The Enginemen, Chapter 7/2

Glossary

County class locomotive – post war 2 cylinder 4-6-0 designed by GWR’s last Chief Mechanical Engineer, F.W. Hawksworth.

Hot box - overheated axle/wheel bearing.

‘Trains Illustrated’ – a monthly magazine for railway enthusiasts from 1948 until it was renamed ‘Modern Railways’ in the 1970s. Cecil J Allen, a civil engineer and church organist of repute, wrote a monthly article called ‘British Locomotive Practice and Performance’, which printed ‘logs’ of runs he’d had on different routes of BR in the course of his quality inspections of steel at various foundries, or runs of exceptional quality that had been sent in by correspondents.

Laira - Locomotive depot at Plymouth.

Chapter 7 (continued)

The room was locked, so he had to knock as the youngster had taken the key. He was sometime in coming, then he opened the door, still damp from the shower, naked apart from a towel draped around his waist. James entered and saw at once how spartan the room was. Two single beds, with barely room to stand between, a couple of bedside lamps which didn’t work, and a single electric light bulb in the centre of the room with no shade. The light from the 100 watt bulb was harsh and illuminated the stained and grubby walls which were covered in a nondescript emulsion paint. There were no pictures to soften the décor. Beside each bed in front of a cheap wooden locker with one drawer, was a single plastic chair, a garish blue. There was a tiny washbasin in one corner and a single shelf on which Jim Plunkett’s razor and toothbrush lay. His clothes were scattered untidily on his bed and as James walked round to the unoccupied bed on the right, Jim continued to rub himself dry.

James sat for a moment as there was so little room for both the men to be active at the same time. The youngster made no attempt to seek any privacy, indeed there was really no scope for any modesty in such a confined space. James looked admiringly at the young man’s torso now so readily displayed. He looked so young for his chest and back were hairless, his skin glowing after the shower. His damp hair was scuffed up and the youth, for that is what James considered him to be despite the fact that he must at least be in his early twenties, began to rub his head vigorously turning so that only his naked buttocks and back were in James Peplow’s view. James stared at him, and envied the lad’s slim but well proportioned torso, watched him lay down the towel and pull on a pair of boxer shorts and then begin to collect his clothes and strew them loosely over the back of his chair. He then sat on his bed and once more began to rub his hair again to try to eliminate the dampness before getting into bed.

James pulled himself together and picked up the worn cream towel that lay at the foot of his own bed, stripped down to his vest and pants, and made his way along the corridor to one of the two primitive shower cubicles on that floor. He could see as soon as he entered the closet why Jim had come back to the bedroom to finish towelling himself; there was barely room to fasten his underclothes and towel to the single hook on the closet door, out of the reach of the spray from the shower faucet. He swilled himself quickly in the tepid water, praying that the hot water supply would not run out before he had removed the grime from the long journey. Then he had a quick rub down as best he could to remove the water droplets clinging to his body and wrapped the towel round his waist to return to his room. Jim was already fast asleep, his tousled fair hair all that was visible above the sheets. James slung his pants and vest on the chair and took his pyjamas from his overnight bag, put the light out and stumbled into bed, cursing as he caught his shin on the corner in the darkness. He lay there for some time awake, reflecting on the damage he had allowed to his 5008 and feeling uneasy at his feelings towards the young man sleeping so close to him.

He did not sleep well. The bed was uncomfortable and he kept waking up, finally laying awake as daylight seeped through the thin curtains of the one window. He was awake long before his alarm set for 6.30 rang, but was still lying there drowsily when Jim Plunkett suddenly sprang out of bed and trotted down the corridor to the toilet whose cistern he heard explode in the stillness. He should be getting out of bed himself he thought, but continued to lay there watching Jim swill his face at the basin, then start to shave. The youth was still attired in just his boxers and when he finished his ablutions, he turned and caught James’s eye before the latter turned away. The young man was suddenly self-conscious and blushed, rapidly pulling on his vest and shirt before the dirty overalls of his trade. James got up and hastily washed and dressed before both made their way to the canteen for a rather large but greasy breakfast, and then booked on at the lobby window to take over the 9 o’clock from Newquay at North Road.

James looked at the numbers chalked on the engine allocation board and saw 5008 already marked off for repairs. The Newquay was showing what looked like 4087. James cursed. The ‘Forties’ were the oldest Castles, built in the 1920s and now nearing the end of their lives. They were strong and free running, but often too rough-riding for top link passenger work, certainly for a long non-stop run that they faced today. James found the Running Foreman and began to protest at the allocation and demand something better.

“You the London guy that failed 5008? You’re lucky to get 4087, she’s one of our best. Although she’s nearly a year out of shops, she’s a strong engine, steams well and rides tolerably.”

“She’s an old ‘Forty’. She’ll be too rough for the job.”

“Not this one. She’s had new front end frames, 4-row superheat, double chimney, the works. If you don’t take her you’ll get something infinitely worse. There’s plenty of our lads only too pleased to take her instead. I picked her for the London non-stop because I know it’s not an easy assignment.”

“Okay, I’ll have to take your word for it,” replied James grudgingly and he went to examine the engine while Jim went to the stores for the oil. She was reasonably clean and as he walked round the engine, he saw a box like mechanism with a gauge attached to the smokebox on the driver’s side. What the hell is that, he thought, and went back to the foreman.

“That’s an oil reservoir for the mechanical lubricator. Half a dozen ‘Castles’ are fitted with them experimentally. I thought you had a couple of the other locos at Old Oak. No final conclusions yet, but 4087 is very free running and we used to have 4088 as well before she was transferred away when the diesels came in force.”

Smarting that he had not picked this up at his home depot, James Peplow returned to his engine via the factory where 5008 was already waiting outside, waiting a berth. She was cold now and would need to be moved into position by the diesel shunter already poised to make the manoeuvre. He stared at his engine, still gleaming in the morning sun despite her journey yesterday and the general dust and grime in the depot atmosphere and he was loath to return to 4087, which was now beginning to show wisps of steam from the safety valve as Jim Plunkett built up his fire. James oiled the engine meticulously with yesterday’s failure at the forefront of his mind and climbed aboard, nodding with satisfaction to Jim as he noted the good fire and reasonable coal, and the steam pressure already near its maximum 225 psi. The foreman shouted up to him.

“Wait a minute before you move to the shed signal. We’ve got to couple up your pilot for the run to Newton Abbot, the Newquay’s booked for 13 on, well over your load for a single engine. Your pilot’s backing on now, your fireman can couple her up.”

“What, that Prairie tank? Is that all we get to help us? You want me to keep time with a substitute engine and a crap engine like that?”

“She’s a large Prairie, she’s powerful enough. And she’s got enough coal and water for the forty five minute run. I’ve got nothing else, the tender engines are all booked out on extras for the Midlands. We haven’t many steam locos allocated here now. This one’s a Newton Abbot engine working home, her crew will be anxious to get there and book off. You’ll get plenty of assistance.”

4176 backed on and began to blow off steam as Jim and the Newton Abbot fireman co-operated in coupling the engines and connecting the brake pipes. The two engines then set off light for North Road station and on arrival, both crews were told by the signalman that the Newquay was reported 15 late passing Lostwithiel. They backed onto five additional vehicles including the restaurant and kitchen car, which they would add to the formation. By the time the Newquay arrived behind a somewhat travel-stained ‘County’ from Truro depot, both 4087 and 4176 were blowing off steam furiously, and no amount of attention by the firemen, filling the boilers with water and opening the firehole doors to let cooler air in, could quieten the ear-splitting noise that was disrupting the station and preventing the waiting passengers decipher the loudspeaker announcements already obscure enough with their west country drawl.

Eventually the extra vehicles were coupled up, the waiting crowds were all aboard and the departure took place, now 18 minutes late. It was not an auspicious start to the day and James was getting ready to enjoy his misery. The two engines barked in tandem as they rushed towards the foot of the 1 in 42 Hemerdon Bank, and then hit the dip before the climb began at a full 60 mph. James opened the regulator wide and dropped the cut-off lever to 40% then 45, and waited for retribution. 4176 was chattering merrily in front, and despite the strenuous working, 4087’s safety valves began to lift again, as the pair forged on up the steep gradient, speed eventually levelling off near the top at a steady 26 mph, a very respectable climb with this load. The train made good progress to Wrangaton on the edge of Dartmoor, and dropped down through Totnes before facing up to the other main challenge before the pilot was dispensed with. The short but steep climb to Dainton from the west was assaulted without any qualms and by the time 4176 cut off in the through road on the north side of the station, lateness had already been reduced to ten minutes.

James Peplow’s mood began to lift a little as they swept round the curve at Teignmouth and children playing on the sea wall turned and waved as myriads of children have done since trains were invented. He eased the regulator right back to conform to the speed restrictions round the coast, and 4087 immediately began to blow off steam again, nothing could seem to stop it. To his surprise the distant signal for Exeter was off and they thundered through the station, passing at least two other northbound trains held back for them to pass. As they seemed to have no shortage of steam, James gave the engine its head and Whiteball Tunnel was entered at the very respectable speed of 58 mph with this load. Once over the top, he kept steam on and the train quickly accelerated to well over 80 mph. He had expected to need to rein the speed back, fearing it would be too rough, but he was pleasantly surprised how well this old engine rode, although some steady vibrating of the cab controls gave an indication that this engine had not visited Swindon Works in the recent past.

They continued on their merry way, miraculously the road ahead was clear, and by Reading they were back on schedule. It couldn’t last though. They made it as far as Acton before the first adverse signals were seen, a crawl through Westbourne Park was followed by a dead stand outside the terminus waiting for an empty platform. Eventually they ran into platform 9, just 10 minutes late, a considerable improvement on the punctuality of most Summer Saturdays in the 1950s and 60s. Once they had stopped and the packed train had disgorged its passengers and their luggage to the Underground, James alighted from the cab and began to feel the wheel centres and bearings, looking for any signs of overheating. He could not afford to be accused of the same fault twice running. He rubbed his cloth absentmindedly over the brass lettering of the nameplate ‘Cardigan Castle’ and begrudgingly thought that she was not such a bad replacement for 5008 after all.

Back at Old Oak, Jim Plunkett remarked that the return leg had been a good trip and he wouldn’t mind having 4087 for his regular engine if she always steamed like that. James was loath to agree with him, it felt as though he was being unfaithful to 5008 if he even admitted another engine was as good, let alone possibly better, so he replied noncommittally.

As he booked off he happened to see the Running Foreman, so he called out that 5008 had been left at Laira with a hot box, but he’d be happy to take 4087 as a substitute until his own engine was returned.

“Can’t do that, James. Laira’s already been on the blower. They’ve been ordered to transfer 4087 to Newton Abbot as soon as possible to take over that depot’s alternate day share of the Plymouth - Liverpool working as far as Shrewsbury. Apparently all that depot’s own engines are too high mileage or stopped for major repairs. I’ve been ordered to send her back tomorrow and I’ve booked her to the 4/15, so they can use her on the northbound run on Monday. I’ll sort out something for you on Monday. What job are you on?”

“The 4/10 to the Black Country, back with the last Up service.”

“Okay, I’ll try to remember, I’ll see what I can do.”

Meanwhile Plunkett had gone back to the lobby for a clean up and brew. A group of other firemen were around chatting, before booking on or off, and one of them greeted Jim.

“How did it go? What did you make of the eccentric old sod?”

“We had to fail his beloved engine at Laira, he nearly passed out with grief when he found we’d run her hot. We had a good run back though, couldn’t stop our replacement engine manufacturing steam.”

“What did they give you?”

“4087, she must be one of Laira’s best ‘Castles’.”

“Lucky f***ing you. Foreign depots usually palm London men off with their black sheep. What did you make of old Peplow?”

“Weird. I thought he was a dry old stick, obsessed with his loco, then I caught him looking at me in a very creepy way. Weird. I’ll not choose him as a mate in a hurry.”

Despite the Running Foreman’s promise, James had a variety of steeds the following week. He had one of the 1950 built Castles in the 7000 series, 7010, but it had over 80,000 miles recorded since its previous overhaul and James reported a string of minor ailments on the repair card at the end of the return journey, which meant it was stopped and he got given a Modified Hall, 6961, ‘Stedham Hall’ the next day for a Worcester turn. They got there and back alright, but it was a rough trip with the engine not steaming well, so that Pete Ashcroft had had to work doubly hard, as James was not the type to take it easy for his fireman’s sake. She was pretty rough riding as well. In all James got through a different engine every day, so that even the Running Foreman took to ringing Laira to find out when 5008 would be repaired.

James had no motive to hang around the depot, so after booking off each day he hurried home to his terraced house in Kennington. He used to pride himself on cooking for his mother and for the first year or so after her death, he continued to cook properly for himself. Then gradually he ceased to be bothered and started calling for fish and chips at the corner shop, or buying himself something out of a tin that was quick to heat up and assuage his hunger. He didn’t seem to gain weight despite the lack of healthy food, maybe because he was still active, walking everywhere he could, taking lone runs in Battersea Park on his days off.

He bought a set of scales and weighed himself religiously each morning. He bought a larger mirror for the bathroom, and stared long and hard each morning and evening to check that his physique was not filling out. He read the health pages in his newspaper assiduously and bought products advertised or commended that were the latest fad. He bought a Home Health Guide and took its advice whenever he perceived a symptom, so that his medicine cabinet was full of half finished potions and tubes and packets. He still had not got round to buying a television. When others pressed him, he said he’d got the radio and that was enough. He hadn’t the time to waste sitting in front of mindless soap operas and quiz shows aimed at the masses.

His mother’s old bedroom, now his study, was heaving with railway documents, public and working timetables, railway magazines, crossword pages he’d torn out of newspapers, sometimes from the Times or Telegraph he’d rescued from the empty coaches at the end of the journey. One shelf was full of a set of encyclopaedias that his mother had bought for him when she was pressured by a door to door salesman while James was on a lodging turn. He‘d had a mind to return them, then found they were a fund of knowledge of value for quizzes and crosswords, so while still castigating his mother for purchasing them, he was secretly pleased, and kept them.

Each day he would select the appropriate working timetables for his next day’s roster, copy out in his neat, but fancy, handwriting the detailed passing times, recovery times and station times for the schedule of the trains he was booked to work. Then he would select from his copies of back editions of “Trains Illustrated” appropriate logs of locomotive performance relevant for the route, from the monthly articles compiled by the celebrated Cecil J.Allen. He had at some point gone through all the back numbers and made an index of any of those articles that covered the Western Region routes over which he had booked work, so he could compare his own runs with the best recorded in recent times. It was his ambition to see one of his own runs in print, but he had never had the fortune to be timed and recorded when he and his engine (and fireman) had performed particularly well.

One day, with August already half gone, he’d prepared the form he used to plan his next journey, the 7.30 to Bristol, one of the few weekday steam turns still left on the Bristol and West of England routes. As he performed this chore, although it did not seem so to him, he listened on his radio to the last day of the Ashes series. The teams had come to the Oval with England needing a victory to square the series but they had not batted well and they were going to be lucky to gain a draw.

He had thought of taking one of the many days of leave he was owed, but he had let things drift until all the tickets were sold. He had not regretted this subsequently, for the English batting had been dreary and slow. And now, after tea on the final day when England were just 132 runs ahead, and they might have declared to see if Trueman could pull off another sensation as he had at Headingly, the rain came down and it petered out into a draw, the Aussies thus winning the series. It seemed an omen for his work, his life, wasting away here through the best and busiest time of the summer without his own engine, having to make do with all the substitutes provided, none save Laira’s 4087 (he had to admit it) anything like as good as his own.

He arrived at Old Oak Common in the early hours of the morning to book on. The lobby clerk said nothing, just noted the time in his log and James made his way to the engine roster board to see what engine the foreman has assigned to him that day. And there she was, 5008, cleared chalked in. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. At last, it had been nearly two weeks since she’d been left at Laira. She must have worked up the previous evening and he’d booked off by the early afternoon.

He brightened up and went to find his old friend. There she was, back on the No.1 turntable, steam already coursing through her veins. He could hear his fireman at work and a burst of darker smoke rising to the venting cowl in the shed roof indicated a round of coal just supplied to the fire. She had lost some of her sparkle though. Two weeks of accumulated dust in Laira’s workshop had not been dispelled by the run up to London, but added to by the dirt and oil picked up on the run and during the disposal process. And she had been missed by the morning cleaning gang. He pulled out a handful of cotton waste and began wipe clean and polish the brass number and nameplates, then climbing into the cab, started to shine the controls on the backplate of the firebox. He would soon restore her as new.

Only then did he acknowledge the presence of his fireman.