The Enginemen, Chapter 5/1

Glossary

Various locomotive controls:

~ Blower: produces fierce draught to liven the fire and, when the engine is coasting, reduces the risk of the fire ‘blowing back’ into the cab and burning the crew.

~ Water Gauge Glass: small glass tube displaying the level of water in the boiler to alert the driver to a dangerously low level with the risk of a boiler explosion.

~ Injector: a piece of control equipment that fills the boiler with water from the tank or tender.

~ Cut-off handle or lever: used by the driver to adjust the travel of the valves, as the train accelerates the travel is shortened, the steam locomotive equivalent to a gear change.

~ Regulator: the main control which admits steam to the cylinders, opening up to the second valve admits more steam and drives the locomotive harder.

~ AWS: automatic warning system which alerts the driver to a ‘caution’ or ‘danger’ signal, ringing a bell in the cab when the signal is green, and sounding a horn at a yellow or red signal.

~ Safety Valve: the safety valves lift and expel excess steam pressure, causing a noisy rush of steam – not popular in confined spaces and under station roofs.

Churchward: George Jackson Churchward, famous Chief Engineer of the GWR from 1902-1922, who laid the foundations of loco design for the following 50 years.

Britannia: BR Standard Pacific (4-6-2) design, one of which, 70026 ‘Polar Star’, derailed at speed at Milton, near Didcot, in 1955.

Chapter 5: April 1961

James went back to the lobby window.

“Has Ashcroft signed on yet?”

Pete Ashcroft was James Peplow’s regular mate. At least, he had assumed that role some four weeks previously. He must have been James’s fifth regular fireman since he’d been in link 3, others had transferred to Southall to get promotion to driving work, or had asked for a changed turn when they fell out with Peplow, and one had emigrated to Australia.

“No, not yet. You won’t see him until the last moment.”

“Tell him to get working on the fire. I want to get a refill of oil from the Stores.”

“Jack Woodruff’s prepared 5008, James. You don’t need any more lube oil.”

“I just want to make sure. I was caught out last year and nearly ran hot because I’d not checked that she’d been properly prepared.”

“Jack’s alright. He won’t let you down.”

James nodded, but still went to the Stores and booked a can of the thick green oil against his engine.

“F***ing hell, James, you’re overdoing it aren’t you? You’ll leave a bloody oil slick all the way to Bristol or wherever.”

By the time he got back to the roundhouse on which 5008 was stabled, Pete had arrived and James could see he had the blower on and was firing steadily into the corners of the firebox. James clambered up the cab steps, nodded to his mate and glanced at the tender, and was satisfied when he saw a mound of best Welsh coal. Then he stared at the pressure gauge, 180 psi was shown, the red needle was creeping slowly upwards, it’d be on the 225 mark by the time they were ready to leave the shed signal. He tapped the water gauge glass, cleaned it with an oily rag and was disturbed to see the water level was only halfway up.

“Put the injector on, we need a full boiler before we leave the depot.”

“I was just getting the pressure up first, I’ll fill her up when the needle’s on 200.”

“Do it now, you’ve plenty of time to get full pressure. By the time we get to Paddington, she’ll be blowing off at full blast and we’ll get complaints from the station staff, especially if we’re under the roof.”

Ashcroft said nothing, but operated the small injector, looking down to see that the water was not gushing out on the depot floor.

“Set the turntable, I’ll bring her out.”

Often the driver would do this himself, the Old Oak turntables were electrically operated and swift. There was no manual effort involved as at so many other sheds. But James wanted to be the first to move his new steed, he wanted the feel of her from the start. He brought her slowly onto the table, and when it was set for the exit road, Pete clambered back up, James wound the cut-off handle into reverse and opened the cylinder drain cocks releasing a terrifying and deafening cloud of steam that enveloped the engine. He opened the regulator and 5008 responded with three strong exhaust beats which reverberated against the shed roof, then he slammed it shut and the engine drifted to the open air. Pete pulled the whistle chord to alert anyone crossing the lines at the shed entrance although they’d have had difficulty in failing to observe and feel the oncoming green giant.

The water gauge in the tender indicated it was almost the full 4,000 gallons, but James was not satisfied. As the shed exit signal had not cleared, he instructed his fireman to pull over the wide hose of the water column and fill the tender to the brim. As soon as the hose was inserted in the tender filler hole, the signal was pulled off, but James waited until the water began to spurt out while Ashcroft furiously twirled the lever operating the column before the ground was flooded.

Steam was sizzling from the safety valves now, as Peplow cracked open the regulator once more and they progressed cautiously over the flyover crossing to the downside of the main line. The engine was moving virtually silently now apart from the soft clatter of the tender wheels on the rail joints. They stopped momentarily at Royal Oak, beside the day’s standby, 5065, and when the road was cleared, backed onto their train standing just under the arched roof in platform 2. Pete Ashcroft jumped down onto the track to couple up while James eased 5008 up compressing the buffers and turned on the exhaust injector to ensure he had a full boiler of water. The guard was waiting for them, and might normally have climbed onto the engine for a couple of minutes’ conversation and a mug of tea. Seeing Peplow, he refrained, as he was not known as the most hospitable of drivers, and just called out:

“Nine on for 315 tons, first stop Reading. You all the way to Swansea?”

“Yes, mate.”

“I’m off at Cardiff. You’ll get a Swansea High Street man from there.”

The guard hovered for a few seconds, but James took no notice of him, so he turned and walked back down the train. It was twenty to eight, and a couple of passengers came to the front end, looking admiringly at his engine. Peplow caught the eye of one young man and smiled and he made as if to come for to ask a question, then thought better of it and turned on his heels and got into the first coach behind the locomotive.

Meanwhile Pete had swept the cab floor once more and was now hosing the coal in the tender to lay any dust that might otherwise swirl in the gentle breeze. James removed an enamel mug from his bag and helped himself to the thick murky brown tea brewing on the firebox door shelf, and dropped in a couple of lumps of white sugar. The two men kept their own company while waiting for the off, each doing what was required in a calm efficient manner, but only speaking when necessary.

Peplow could see the huge station clock on platform 1 as the minute hand hovered towards the 12, and fixed his eyes on the ‘right away’ indicator on the station awning just beyond the arch roof. He heard the whistle, but could not see the guard as the rear of the train was hidden by the curve, but suddenly at 7.55 exactly the RA indicator was illuminated, and James opened the regulator wide. Despite the deposits of oil around the track where hundreds of engines had stood waiting for departure, seeping oil for years, 5008 held her feet and exhausted beautifully clear and even beats, thundering under the road bridge at the throat of the station and accelerating nicely down past Royal Oak and Subway Junction where a Metropolitan train was emerging on its way to the City, commuters crammed against the doorways and strap hanging.

The load behind the engine was ideal for a ‘Castle’ on this road, and James wound her up to 25% cut off with full regulator as she purred past Old Oak Carriage Sidings and the West Junction where the line to Birmingham veered off to the right. The AWS bell sang reassuringly confirming the clear road ahead. They burst under the overbridge at Acton station, the speedometer already showing they were over the 60mph mark, and as they roared through Ealing Broadway, making the commuters awaiting the next London bound local train look up from their open newspapers, Pete Ashcroft started the next round of firing, swinging the loaded shovel in a 180 degree arc for a dozen rounds. The steam pressure needle stayed on the 225 mark, the driver watched the burst of dark smoke as each shovel load was fired, then the white steam resumed billowing over the backs of Victorian three storey houses and their tall fenced gardens, where some washing already flapped from the draught of the passing train.

By Southall they were already a minute up on schedule so Peplow wound her back to 15%, keeping the main valve of the regulator still open and this was enough to maintain a cruising speed of 75 mph. A long blast on the whistle heralded Slough, causing passengers on the adjacent platform and the Windsor bay to step back hurriedly from the platform edge, 5008 rolled slightly as she hit the ladder of points at the West end of the station, then steadied herself and pounded over the Thames at Maidenhead.

From time to time there would be a sudden roar and flurry of steam as an Up express flashed past with City bound passengers from Reading and the Thames Valley commuter belt of Tilehurst, Pangbourne, Goring. As the deep Sonning Cutting approached, the spring greenery of the trees beginning to show, James closed the regulator and put on the blower to keep a draught running through the fire, and drifted the last couple of miles to the Reading stop, coming to rest past the crowd waiting to alight in exactly 37 minutes from London, nearly three minutes early.

Still neither men said anything to each other. There was no discord, just no need for either to say anything, and James was basically a shy man, unused to constant chatter. Most firemen would relish the banter and friendship of the footplate team, but Ashcroft was satisfied, he knew Peplow by reputation and it didn’t bother him. Whereas other firemen had leaned on the roster clerk to find another mate, Ashcroft had been indifferent and the roster clerk had seized the opportunity to team him with Peplow, hoping this time the partnership would stick.

James always enjoyed the next section to Didcot, running alongside the flowing Thames, crossing and recrossing its path, especially if it was glistening in the sun as it was this morning. Near Pangbourne a little cottage nestled in the vee where the cutting edges rose and fell, James often fantasised about this little dwelling, wondered who lived there, what it would be like to live in such an isolated spot, yet so near to the railway and the river. After Cholsey he glanced at the smooth hillock on the right, its gentle swelling reminding him of a woman’s breast.

He was having time this morning to indulge himself with these thoughts. He had no worries about his fireman or the engine, they were both performing exactly to the standard required, the road ahead was clear, the signals beckoned him on, 5008 was in a steady rhythm, speed still in the 70s as Didcot passed in a blur and they rode over the trailing Junction where the line from Oxford joined them. He remembered, he always did, drivers remember these things. Milton, where a few years before a Sunday excursion from Treherbert had come to grief down the bank, after its driver missed caution signals. He claimed his ‘K’ notice pages were stuck together, he’d missed the engineering work that necessitated his train’s diversion to the slow line at that point, and his observation of the warning signal was stymied by the poor front vision from his Britannia pacific, ‘Polar Star’ which derailed at the points and rolled down the bank at over 50 mph, killing thirteen souls.

As they approached Swindon, the White Horse of Uffington was yet another landmark, and they bowled along in near silence as James became aware that his engine had none of the normal rattle of metal against metal, apparent on most locomotives as cab fixtures worked loose from the constant vibration. As he shut off steam, the engine began to blow off excess steam for the first time since Paddington, but Ashcroft immediately turned on the exhaust injector to quieten the engine and they drew to a stand in the down platform at this railway town. The departure took them for the next few minutes along the entire length of Swindon’s main locomotive works, past rows of rusting condemned engines, pensioned off after forty years of hard labour. Then, past the paint shop, were other engines newly outshopped in their brilliant coat of Brunswick Green, brasswork gleaming, ‘King Charles II’, ‘Caldicot Castle’, ‘Llanrumney Hall’.

Now work began in earnest. Pete was firing steadily now, only stopping momentarily to wipe the sweat from his brow, as they took the junction at Wootton Bassett and began the long steady climb to Badminton. Both men concentrated, James watched the road ahead, glancing from time to time at the steam pressure gauge and water level. As they neared the summit, still travelling at over 60mph, the needle was glued to 215psi and Pete was easing off his firing and putting the injector on to refill the boiler. Now it was easy until James put steam on again after the curve past Filton and Patchway. The air pressure suddenly beat their eardrums as they plunged into the single-bore Patchway Tunnel, then they tore down to the approach to the Severn Tunnel at nearly 80 mph.

The darkness engulfed them, the glare from the raging fire reflected back off cab roof and side windows ensconcing their small space as though it was divorced from the rest of the universe. They could see nothing but blackness ahead, yet speed rose to 85 mph, in the depths of the tunnel below the huge tidal river. Both men sat on their wooden tip-up seats, looking steadfastly ahead into the void, waiting for that first pinprick of light signifying the portal on the Welsh side of the river. When he felt the change in gradient and the speed begin to slacken, James opened the regulator once more and heard the rhythmic drumbeat of the exhaust against the tunnel roof. They burst into the sunshine and James took the watch from his pocket, held it against the light and grunted with satisfaction - only a fraction over the three and a half minutes for the four and a quarter miles of the Severn Tunnel. Unless the signalmen spoiled things now, they were on target for an early arrival in both Newport and Cardiff.

They waited time for a number of minutes in the Welsh capital. Neither man spoke. Pete was once again sweeping the cab, then went into the tender to pull coal forward so he could reach it without having to take unnecessary strides. The new guard came up to the engine, acknowledged them and got into the first carriage, giving them ‘right away’.

The soft countryside rolled past, the meadows of St Fagans, the copse and sparkling river down by Miskin, before the rows of coal wagons and tiny engine shed where an old Churchward eight coupled tank dozed in the sunshine at Llantrisant. James applied the brake with a gentle hiss as the slag heap that marked Llanharan came into view and he slowed the train to creep over the track constantly moving above the subsidence from the colliery workings. From Bridgend, past the little goods shed, and the freight line leading up to the valleys above Tondu, 5008 now rasped, as she hit the climb to Stormy Sidings and the brand new marshalling yard above the sand dunes of Margam and the legends of sunken villages under them. Ahead an orange cloud hung over the town of Port Talbot, dominated by the steel works which generated so much rail activity in the area, a constant flurry of white smoke from shunting engines piercing the orange haze.

James loved this route. There was so much variety, the urban industrial mess alternating with glimpses of rippling streams, wooded groves, all overshadowed by the brooding bare hills above the valley heads. And in those valleys, rows of slate-roofed terraced miners’ cottages, coming down almost to the desolate sea shore of Aberavon, still unable to escape the malevolent presence of the ugly steelworks, the mounds of orange ore and the vast tankers waiting to dock in British Steel’s own harbour.

The last effort now, climbing out of Neath above the town, exhaust reverberating against the rocky cutting, then down through the arctic vista of Llansamlet and the derelict Swansea Valley, laid waste early in the century by myriads of chemical factories which destroyed all vegetation and left the soil contaminated for a generation or more. Pete had undertaken no firing since Port Talbot, the fire was glowing red as it burnt through, the pressure was now only 200psi, the engine would not disturb the peace of the Welsh city that saw itself as rival with the capital, more Welsh, more deserving, so the natives thought, of being the main principality instead of that cosmopolitan city to the east.

James drew 5008 slowly up to the buffer stops and drew a deep breath of satisfaction. He looked at his mate and nodded, 12/32, four minutes early. Passengers passed by the engine, most intent on their own thoughts, but a few gave a glance to the men on the footplate, a couple nodded, one said thanks. All that remained was to take 5008 back to Landore shed, once the fussy tank engine had removed the empty coaches, drop the engine over the pits where shed labourers would rake out the fire, coal and water her and turn her ready for the next day’s duty. It was a short turn today, the return trip tomorrow would be a longer one booking on at 6am to prepare their own engine, ready for the 8 o’clock to London, due in at 12/10, but not off duty until 2/30 after taking their engine back to shed and disposing of it. Peplow and Ashcroft signed off at 2pm, and now had the whole afternoon at their disposal.