The Enginemen, Chapter 13/1

Chapter 13: August 1962

It was a sweltering day, near the end of August. The hot spell threatened to end in a violent thunder storm as the air got heavier and heavier. Sweat drenched his shirt and he tipped his straw hat further over his eyes to shield them from the glare. He was sitting uncomfortably on a bench at the Oval watching the third day of the last Test Match against Pakistan. He’d hired one of those green and red backed cushions to give some ease to his aching back and he squirmed uncomfortably as he regretted the visit he’d paid to the prostitute the night before. It had seemed alright at the time, but he had had allowed her to punish him more severely than normal and now he was sore and despite the cushion, the hardness of the seat exacerbated his bruises.

It was late in the afternoon just before the tea break. Pakistan had been forced to follow on that morning after their last four wickets had crumbled and they were all out for 183 only adding eight runs to their overnight score. They had cruised fairly comfortably in their second innings to 178 for 2 wickets and the new fast bowler find, a hefty lad from Northants called Larter, had just taken the second new ball. He got up and stretched and ignored those around him who showed their irritation as he blocked their view in the middle of an over. There was a sudden roar and he thought Imtiaz must have just got to his century when he looked up and saw him leaving the crease, out for 98. He sat down again and waited with anticipation as the next batsman was the diminutive Hanif Mohammad, their star batsman. A couple of fiery balls, a bouncer then another roar, Hanif was gone for a duck, caught by that man Dexter at slip, a guy already gloating over the near double century he’d made in England’s first innings. He couldn’t stand the man. It was quite irrational. But whenever he took an interest in a match, the man seemed to blossom as though he was doing it just to spite him.

Then, in the next over, the other opener, Saeed, was gone after a patient 72. They’d disintegrated to 186 for 5 in just two overs. James had a cheap ticket for the final day in his pocket because it was his Rest Day on Tuesday but he realised that it was wasted - the match would never survive the next day. England would win by an innings - Pakistan still needed 111 runs to make England bat again. It was obvious that the match would be all over by the next day; it might even finish after tea. He got out as the players left the field for tea and queued for a cold drink at a kiosk behind the pavilion. As he stood in line, jostled by two small boys behind him, the familiar figure of Dexter walked by, resplendent in his England blazer, dapper and self-satisfied despite the terrible heat under which everyone else was wilting. The two boys recognised him and dashed after him to get his autograph and he watched the man stop and give them an ingratiating smile and scribble his signature on their scorecards. They returned to the queue and barged in front of him. He was going to protest, then just glowered and said nothing.

After tea the visitors seemed to recover a bit. The game would drag on into the fourth day. His body was now really causing him distress, it was painful to sit on the hard bench despite the leather cushion. He gave up and left early and limped home.

A week later during the last week of August the weather had still not broken. The temperature had stayed in the middle eighties but it had got muggier and muggier, thoroughly unpleasant. Storm clouds had arisen every late afternoon and come to nothing leaving the night sticky and sultry for millions of people trying to get to sleep. James Peplow had booked on at 11pm to pick up his engine that had been prepared for him – he was booked for the 12.45 newspaper train as far as Cardiff where they’d come off ready to return with the Fishguard Boat Train, one of the hardest turns left for steam traction and due for handing over to one of the ‘Hymek’ 1700 horsepower diesel hydraulics at the start of the winter timetable in mid September. 5008 still looked good but she was getting rough now with over 75,000 miles run since her last major overhaul. James had turned down the chance to change her in May and he’d no regrets – she was his. He feared for her future at the timetable change for rumours abounded that both the Wolverhampton turns and the South Wales trains would be fully dieselised leaving just the Worcester and Gloucester services in the hands of steam. Many drivers from Links 3 and 4 had been offered training on diesel traction, but he had refused in the hope that some turns would remain steam and that he could keep his own engine. He had hopes that she would get one more major heavy repair at Swindon as she’d only been fitted with the double chimney in March 1961 and had hardly paid for that investment yet.

He looked askance at the fire which looked black and lifeless. Jim was late, that was unlike the lad. Whatever else he thought about him, he was at least reliable. James decided that he’d better attend to the fire himself and not wait for his mate and had just begun to stir the fire with the fireirons and place a few shovelfuls evenly round the firebox, when the foreman called up to him,

“James, Jim Plunkett’s just rung in. He’s been involved in an accident. A car knocked him off his bike – he’s not badly injured but he’s been taken to hospital for a check up. You’ll have to take a spare man. I’ve no-one from Link 3 or 4, but there’s Don Barnett from Link 5. He’s not used to fast passenger services, he’s in the Fitted Freight link, but he’ll have to do. I’ve got no-one else.”

“Bloody hell, Frank, you know how tough this job is and the row if we’re late with the papers. And we should be off the shed in ten minutes and we’ve only 140 pounds on the gauge at the moment.”

“You’ll have to wait until he’s booked on and I’ve told him to join you.”

“What, f***, are you telling me he hasn’t even booked on yet?”

“I’ll get him down to you as fast as I can. You’ll just have to do your best.”

James swore some more and started attending vigorously to the fire. By the time Don Barnett arrived he’d managed to get the fire looking livelier and had got 180psi on the clock. James didn’t really know this fireman at all and Barnett only knew Peplow by reputation which didn’t fill him with confidence. They passed only a few words and then Peplow told Barnett to operate the turntable and moved ready to go to take water before leaving the shed.

“Ever been to Cardiff before?” queried James as the passed under the Westbourne Park road bridge.

“Yes, but not on a passenger.”

“I want plenty of steam straight away – I’ve no time to build up slowly, we’re going to be at least twenty minutes late away and I’ll have to give her the gun from the word go. Just keep shovelling, lad, we need to be doing 80 on the level and we’ve well over 400 tons with the weight of all those news vans.”

The guard and a couple of newspaper drivers plus the station inspector were waiting for them at the platform end. They’d scarcely coupled up and tested the ‘vacuum’ when whistles blew and the ‘RA’ sign lit up. The gauge was showing 210psi now, nearly good enough.

”Shut off the injector now, let’s get 225 on the clock before you fill the boiler.”

Don Barnett did as he was told and started filling the firebox.

“A thin fire all round the box – it’s good coal but I don’t want no holes forming.”

Already Peplow had the regulator hard over and had hardly wound the cut-off up as they charged through Westbourne Park sparks flying to the firmament.

“Steady on mate, you’ll lose half me f***ing fire at this rate.”

James Peplow ignored the protest and looked anxiously at the pressure gauge as they roared past Old Oak Common already doing a good 60 mph. The pressure was down to 200psi. The fireman increased his rate of firing but missed the firehole door as the engine lurched violently just after Acton station. The shovel clanged against the metal and coal shot over the footplate floor. Peplow looked hard at his fireman, this was bad news. The man was not used to firing a rough engine at this speed. For 5008 was rough, Peplow had to admit it. It swayed and lurched in a sort of corkscrew movement. James was used to it, but his new fireman wasn’t. The steam pressure had dropped to 195 psi by the time they exploded through Southall, now doing 75, and James wound up the cut-off to 17% though he left the regulator opened wide. Don Barnett gradually began to get the feel of the engine’s rhythm and the pressure dropped no further and James looked satisfied at his watch as they howled through Reading waking the sleepless at nearly 80 mph in only 34 minutes from Paddington.

He noticed Don was wilting as they took water on Goring troughs. He had trouble in removing the scoop from the troughs at this speed causing a huge spillage that swamped the first couple of passenger coaches and overflowed flooding the footplate. Peplow swore at the fireman calling him an incompetent idiot and telling him in no uncertain terms to sweep up the mess. By the time order had been restored pressure had fallen to less than 200 again and the water level was low in the gauge-glass needing Don to use both injectors causing the pressure to fall further to 180 psi. At this Peplow was forced to push the regulator back to the first valve and speed began to dwindle so that they were only doing 70 through Didcot and by Challow they were struggling to maintain 60. The pressure began to recover a bit when the boiler was full and the injectors were off so Peplow cracked the regulator back onto the second valve and they went through Swindon at 65 mph.

Now things went from bad to worse. After Wootton Bassett the injector was used again and pressure once more dropped to 180. James tried to keep speed up as they began the long climb to Badminton, but by Hullavington pressure was down to 160 and speed had dropped to just over 50. As green lights winked ahead, Peplow took the shovel from Barnett’s grasp and told him to watch the signals as he began to throw round after round into the firebox, manipulating the plate with the chain between each shovelful to avoid as much cold air as possible from reaching the fire. Seeing pressure beginning to rally, he leaned over and yanked the regulator wide open again and they eventually entered Chipping Sodbury Tunnel at 48 mph having lost most of the time they’d gained as far as Swindon. The tunnel darkness was lit with the cascading sparks and in the light of the glare from the fire, he saw Don Barnett suddenly gasp and clutch the reversing lever to steady himself.

He heard Don yell above the din, “What in God’s name happened then? It felt as though the cab itself was coming adrift.”

“Just a couple of loose rivets,” James shouted back. “Nothing to worry about. Get cracking on the fire again, I’m going to leave steam on down the bank and try to get some time back.”

They tore down through Winterbourne and passed Westerleigh Junction with a full 90 mph showing on the speedometer. Every piece of cab plumbing was now rattling a war dance and Barnett was clinging on to his tip up seat looking petrified. They were almost at Stoke Gifford Yard before Peplow began to brake fiercely for the curve at Filton Junction round which they rocked at an excessive speed, then the regulator was thrust over again and 5008 began to accelerate rapidly causing the coal dust to swirl as they hit the single bore tunnel at Patchway. At least James Peplow had had the foresight to turn the blower on to prevent a blowback in the confines of the narrow tunnel, usually the job of the fireman but Don Barnett was immobile by this stage.
He was now holding on with both hands taut as the old engine bucked and swayed and with a piercing scream on the whistle entered the Severn Tunnel at nearly 90 mph.

In the darkness the reflections of the flashing orange fire danced on the vibrating cab windows as they hurtled onwards, steam still on. Peplow looked mesmerised at the speedometer as the needle crept ever closer to the magic 100 mph mark, but stuck finally at 98 as they hit the beginning of the climb out of the tunnel to the Welsh side of the estuary. When they emerged with the engine roaring, speed still in the upper seventies, a sudden flash of lightning illuminated Peplow’s pocket watch as he stared at it - only five seconds over the three minutes for traversal of the famous tunnel, an unbelievable, nay reckless time. They hit the junction at the top of the incline and the engine shook and jolted violently and the wheels screamed as they just held the iron road.

As they levelled out and began to run more normally past the giant Llanwern steelworks, Barnett just sat there, mouthing “You’re mad, you’re mad. I’m not coming back with you. I’m finished.”

Rain now lashed the cab and peals of thunder were audible above the continuing clanging from the engine. Despite the fact that Barnett had put no coal on the fire since Chipping Sodbury Tunnel, the engine added to the noise by beginning to blow off steam, and they hurtled into the platform at Newport coming to a screeching halt exactly fifteen minutes late. While newspapers were being unloaded, the guard came running up to the engine.

“What the f***ing hell are you up to, driver? I’ve had complaints from passengers and the newspaper loaders about the rough ride and I thought we were off the road at Severn Tunnel Junction. I’ll be reporting this.”

“Get back in your train, mate. I’m trying to recover lost time. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

“You’ll be hearing more about this. You’re a bloody menace.”

Peplow turned his head and ignored the man. Barnett was taking advantage of the stillness to fill the boiler and put further rounds of coal on the fiercely burning fire. When they got the right away they thundered off into Gaer Tunnel and all the way to Cardiff the sky was lit by lightning, forking over the hills to the north. The rain now lashed the engine and Peplow had his head out into the stinging squall as it was almost impossible to see through the cab window to the track and signals ahead. The engine continued to let off steam as if to mock their earlier troubles and they gained another three minutes on schedule romping into Cardiff General station under clear signals. As soon as they drew to a halt Peplow told his fireman to uncouple and they were off to Canton shed before the guard could get to the front with more remonstrations.