The Enginemen, Chapter 9/4

The guard had been silent to this stage. He was holding his journal and biro ready.

“Guard Thomas, Paddington. Your name?”

“Peplow, James Peplow, Old Oak.”

The guard wrote the name in his journal, turned his heels and strode back to his van without another word.

“You could have some trouble there. I think he was anticipating a day off. Hope you get no more problems.”

The inspector touched his uniform cap and made as if to walk away. Then he turned and said, “Not a lot of passengers, thirty at most. The strike seems to have been well publicised despite the short notice. I gather there’s likely to be a build up later in the day according to our information down the line.”

At last the ‘RA’ signal lit up and James opened the regulator and 5008 barked sure-footedly out of the station, the exhaust reverberating back from the underside of Bishop’s Road bridge. As they got into their stride, Peplow began to relax and glanced across at his fireman who was steadily shovelling coal onto an already fiercely burning fire. The pressure gauge was showing a full 225 psi and despite a full regulator and 40% cut-off, the engine was beginning to blow off steam again. The boiler was full, so Peplow instructed his mate to ease off a bit and brought the cut-off back to 30% as they roared through Acton already doing 60 mph.

“Take it easy, lad. We’ve enough steam to see us through West Drayton, put another round on then. Although this train usually has only nine on, this old girl’s a strong’un, she’ll time us to Reading without you needing to rupture yourself.”

It was straightforward. Daniel coped well enough although he was unused to such a large locomotive at this speed. Peplow watched him like a hawk and fed him a continuous stream of tips, unusual for such a taciturn man. They arrived at Oxford a couple of minutes early and found a loco inspector waiting for them at the platform end. James got ready to argue. It was not necessary.

“Driver, hook off, will you, and run light engine to shed. We’ll need you later in the day to take over a Worcester - London as the crew have indicated that they’ll bale out here.”

“What about this train? Are you terminating it here?”

“No, I’ve a spare Oxford set of men who’ll take it on in fifteen minutes or so. What time did you book on this morning?”

“I was seven o’clock, but my mate’s been on since four.”

“I may not need you for another two or three hours. Is your mate game to work twelve hours?”

James looked at Daniel who grinned and gave the ‘thumbs up’. The driver shrugged and said, “Okay, it seems to be fine with him.”

The shed signal came off and 5008 sidled down to the shed entrance, where an Oxford ‘Modified Hall’ was waiting with steam up, ready to back on to the carriages they had left in the platform. As they came on shed, the local Running Foreman was waiting for them and climbed into the cab. He took a look at the tender full of best Welsh coal, then glanced at the tender water gauge.

“Just fill her up, you don’t need any top up of coal. Then leave her outside the shed, I’ll get someone to turn her and keep an eye on things. Go into the lobby and wait for instructions. I need to check with the station and Control when you’ll be needed.”

As the pair entered the crowded enginemen’s lobby, the hubbub of noise subsided and there was an embarrassing silence. Then, slowly, everyone turned their backs on the London men. Nothing was said to them. There was no need, the silence said it all. Peplow unpacked his sandwiches.

“Dan, haven’t you brought anything to eat?”

“No, I didn’t expect to be booked off shed. I presumed I’d get something at the canteen.”

“That wasn’t a very good idea. You’d have been hasselled by the pickets up there. You’d better have one of mine, “ James said, offering his packet of cheese and pickle sandwiches.

They ate and waited. The other crews in the lobby had carefully removed all the newspapers from their table and they were left isolated. Pointed references were made to the Old Oak dispute in voices loud enough, deliberately, for them to hear.

“Don’t listen, son. Don’t let them rile you.”

Then Peplow turned in on himself, shut his eyes and became as uncommunicative as stone, leaving the young man fidgeting, staring out of the window at the scudding clouds and waiting for something, anything, to happen. He kept yawning, looking at his watch. It was eleven o’clock, then midday, then one o’clock. Still no word of what Control was planning for them. Finally the foreman stuck his head round the door.

“Take 5008 to the station into the Up Engine Holding Siding. The Hereford’s due soon and the Worcester men are refusing to go beyond Oxford. They’ll cut their loco off, then you’re to take over. Reading and a special stop at Slough - the station inspector will give you a Special Stop Order.

James and Daniel got up at once, relieved to absent themselves from the palpable tension in the lobby, and walked across to where 5008 was standing, its face towards London. The driver walked round the engine checking the bearings and topping up the oilboxes, while Dan climbed aboard and began to work on the fire. As James returned to the cab, he saw Dan was looking a little worried. He glanced at the pressure gauge and saw only 160 psi was on the clock. Then he looked at the fire - it looked dull and smoky.

“Better liven things up with the pricker,” he said, “looks as though they’ve let it clinker up.”

Dan manhandled the long iron from its tender slot and began to rake the fire to try to break up the clinker. Meanwhile they ran down to the shed outlet and got the road through the middle line of the station. There they saw a solid phalanx of waiting passengers, for apparently a couple of services to London had already been cancelled. They ran into the engine siding and Peplow immediately took the pricker from his fireman and began to rake the fire with more vigour. Slowly the steam pressure began to rise, 180 psi, 190; then they saw the express entering the Up platform, and soon Worcester’s gleaming 7031 ‘Cromwell’s Castle’ passed them and reversed back onto shed.

As they backed onto the express, James said to Dan, “Don’t worry, we may have more of a struggle this way, but I’ll take it easy. The passengers will be just glad to get there at all.”

More vigorous raking of the fire had managed to get 200 psi on the gauge before the whistles went and 5008 moved the packed train over the gridlocked road below, past the cemetery and on towards Hinksey Yard. It was a struggle. The fire was badly clinkered; clearly it had been left untended for most of the time the engine was on Oxford shed, whether deliberately or not was hard to tell. James had his suspicions, but he said nothing to his fireman. Pressure was down to 160 psi by Goring, so Peplow shut off steam, put the blower on, and let speed dwindle into the fifties as they freewheeled to the Reading stop. The exchange of passengers to and from the packed train was prolonged and enabled James to help the lad get the fire into some sort of shape again, enough to get them to Slough without dropping too much time, when he had another opportunity to revitalise the fire before the final dash to London, when pulling the fire to pieces no longer mattered. They drew into Paddington ten minutes late, filthy dirty, but innumerable passengers came to the cab and thanked them.

“You take a bow, lad, you’ve done the hard work.”

So Dan hung over the cabside and put on his best smile, beaming his ‘panda’ eyes at the grateful customers, while James busied himself cleaning the cab fittings and washing down the accumulated coal dust from the cab floor. When the crowd of passengers finally dispersed, an inspector approached and told them that he had no spare pilot at present to remove the empty coaches, they’d have to back them out of the station to the run-round loop at Ranelagh Bridge, leave them there and go light engine to Old Oak. Dan had now been on well over twelve hours and looked shattered.

“When we get to the carriage sidings, uncouple me, then you can slip over the tracks to Royal Oak station and get the underground. I’ll take 5008 back to shed on my own and book you off. You’re better out of it. There’s bound to be a reception committee at Old Oak, I’ll handle them.”

The lad was relieved to be released in this way and James Peplow and 5008 were now alone. As he moved onto shed, he saw the disposal line, normally with a queue of incoming engines, was empty. He backed 5008 onto the vacant road until the tender was poised under the shute of the coaling stage. He shut the firehole door, ensured the handbrake was firmly on and left his steed to the attention of the fire-dropper. When he got to the lobby to book off, he found the Shedmaster still on duty.

“Come in a moment, Peplow.” James followed the boss into his office, past the empty secretary’s desk for Nellie had already gone home. Doig sat down.

“Thanks, Peplow, for coming in today. I hope that’s the end of it. It’s normal working tomorrow and I’m meeting the LDC in the morning to see if that’s it or whether more action is planned. I see you’re on the Gloucester tomorrow morning. Any problems likely with your regular mate?”

“I’ll turn up and do my duty. The others can do what they like. I guess Pete Ashcroft will work with me. We don’t talk much, we don’t need to.”

“You may find things rough for a time. I’ll try to protect you, but you’ll need to make some compromises. If there’s another day of action, or rather ‘inaction’, I suggest you forget the heroics. I’ve only had a couple of crews willing to work the empty stocks in and out of Paddington, so the terminus is gridlocked, I really can’t do much with you if you come in unless you’re prepared to just cover the empty stock movements.”

“Oh, are you telling me not to report for duty if there’s another strike?”

“I’m not instructing you to do anything. It’s your choice, I’m just advising you for your own good and telling you that even if you come in, I’m doubtful if I could make good use of you. I don’t know what your motives for working are and I don’t want to know, but I’m just reporting how it is. Then it’s up to you.”

James Peplow turned ready to leave the room.

“One final thing. I suggest you leave the depot via the hole in the fence beyond the Factory - the gap trainspotters use to bunk the shed. We’ve had a couple of nasty incidents at the gate and I’ve had to call the police. No need to excite them unnecessarily. But be prepared for a hostile reception tomorrow morning. I suggest you book on early and prepare 5008 yourself - I’m not sure if any of the ‘prep’ men will be willing to do it for you and I don’t want any more disruption with you late off shed, or even having to cancel the Gloucester.”

Peplow went down to the deserted washroom and got the worst of the coal dust begriming his face removed, then took the Shedmaster’s advice and crawled through the wire fence, catching and ripping his denim boiler suit on the jagged edge. Cursing softly to himself, he made his way along the back alley to Willesden Junction station without being spotted by any of the striking men; shrugged his shoulders, went home, filled his bath and had a long soak, as if cleansing himself from all the events of the day.

It was easy that night. Next day was a different prospect. Despite outward appearances, he was extremely nervous. He knew there would be repercussions and they would not be pleasant. He was not a cowardly man, but he anticipated hostile words, possibly even physical violence. On arrival at the depot, before eight o’clock, he was relieved to find the main gate free of any threatening presence and made his way down the slope to the shed. As he was about to cross the first turntable, he spied George Munday walking towards him and thought, ‘now for it’.

“James, a quick word before you book on, please.”

They stepped behind one of the locomotives in the roundhouse out of sight of others passing on the main walkway to the lobby.

“James, you’re a fool. You don’t need the money. Why did you put your neck on the block like this?”

“I don’t know, George. It seemed such a stupid protest. What good will it do? I don’t want to be involved in your politics.”

“We were trying to protect the job of a foolish young man. I don’t know whether we’ll succeed or not, but the Branch voted to try and we all need to act in unison to give ourselves a chance. Nearly everyone else obeyed the call, whatever their private thoughts. Your action made little difference.”

“I don’t care. And young Daniel Simpson needed someone to protect him. He’s too naïve for his own good.”

“You know you’ll face some bad feeling now. The majority have vowed to send you to Coventry. You’ll even find your own mate giving you the cold shoulder.”

“So what? No-one talks to me much anyway and I haven’t got anything to say to them. As long as Pete Ashcroft does his job, we don’t need to talk. 5008 does all the talking. That’s all I need.”

“Well, James, that’s all I have to say. I don’t approve of what you did, but I think sending you to Coventry is childish and if you suffer any violence, let me know and I’ll take it to the governor, I won’t have that from anyone.”

James Peplow walked to the lobby window and reported for duty. As he had been warned, the duty clerk signed him in and then told him he’d have to prepare his own engine as the booked ‘prep’ man had made himself unavailable. James grunted an acknowledgement, noted that every driver or fireman he passed turned their back on him and walked on. ‘So what’, he thought again, ‘I can cope with that. There’s a lot worse than silence.’

Then he found 5008 in the roundhouse and stood back, appalled. Someone had scrawled ‘scab’ in chalk on the smokebox door in a couple of places and, worse, the tender flank was crudely embellished with the same accusation; he immediately ran his hands over the two foot high disfiguration, and found the garish pink paint was still wet. He grabbed some cotton waste and began to swab it, trying to remove the graffiti; all he succeeded in doing was to smear the paint over a wider area. Furious, he mounted the cab and saw with horror and mounting hysteria that his beloved cream painted cab had been vandalised with the same garish paint and that all the key controls - regulator and brake - were still dripping with the pink mess.

He ran back to the lobby and demanded to see the Running Foreman.

“”They’ve vandalised 5008,” he blurted out before the foreman could speak. “I’ll not have that. They can do what they like to me, but vandalism like that is an outrage. I demand you find the culprits.”

“Calm down, driver, I’ll come and look.”

The pair of them inspected the damage.

“You can soon remove the smokebox chalked words and it doesn’t matter about the cab mess - you can soon clean the worst of that up and no-one will notice. But the graffiti on the tender is unacceptable, I don’t want that displayed to the public. I’ll give you another engine. You can take 5052, she’s lit up.”

“I don’t want another engine. I want 5008, my engine.”

“I thought you were complaining about its state.”

“I was, but I’m not changing her. I’ll clean her up as best I can, and if the public see what the idiots have done, that’s their bad luck.”

“I’m not sure the boss will be happy for one of his engines to be seen in public so disfigured. It doesn’t look good. If one of the London bosses sees it, there’ll be trouble…”

“I don’t care. If you want the Gloucester to run, then let me have 5008. You can get someone to see to the tender tonight on my return.”

“Okay driver, if you must. I’ll leave a note for the afternoon shift to paint over the offending words.”

“She’s mine and that’s that. I’m taking her and we’ll be ready to go off shed at the right time.”

“Okay, if that’s your last word. I’ll send Pete Ashcroft to you when he books on. Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all. Leave me to sort out 5008 on my own.”