing Broadway. He whistled long and loudly as he approached West Ealing, wondering if Eva and Shirley would realise that he was driving the engine whose exhaust they’d hear clearly from his home. Despite delays because of snow affecting the points and signals at both Swindon and approaching Bristol, they completed the journey to the satisfaction of the grateful passengers and had time to turn and service their engine before taking a very heavily loaded express back to London. Although the snow had stopped, a raw dusk came early and the sparks flew in the cold darkness as they roared through West Ealing once more, George giving a sustained howl on the whistle for the benefit of passengers on Ealing Broadway station as well as his own family should they be listening out for him. They drew to a stand at Paddington, a station abnormally deserted in what should have been the rush hour. Theirs was the only main line arrival at the buffer stops. A set of spare men had been sent to relieve them as they’d been on duty well over nine hours. Wyn and George picked up their bags and made for the underground. As they reached the lawn, George stopped and looked back. Wyn paused also.

“Take a good look, Wyn. There won’t be many more occasions when we can look back at an express we’ve just brought up to town behind a ‘Castle’. She gave us a good trip despite the weather. I guess in a few months 7029 and her sisters will be nothing but a memory. It’s the end of an era, lad, but we have to move on.”

“Aye,” retorted Wyn. “It was hard work, but on an evening like this as we watch the passengers hurry home out of the cold, it’s very satisfying. I guess it’s easier with the diesels but you just have to twiddle a controller. It’s not quite the same, is it?”

“No, mate. We’ll all be part of history soon. We’ll have to visit a museum to remember what it was like, but the smell and the sound will not be the same. When I was a small boy, my one ambition was to be an engine driver. It was a glamorous job. Our sons and grandsons, they’ll want to be a pilot or an astronaut. Trains won’t get a look in. Tell you what, I know it’s late but do you want a beer with me? I just feel like one tonight.”

“Good idea, George. Just the ticket!”