The Enginemen, Chapter 17/2

Meanwhile James had retired to nurse his feelings on the footplate of 5008. He really didn’t know what else to do or where to go. So what, if anyone saw him now? He would be shunned by everyone. They’d leave him alone now. What was he going to do with his time? Would he just go to bed and stay there? There was no cricket to watch. Being suspended, would he be banned from entering the depot? He didn’t know so he’d stay with 5008 as long as he could now.

As he sat there, he began to trawl through in his mind all the things that had gone wrong. He admitted to himself that his mother had made his life a misery, had stopped him going out and enjoying life. He could have been different if she’d not constrained him, he argued to himself. He began to blame the new Shedmaster for giving him his own engine, then taking it away just as he’d developed a proper rapport with the machine. It was cruel, the man should have known. And then that fool of a fireman who’d caused the strike and Arthur Campion who’d stirred things up and the sheep who’d followed meekly without questioning and the had the temerity to blame him when he challenged their pusillanimity. And Pete Ashcroft who’d betrayed him by abandoning him for Percy Steer and the stupid incompetent firemen he’d been force to accept ever since; and the cricket selectors preferring that silver-spooned aristocrat Dexter over his hero Peter May, and his next door neighbour who’d become too inquisitive and the ‘Headmistress’ who’d spoiled everything by taking things too far… and… and…

His seething mind invented new grudges. He saw slights now for the first time, shop-keepers who’d laughed at him and his piteous purchases; people on the underground looking at him in a peculiar way when he was nursing his bruises, they must have guessed the reason for his awkwardness; the prostitutes who would make fun of him after he had gone, while putting his pound notes into their grubby pockets; his mates whispering about him when he’d thought they were just talking about the rosters.

And now he had new enemies to fear. Those snide detectives who didn’t believe his story, he knew they didn’t. They let him make his statement, then they produced all those conflicting words from the others making him out to be a liar – they’d tricked him on purpose. And they’d accused him of being a homosexual. How dare they! He wasn’t, of course he wasn’t. It was ridiculous. He’d never had sex with a man. He hadn’t had sex with a woman either, he said to himself bitterly. That was his mother’s fault. She’d put him off.

Eventually he got cold on the engine. The wind had got up and it was bitter, swirling coal dust round the cab. He’d been tempted to stay all afternoon, to see if any trainspotters came through the hole in fence after school, but he wasn’t in the mood. His anger was making him restless. He went home, calling at the off-licence on the walk from the tube station to buy a bottle of brandy. He didn’t know why, he didn’t really like the stuff, but perhaps it would settle his stomach and let him forget for a while. He decided he’d go for a stiff walk to Battersea Park, but he drank a glass of the spirits first and then another and couldn’t be bothered and eventually just fell asleep in the armchair.

He’d woken about nine o’clock and realised he’d not restocked his larder. He’d not eaten since his desultory breakfast and felt woozy from the impact of the alcohol on his empty stomach. The remnant of the bread he’d bought the day before yesterday was stale, but he hadn’t much else so he smeared it liberally with butter and found some fish paste that didn’t look as if it had gone off yet, and made himself a cup of black coffee.

Then, of course, when he went to bed and tried to go to sleep, he found he couldn’t. He found he was crying in self pity and frustration and the events of the day kept coming back in ever increasing threat. Everyone was ganging up on him. He was being punished because he’d dared to go to work when everyone else was on strike. The animosity had been spread around and now everyone was paying him back by blabbing to the police, they’d all been got at, the guards, the inspectors, even the signalman at Honeybourne was in on it. He’d get back at them, he would. He’d make them all pay. He’d show them. At two o’clock his frustration could bear no more. He got up and poured himself a glass of brandy, then another. He slept.

The following day, he got a call from the ASLEF solicitor whom George had contacted. The man came to his house in the afternoon and spent a couple of hours going through with James what had happened. He gave up in the end trying to conceal anything, it was too much of an effort, and admitted they’d been struggling and the fireman had fallen when he’d pushed him away from the regulator and during the struggle the engine controls had been left unaltered so the train was probably accelerating to the speed the guard had said and yes, the engine was rough, very rough, and it was probably foolish to push it so hard down the bank.

He’ll tell me to plead guilty to manslaughter, he thought depressed and numbly. Then, having listened for so long, the solicitor said, “They can prove nothing. They’ve only circumstantial evidence. There are no witnesses. Stick to what you told the police in the Shedmaster’s office - George Munday gave me the gist of it. Don’t let them drag out of you what you’ve just told me now. I’ll accompany you to the police station and you watch me carefully. You are to say nothing to incriminate yourself. Say nothing at all if necessary rather than lie. Just say ‘No comment’.”

After the solicitor had gone, he didn’t know what to do. He went upstairs into his study and rearranged the memorabilia about 5008, his photos and the ‘Trains Illustrated’ article. He polished the already shining numberplate. He went to the corner shop and brought some bread and ham and cheese. He didn’t feel like cooking. He made himself a cup of tea, then another. At lunchtime, he ate a slice of bread and cheese and finished the bottle of brandy. He went to the bank and withdrew £20. He walked back to the off-licence and bought two more bottles of brandy.

He poured himself a glass and sat at his desk and began to make a list of all the people who’d made a mess of his life or had let him down. His father, Alfred, for abandoning him, dying when he was still a child; his mother for never letting him leave home; the Baptist Minister who’d never bothered to take an interest in him after his mother died; Pete Ashcroft, his regular fireman for deserting him, Percy Steele for enticing him away; Keith Mountford, that was his bloody name, the fireman who got arrested in the CND demo and caused the strike; Arthur Campion the fanatic who got the Union to endorse it; that scary taxi driver in Monmouth and the witch in the boarding house, the boy who’d ridiculed him at Raglan Castle and spoiled his day by accusing him of being a pervert; all the drivers and firemen at Old Oak who’d sent him to Coventry, Don Barnett who’d reported him for speeding; the whore who called herself a ‘Headmistress’; Alec Mytton, the guard and inspectors and signalman who done reports about him to the police…

He stared at the list he’d written. Then he went through and crossed out all the ones who were already dead and looked at the list of those who were left:

The Baptist Minister (he couldn’t even remember his name)
Pete Ashcroft
Percy Steele
Keith Mountford
Arthur Campion
The boy at Raglan
Trefusis, the undertaker and taxi driver
Mrs Whatsername, the landlady in Monmouth
Don Barnett
The Headmistress - Madame de Sade as she called herself.
The Paddington Guard - Foster, he thought.
The Oxford platform inspector
The Paddington platform inspector
The Honeybourne signalman
All the drivers and firemen except young Daniel Simpson…
He thought for a while, and added;
… and George Munday

He stared at the list he had compiled. I’ll teach them to laugh at me, he thought. Or not respect me. He pulled the open copy of ‘Trains Illustrated’ towards him and flicked through the pages to the article title. There’s respect, he thought, to be respected by Cecil J. Allen, there’s respect. And the guys who timed me, a pity I don’t know their names.

He left the list lying on the study table and put the corner of the numberplate over its edge to stop it blowing away when he opened the door. He poured himself another glass of brandy and brooded.

He didn’t sleep much that night either until he’d taken another swig of brandy.

Next morning he received two letters. The first one required him to attend the Kennington police station with his lawyer two days hence to answer further questions. The second was from the depot’s Chief Clerk and enclosed a Form 1 charge sheet, signed by the Shedmaster. He went upstairs and added the names of Arthur Higginson and Philip Doig to his list. His solicitor rang him later and asked to meet him in his office a couple of hours before the interview with the police.

He got himself another drink and looked through his record collection. He found the latest recording of Shostakovich - his 5th Symphony. He hadn’t a clue what it meant, but it sounded threatening, tragic, especially the first movement. He’d read that the composer had been criticised by Stalin and that this music was his answer, his defence. He began to see himself as a heroic tragic figure against the world. He listened through the recording, then refilled his glass and put the record back on again at the beginning. He went to sleep. When he woke up, the record was revolving soundlessly.

He had to go out later as he’d run out of food. He bought more bread, some fruit, nothing to cook. He just couldn’t be bothered. That evening he got drunk and woke up half way through the night on the floor. He got himself back to bed and slept until nearly noon, because it was dark and raining and with the curtains closed, it did not seem as though the day had come. He felt sick. He ate nothing but shut himself in his room again and looked at his list. They ought to pay, but how? He tried to think, but was muddled. His brain wouldn’t work. That afternoon he made himself a sandwich, emptied the first bottle of brandy and listened to the record through twice and went to bed.

The next day he remembered he had to go to meet the police. He felt groggy, but thought he’d better try to shave. He hadn’t shaved for three days and his stubble was rough. He cut himself in three places and staunched the blood with cotton wool and plasters. Two wounds were not too conspicuous, on his neck, but the third was on his chin and made him look raffish. His solicitor made him rehearse his lines, he told him to repeat what had happened and kept saying, ‘cut that bit out’, or don’t say that unless they ask you a direct question.’

When they met Cresswell and his side-kick, Buller, James Peplow was subdued, answering the questions in a languid expressionless voice. They tried to rattle him, to get him angry and admit incautiously something damaging to his case, but he was too tired to be angry, even when again they tried to get him to admit being a homosexual. He didn’t even answer and his solicitor scornfully told the detectives to stop making irrelevant personal attacks that were immaterial to the evidence.

The police read him the statements of the inspectors, the guard and the Signalman. Yes, he had been travelling fast down Honeybourne bank, but the speed he was alleged to have reached was not illegal, many trains touched 88 mph and in his opinion, it was not dangerous.
The detective made a note to ask Doig to arrange a test with 4917 and an inspector to assess whether the speed was considered dangerous with that locomotive. And yes, the Honeybourne signalman had probably seen that he still had steam on at the bottom of the bank, but he repeated, if he was going that fast, how could the man be sure what he’d seen on the footplate? And he dismissed the evidence of what the inspectors said they’d overheard as impossible to verify against the noise of the engine blowing off steam - which, James said - it was at both Paddington and Oxford.

Cresswell looked frustrated, but in the end felt obliged to let Peplow go. He just said that if there was new evidence or they thought of more questions needing an answer they’d call for him again. Afterwards his solicitor said he’d done well.

“They can’t charge you with any crime on the evidence they’ve got. But they’re unwilling to let it drop, they’ll try to find other witnesses. For the time being though, I don’t think they’ll be able to make a case against you.”

“Does that mean I can go back to work?”

“You’re still suspended, I understand. I don’t think they’ll lift that until the police write and state formally that they will not charge you. But you’re being paid, aren’t you? Go and relax and enjoy yourself for once. Stop worrying so much. Be a bit more cheerful. You look like death warmed up. Go and get a decent meal and a glass of beer. Life’ll look different then.”