The Long Bustard Narrow Gauge Railway.

This book is dedicated to all those enthusiasts who spend their free time keeping preserved steam narrow-gauge railways running (and the diesel enthusiasts who rescue them regularly).

The Long-Bustard Light
Railway Story.

A Novel by Neil Cairns.
Copyright 2009

Any similarity to any living person, local narrow gauge railways and the fictitious characters in this book is totally coincidental, and I’m sticking to that.

Published by Neil Cairns, a member of the Leighton Buzzard Narrow Gauge Railway.
Visit their website on www.buzzrail.co.uk

The Long-Bustard Light Railway Story.

There are many little preserved railways in Britain. Some are big and successful others not so big and successful. Most are run on a shoe string and maintained by a completely unpaid volunteer staff. The biggest problem to face many of the smaller railways is the ceiling of employing paid staff or staying as a ‘club’ of volunteers.

This is a totally fictitious story of such a narrow gauge railway. Those who work on the real Leighton Buzzard Light Railway will obviously see things they recognise, but no character in this story is based on any one person. It is a bit of fun so enjoy it.

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Chapter One.
Bad News.

‘Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr’ went the ancient alarm clock on the dresser. The nearest body in the double-bed adjacent pulled the covers over its head in an attempt to ignore it. The alarm continued. It had been strategically placed far enough away from the bed so as to force one of the bed’s occupants to have to get up to switch it off. The body did so, reluctantly. Then it yawned and stretched its arms. It was 6.30am and time to go to work. The other body in the bed remained motionless snoring softly.

The body’s name is Martin and once up he then showered and dressed. But what he dressed in would have raised the eyebrows of the average computer key-board puncher in the 21st century. Martin was supposed to be retired but here he was getting ready for work. First his thermal vest and legging went on, followed by a shirt and thick jeans, then two pullovers finished off with a thick woolly jumper that was none too clean. It was covered in coal dust and oil. The jumper was not actually donned until Martin was outside the house as it lived in the garage. His wife forbade the thing entering the house because it stank of old oil. He packed a lunch of some cheese sandwiches and a flask of tea, unlocked the little old Peugeot car he had and set off the five miles to work, in the dark. It would not be light for another hour and a half yet on this cold and clear early Autumn Sunday.

About ten miles in the other direction another alarm had gone off. This time it was a modern clock-radio that buzzed. The bed’s occupant was already up and washing. The ex-occupant of the bed was Dave who worked at the same place as Martin, they were part of a three-man-team. Dave was in his late forties, unemployed, single and like many in the current economy was having problems trying to find a decent job. But this was a Sunday and he was off to do a job he thoroughly enjoyed all for nothing. He did not get paid a penny. It was very hard, back-breaking work but he had the long experience of Martin to assist him. After putting on a dirty pair of old overalls over his layers of clothing he too prepared his lunch box and was soon driving his old Landrover en-route to work.

In a house in the town where Martin and Dave were heading, and where they worked on Sundays, some Saturdays and odd weekdays, another body was also dragging itself from the warm sheets. This was Keith who had only recently joined the team and was a new member of the ‘Long Bustard Narrow Gauge Railway Society’. Keith had recently retired and after a long search had found something to keep him busy, very busy. He was soon up and ready for work and with his lunch and new overalls in a plastic bag was cycling to work, again in the dark. Luckily he could use the town’s new cycle-paths for most of the way so keeping off the busy narrow roads of this old market town that had been designed for horses and carts. This early most motorists were still half-asleep as they aimed their cars along the crowded roads and being run down by one is no fun at all, even though one is wearing a ‘hi-viz’ coat and with flashing cycle lights. As he passed the paper shop he popped in for a litre of milk as instructed by Martin the day previous. This was Keith’s first day on the staff. He had read the rulebook, a vital source of information about running any railway. Martin had telephoned him to ensure he was aware of all the things he needed to know. The first rule was, if in doubt, ask. The first to arrive at the little ramshackle railway station on the edge of the town was Martin, with Dave arriving a few minutes later announced by a grinding creak of the old Landrover’s brakes. He slammed the driver’s door shut and it echoed around the dark, empty car park.

“ Good morning young man’” Dave said to Martin, which was a bit ironic as Martin could give Dave a good twenty years. Their warm breath could be seen floating in the cold air.

“ Hello Dave,” replied the much older Martin, “hope that old mind of yours can remember the code for that padlock,” he teased.

They unlocked the big steel-tube gate to the staff car park that used a lock that did not require a key, just the need to remember a four-figure number for its combination. This saved the Society money by not having to get about one hundred keys cut for all the regular volunteers who worked there at some time or another. It also saved not having to replace those keys people would certainly lose. Neither of them went to the station building, they walked round past it and along platform two to the Engine and Carriage Shed. That title sounds very posh when in fact the ‘shed’ consisted of lots of second-hand wooden beams for its frame, and many sheets of very rusty corrugated galvanised sheet steel (often incorrectly called corrugated iron). The corrugated sheets seemed to be held to the wooden beams by very few nails, lots of good luck and cobwebs as they rattled badly when the wind blew. This had all been re-cycled from the original buildings of the old industrial railway line which had closed back in the late 1960s. It was quite a big shed now, having been enlarged no less than six times over the life of the Society which first saw light in 1968. The ‘shed’ had an alarm system and good quality locks on all its doors and only stood up because of the numbers of ‘lean-too’ additions to each side. The contents of that shed were very valuable consisting of two large and one small diesel locomotives, eight passenger bogy-carriages built by members, four steam locomotives and a fully equipped workshop. Another large number of diesel and a few steam locos were stored the other end of the line three miles away ‘awaiting restoration’. This was an euphemism for lots of rusty bits wrapped up under tarpaulins parked along worn-out sidings hidden in the undergrowth.

After opening up and looking for the kettle (the lunch boxes were for use during the day once they were out) Keith had arrived on his cycle which he drew into the shed for safe-keeping. The station may be on the edge of the town, but not so far from local housing estates into which a loose cycle would soon disappear. Unfortunately because the station was on the edge of one of the towns open parks, there were no fences to keep anyone out. Vandalism and the odd theft were inevitable.

“ Mornin’ troops,” said Keith as he caught up with the other two in the shed, “I suppose you both want tea?” They both replied they did with milk and two sugars.

It was now 7am and just getting light. Martin the engine driver, Dave a fireman and Keith a cleaner set about preparing the day’s steam engine ready for use. From the engine roster sheet Martin found it was to be No4 today. It was important to rotate the use of locomotives so as to keep engine crews up to date with them all and to even out wear. The Society always had one engine away being rebuilt, which took about four or five years. There would be one engine in steam as only four return journeys were planned. It was not a bank holiday or special event weekend where two or even three engines might then be in steam. The big diesels were there to rescue any steam engine that got into trouble and run passenger trains out of season. The small diesels worked hard shunting and pulling the various engineering trains needed to maintain the permanent way. No4 was an ‘ 0-6-0’ steam engine fitted with twin air brakes (six driving wheels, no front or rear bogey wheels), one being the ‘train-brake’ the other the ‘emergency brake’ that operated the carriage brakes as well. All passenger carriages were braked with the same dual system as the ‘Long Bustard Light Railway Co. Ltd.’ carried fare-paying passengers, the general public. This little 2ft narrow gauge railway had to obey the same strict rules as any main-line company and was inspected annually by the very same inspectors and to also carry public liability insurance in case of injury. This was not cheap.

It was the ‘LBR Society’ who supplied the volunteer members to run the ‘LB Light Railway’, a ‘Limited Company’. The society was the club and the company the railway.

Once unlocked one set of the three big shed doors were opened, having been padlocked from the inside and No4 was to be moved outside to light up its fire. To do so inside the shed just covered everything in soot. Four tonnes of steel on steel rails is not that hard to move if you can use a small diesel loco. Dave set about finding some dry kindling wood to start the fire in No4’s firebox. They needed to boil up 70 gallons of cold water before 9am and get the boiler up to 120 psi (pounds per square inch steam pressure). All three wore heavy steel-capped boots and strong working gloves as cold steel is very hard on the hands. Martin started up the little diesel loco and connected it up to No4 to pull it outside. The rules state that every time any locomotive is to move it must sound its whistle or horn. One blast means it is to go forward, two blasts to go rearward. The reason this is done is because around any engine shed there will be lots of staff, not all aware of a loco about to move. The horn or whistle is for safety. Moving heavy locos on rails causes a lot of mechanical clonks and clanks. It was as Martin pulled No4 out that an upstairs window of a nearby house flew open.

“ What the ruddy hell do you lot think you are doing? Why are you trying to wake up the whole bloody town? Keep the noise down you tosser,” yelled a man in his pyjamas from the window.

Dave, who never missed a trick yelled back, “ Why did you buy a house next to a railway shunting yard by an engine shed if you wanted a quiet life?”

“ Don’t you talk rot to me mate or I will come round there and sort you out,” was the reply.

“Careful Dave,” cautioned Martin who could see things might get a bit hot.

“ He is a pratt, anyone can see that. He’s had too many jugs of beer last night and now has a hangover,” Dave said to Martin, and then louder to the man in the window, “Any decent person would be out at work by this time.” He had forgotten it was a Sunday. This was too much for our complainer as the window was slammed shut and a downstairs light came on.

Assuming that the chap had gone back to bed having not seen the downstairs light due to the yards fence hiding it, the loco team went back to their work. The first train was at 10am so Martin set about oiling up the engine’s many links, rods, pins and levers and Keith the cleaner began to polish up the brasswork and blue paintwork having already made a pot of hot tea for them all. He would be filthy by the time he had cleaned all the running gear and frames as well and was really enjoying this hands-on hobby. They chatted about the weather, local politics and steam engines as you would expect as their tasks gave them that ‘steam engine crew’ tan of pure coal dust and sweat. Dave then set about filling up the little engine’s coal bunker making more noise. It would also need water before the day’s work but the water tower was on platform two. That would have to wait until they had marshalled the carriages into the platform.

It was about fifteen minutes later when a very irate man arrived having had to walk nearly a mile to get round to the shed. It was our man from the window. He seemed unaware he was trespassing when he walked through the open shed to where the three were working on No4. They all jumped when he bellowed at them.

“ Just who do you three think you are? I have every bloody right to a good nights sleep,” he began full of bravado. All three loco crew got a whiff of what was definitely beery breath and the bloodshot eyes confirmed their suspicions about a hangover. It was possible that when sober the fellow may have been quite reasonable but just now he seemed to be out for blood. His fists were clenched down each side as if ready to fight.

It was Martin who took control. “ Now look here Sir, we have been running this steam railway for nearly forty years, the previous industrial line was here for fifty years before that. This has always been a noisy area and your solicitor should have told you that when you purchased your house. How long have you been there?”

“What? Eh? Well, about three weeks I think,” he replied stepping back a little from Martins careful advance towards him. The use of ‘Sir’ and the move towards the intruder was the language to take control of the situation.

“ Get back home and phone your solicitor, give him a hard time over this, not us,” continued Martin. The three loco crew were now standing in a line in front of the chap and when he weighed up the odds he decided they were bigger than he. So he turned tail and left. Alas, as he left the shed he took a swing and kicked Keith’s bicycle, damaging some spokes in the front wheel. This would not be found until late afternoon.

“That was close. Do you often get this sort of thing here? It ruins the idea of volunteering a bit I think,” said Keith.

“No, that’s the first time I’ve ever had a complaint this early. He has a hangover and money problems I bet. His girlfriend probably left him last night and today he is making everyone else suffer. I hope he does get onto his solicitor,” Martin told Keith. Dave just grinned, he enjoyed a good argument and would never make a good PR officer.

By 8am it was getting nice and light and the huge ’kettle’ they called No4 was beginning to sing as Dave nursed its fire so that it was a miniature furnace. The word ‘kettle’ was a derogatory term train staff used for a steam engine and the singing of the heating of 70 gallons of water meant it was well on the way to boiling. Dave by now had a raging fire going with enough steam pressure to be able to put the ‘blower’ on to draw more air through the boiler and up the tall chimney. This pulled more air through the firebox and ‘drew’ the fire up faster making it even hotter. The ‘blower’ is just a pipe poking up the chimney and blowing steam. The oiling up was nearly finished apart from underneath and Martin was waiting to be able to move No4 over the pit so he could get under it to oil the linkages there. Being a typical British-built locomotive the valve gear was hidden underneath between the huge frames to make the design look tidy. Unlike American and European steam locomotives of 100 years ago that have their workings all exposed and easy to reach, No4 had bits hidden all over it that required constant lubrication. The last thing a UK designer did then was to think of the driver, it only mattered that the engine looked good hence all the hidden valve gear. The observant will have noticed that an engine driver is often seen to be oiling bits of his engine whenever he gets an opportunity; some are even seen doing it with the engine in motion, walking along side plates to get access.

08.30am arrived and the ‘thump-thump-thump’ sound of an old single-cylinder motorcycle could be heard approaching. Then the sound of the station building’s alarm system was heard to be un-set. It was the arrival of the guard who was going to the ticket office to collect the day’s orders. He needed to know how many pre-booked parties there were and what trains they would be on and if there were any wheel-chair passengers. He was also required by the rules to check the current operating orders for any speed restrictions or other important things kept in the station office. Martin was supposed to read the same orders, but his prerogative was to get the engine ready first then read them. The guard’s name was Pete who was also another grey-haired retired chap and whose wife Mary assisted in running the LBLR shop in the station building.

“That sounded like Pete arriving,” Dave said, “ I have an idea to wind him up. I’ll get a little old oil and pour it on the ground under his old motorbike.”

“You sod Dave,” commented Martin. “ The last time you did that he took it to bits over the weekend to try to find the leak. He keeps that ancient machine in lovely condition as well.”

“Kept him quiet though didn’t it?” Dave said grinning as he went off to the oil store picking up an old plastic milk bottle from a nearby dustbin as he passed it.

As Dave disappeared into the gloom of the shed Pete walked out from between some carriages. “ Hello you lot,” he said, ” looks like it might be a nice day. Let’s hope we get a few passengers as this year’s figures are non-too good so far.”

Martin and Keith grunted a reply as they sipped their second cup of tea of the day. Unlike the engine crew Pete was wearing a smart uniform of black waist-coat and jacket with matching trousers. He had a LBLR tie on and perched on his head was an old peaked cap with a red band at its edge. This matched the red tie and the red carriages. The cap had a big brass badge at the front of the initials ‘LBLR’. Under the badge and repeated on his jacket lapel was a ‘GUARD’ badge. Around his neck was a red tape with an ‘Acne Thunderer’ whistle on it, as used by all guards for eons. The rule book stated guards must be smart at all times to impress the public. On the LBLR they were indeed all smart. They all wore uniforms of a type but no two were the same. Most of Pete’s came off a charity shop rack but it still looked good; one had to supply one’s own clothes as the railway was far too poor to be able to do so. Once Pete had completed the sheet he required for the days running by adding the names of the crew to it then the date, he helped himself to a cup of tea. Martin ran the loco over the pit and then disappeared under it to oil up. He had placed a large notice in the cab that said, ‘Do not move loco, man underneath.’ Over the centuries of steam locomotion quite a few drivers had been killed by their engines being moved, whilst they were working underneath them.

“Where’s your assistant then?” enquired Dave of Pete who was holding an empty, oil stained plastic milk bottle behind his back. Out in the car park an elderly motorcycle had suddenly spouted a large pool of black oil beneath it.

“Probably just getting up is my guess. You know what teenagers are like especially at weekends,” Pete replied. This was a bit unfair as today’s ‘Assistant Guard’ was Robert known simply as Rob. He was in his late teens and had to walk in as he had no transport. He was still at college studying to be a Blacksmith. This information had made Pete raise his eyebrows in amazement. He was one of the first to condemn the current system of not teaching old skills and was pleased they appeared to now be returning. Rob had ears just like Prince Charles, a pair of taxi doors and was a very retiring character.

“Why do we need five people to run this train?” asked Keith. He was new and not fully up to speed with the system.

“Because we cross five roads all of which have to be flagged. That is the cleaner, you, and the assistant guard, Rob, have to get off the train and wave red flags at puzzled motorists so they stop before they hit us as we cross these roads. It all comes from the original industrial trains who have been flagging the roads since 1919 when it first began,” explained Martin. “ There are no crossing barriers because we are not a main line hence we still use flags. There is nothing in the current Highway Code for car drivers about this. ”

Pete continued, “ The engine driver cannot do it and the fireman needs to keep up the steam, the guard has to be at the rear in case the emergency brake is required so you two do the flagging.”

“So who did it before 1968 when the trains were industrial?” asked Keith.

“Well, then boys who had just left school began their career in the industry as ‘flag-boys’ at just 13 years old. Today we are not permitted to use anyone under 16 years, and even then the other flagger must be over 18,” finished Martin, “ by the orders of the ‘Elf & Ban It Brigade.’”

“Enough chatting,” said Pete, “ it’s time we got these carriages out, did the brake checks and then back the lot into the platform. The Duty Manager will be here soon and we must look as if we are efficient even if we do have Dave on the team.”

“Bollocks,” was Dave’s muffled reply as he bent down on the tiny footplate to check his fire.

The team then set about shunting the loco about so as to back up on the three coaches it would be pulling today. The coaches were on a different ‘road’ (rail track) in the shed so all the three sets of doors were now opened for access and extra light. Each door had its own track into the shed, each having a name such as ‘road one’, ‘road two’ and ‘road three’. Roads ‘one’ and ‘three’ had coaches on, the centre ‘road two’ had the locos. Once the little steam loco began to move about, the need for the layers of clothing soon became apparent. Running forwards was alright as the cab front kept the cold wind off them. But running backwards was very cold work indeed, even with a roaring fire under the boiler. There was no back to the tiny cab, just a small coal-bunker. Once the loco and the carriages became a ‘train’ and all the brake pipes and couplings were connected and checked, it was time to do a full train-brake and emergency-brake check. For this the driver would follow the instructions of the guard, who himself would be observed by the assistant guard. No leaks were found and all brake blocks worked fully so the train was shunted into platform one. Again, to do this manoeuvre it took the whole crew. Keith was sent to work the points frame that operated the bits that moved so the train could change lines. Martin drove the loco and watched Keith whilst Rob was in the guards van to operate the van’s brake if needed. Pete as the Guard was in overall control as he walked alongside the train signalling to both Martin and Keith. Dave kept his fire going and steam pressure up.

The carriages came to a gentle halt at the platform, having been reversed in. The station was a dead-end and the loco needs to be at the front. No4 had also been placed neatly under the water tank so its own tanks could be filled ready for the days work. Small narrow gauge engines such as No4 were designed for shunting in goods yards and small industrial areas. They did not carry very much coal or water and the three mile run to the other end of the line may not seem far, but it could be hard work when full of passengers in three big coaches. This meant coaling up and re-filling with water was a constant chore, as was oiling the engines working parts.

It was now 09.30am and the train was in the station ready to accept passengers. It was also the time that the station staff normally arrived, though many had come earlier. There was the station shop to be manned along with the tiny ticket office. In overall charge each day there was an allocated Duty Manger. Today’s DM was Ann. From the Societies trained staff a certain number were asked to take up the DM duties. They had to be experienced staff as they would have to deal with anything and everything that arose during the day’s trains operated. This could include minor things like authorising ticket refunds for parties who had paid for ten but only arrived with nine people to sorting out trains that had collided with cars at road crossings to tractors that fouled the line at field gates. Two thirds of the line was in open countryside running alongside a ‘B’ class road. Ann had been a member from childhood, her father still worked in the shed workshops as a volunteer, being a valuable and rare fitter and turner though now retired. Now in her forties and amongst other things a qualified diesel driver so she knew the ‘rule book’ well. As well as some onerous duties Ann had to open up the public toilets, put out the signs that the railway was open, and issue the lines ‘tokens’. Tokens were the safeguard that stopped two trains being on the same bit of line. If you had the token you could go on it, but no token and you could not. This stopped trains possibly running into each other. The line was divided in half, one token to each bit. Trains could cross past each other at Longtown Loop, which was the half-way point. As the line was in two halves, it was possible to run two trains. Ann also had to check that each and every post required to operate was in fact staffed. As the train crew were all there, it just required four more staff to arrive.

At 09.35am Maria and John walked in, they only lived across the park so it was not far to come. Maria was the cashier for that day and would run the ticket office and issue the various floats. John was the shop manager; they were another husband and wife team.

‘Hello, hope you two are ready for a busy day,” Ann said to the couple.

John replied, “ It had better warm up then, a bit of sun would help to get them out in their cars to come and see us,” Maria smiled back.

Maria busied herself opening up the safe and ticket office whilst John sorted out the shop and plugged in the kettle. Ann took the token from the general office and picked up Saturday’s mail from under the letterbox. She handed the mail to Maria and took two short-wave radios from the safe. This radio was in contact with the loco crew and for emergencies only; one for her and one for Martin. Then she walked to the waiting train standing in the platform to speak to the crew.

“ All OK then?” she asked Pete.

“ Yup, no problems so far. The engine crew had a bit of fun with a local resident early on though,” replied Pete.

“ What was that then?” Ann asked Martin.

“We woke him up too early it seems. He had a hangover and blamed it on us. He went back to bed later so nothing to worry about,” Martin explained.

Passengers were now arriving for the 10am train, Ann having opened up the public’s car park on her arrival. It was now filling up with excited children, grandparents, aunts, uncles and harassed parents.

“ Mum, Mum, look, it’s a real steam engine,” and other excited comments were being made by children, many of whom had never seen or been near one before. They had only seen them on their televisions.

It became very busy for the next twenty minutes as Rob clipped tickets and Pete seated the passengers. Large pushchairs could not be accommodated as the carriages were narrow, one mother was put out by this.

“ I did phone up and ask if you took buggy’s. The man said you did,” the lady complained to Rob. Rob just smiled and clipped her ticket.

“I would have thought the ‘narrow gauge’ bit in our name would be a hint,” commented Dave, “some of these so called fold-up buggies are enormous.” Luckily the mother did not hear this comment. The big buggy was left in the shop until the train returned. As was usual on the first train on Sundays when the LBLR was operating the Reverend Wilberforce Pontefract was sitting in the front carriage with his wife. They were both well into their eighties and enjoying life and loved the smell of a steam engine.

Once Maria had sold the last ticket, she closed the ticket office, collected her little ‘lollipop’ and walked out onto platform one. She waved the lollipop at Pete the guard, who was waiting with a green flag in one hand and his whistle in the other. Rob had shut all the doors and had let the van brake off ready to go. Once the lollipop was waved (just like French station masters once did) the whistle was blown and the green flag waved. Martin opened No4’s regulator to let full steam pressure into the two cylinders, and the train moved off in clouds of steam and loud chuffs. To leave platform one No4 had to climb a hilly bit, called a gradient so she needed all the speed she could muster. Because of the cold day the steam turned to masses of water vapour and engulfed the carriages as No4 worked hard pulling its train up the gradient. Ann waited to see it disappear round the far bend then she walked back into the station.

“ Jan and Ted have arrived and are over in the Café,” John told Ann as she walked into the shop. The Café was not a popular volunteer job, it was very hard work for little thanks so people took turns at it. A current ‘Food Health Certificate’ was required to work in there and prepare food. Everyone wanted to be the engine driver but no one gave a thought to the tea boy. Just then Maria put her head out of the ticket office.

“ Ann, you had better come and read this letter.”

Maria gave Ann a letter on very posh paper with an embossed heading. The heading was that of a big solicitors from the city. As Ann read it she went white.

“Oh my God,” she mumbled. “ This is a letter from the solicitors of the development company who own the land this station is on. We have one month to get off as they are to build on it. It’s a Notice to Quit the Land!” Once the land had belonged to the quarry who also owned the railway. The quarry company had been bought out by a development company once the quarry was abandoned but no one had thought to legally separate the now popular tourist attraction from the ‘brown site’.

John and Maria stared at her with open mouths. Just then the telephone went and Mary answered it. After listening to the caller she passed the handset over to Ann.

“ Long Bustard Light Railway, Duty Manager (DM) speaking. How can I help you,” she said.

The caller said, “ Hello, this is Smith, Smith and Jones Solicitors. We have had a complaint from one of our clients who purchased a house near your shunting yards. He is complaining about excessive noise.”

Ann then sat down and said, “ What on earth will the General Manager say about all this, it cannot get any worse can it?”

“ Where is he?” asked Maria.

“He is driving the train today,” replied Ann.

*********

Chapter Two.
The Problems Multiply.

The bad news about the railway being told to get off development land was totally unexpected. The LBLR knew that the old quarry next to the station was eventually to be used as brown field development but assumed the land the station stood on would be classed as amenity land. Alas, the local council planning department had included the station, the shed and the line for about 200 yards as part of this quarry. The development company wanted it all to build new houses on. The next day found the LBLR Executive Committee (EC) at a meeting sitting round a little Formica table in the Café that today was doubling up as the boardroom.

“ I have the letter from ‘Graham Green Aggregates’ here in front of me. They were the firm who worked the quarry out and who originally ran this railway. It was a local family firm then but has been taken over a number of times by bigger and bigger concerns. They go by the name of ‘Graham Green Developments’ now. This original letter gives us permission to use the railway, it was drawn up when it closed in 1968,” Martin explained to the committee. This is the same Martin the engine driver. The secretary sitting next to him was Ann the duty DM. She was also the company secretary. Virtually everyone wore two, three or even four hats within the LBLR Co. Ltd.

Martin continued to the four committee members seated around the little table in the café, “From this letter we gained a lease on the land. That ran out a year ago but we just assumed it would be renewed as a matter of course so left it to the County Council legal bods to sort out. As I said, the land the station and sheds stand on was part of the old quarry. GGD applied to fill in the quarry and then build 4500 houses on it only last week. To be able to get that many houses on we had to go. The County Council planners took the quarry dimensions from their old drawings but no one visited this site. They drew a line around the quarry area and told GGD that was the area for development. In this we were not included as someone who needed to be seen, and as the planning committee gave the application the green light we are now in serious trouble. It is the Council’s fault.”

“ Ruddy hell, what did they think they were doing?” Pete asked, “Surely the fact the railway has been here since 1919 and we as a tourist attraction, a registered industrial museum and a Limited Company since 1968 must have some bearing on the matter?”

John, the fourth member of the Executive Committee then spoke up, “Our solicitors said they had been trying to negotiate a new lease, but were currently only getting six-month emergency leases from the other side. They say GGD just will not talk to us. I think they consider us a small nuisance and want to get rid of us as soon as possible.”

“Anyway,” Martin continued, “ the local media has got hold of the story and the BBC ‘Look East’ TV crew are due here soon. I doubt that GGD thought their actions to move us off this site would raise so much interest. There is also another matter that needs our attention, carry on Ann.”

Ann then added, “On that Sunday I was the DM and some solicitors have tried to stop us operating in the early hours of Sunday mornings. It seems we awoke their client at 07.30am. He was abusive to our loco crew and possibly damaged Keith’s cycle. Our solicitors say it will not be difficult to fight off this application as we were here long before the complainant. He should have noticed a great big engine shed and lots of rails when he purchased his house.”

“ Heavens, it never rains but it pours,” mumbled Pete.

“If I might point out something,” John cut in, “ the local CofE church has had to curtail its clock chimes between the hours of 11pm and 7am due to complaints from people staying at the Swan Hotel in the High Street. They do not even live here and the church has been there since the thirteenth century, over 800 years. That makes a mockery of the ‘we were here first’ idea I think.”

The talk about the various problems that were beginning to raise their heads for this little railway continued in the Café. The Café building was an old temporary school classroom obtained free of charge some twenty years previously, having been condemned by the County Council Education Department. The LBLR had had to dismantle it, transport it and re-erect it at the station themselves. It was now decidedly tatty and beginning to disintegrate, the idea being twenty years ago that by now it would have been replaced with a nice new building. The simple fact that as the LBLR had no secure tenure on the land the station stood on and with only six-month emergency leases being given, no one was about to give a loan or a grant to build anything. John had been the committees planning officer for some time and knew well what it was like to bang his head against a brick wall when applying for money from the National Lottery.

“If we get the boot from the land here, can we still operate from the land we do have long leases on?” asked Martin of John.

“The trouble is, we only have access to the trackbed itself, which is twelve feet wide for the whole three mile length, apart from Longtown Loop where the trains pass each other. The other end is the Industrial Museum and again space is limited and there is no public car parking permitted there as part of the planning permission. I can only suggest we change our name to ‘The Gay and Lesbian Light Railway’ and we will then be sure to get lottery funds,” John said, not without some truth in his last comment.

“We can only await the result of the Town Council’s meeting with GGD which is running con-current with this meeting,” Martin concluded. “Come on, it is now time to go home.”

With that the four committee members slid their chairs under the little Formica topped table, switched off the lights and setting the alarm locked the door of the Café on their way out.

**********

There were some very smart expensive cars parked outside the head offices of the Graham Green Developments building. The firm had grown from a tiny local aggregate company begun by one George Graham back in 1860 to what was now a division of a massive international company that purchased land to rent out. The land was leased to firms who took the minerals from the area and having exhausted it, filled in the hole and gave it back to GGD. GGD then took advantage of the need for more houses and applied for ‘brown field development’. They had a reputation of getting more houses on to an acre than any other firm. They would use inducements to get local planning officers to approve their plans. The tall block of offices that was ablaze with lights in every room shone out over the midland town they were based in. Currently they had about fifty quarries being excavated and another forty awaiting digging. The exhausted ones up for re-development numbered thirty and all had outline planning applications lodged with the relevant council. The current Government loved the firm as it helped meet the housing targets it issued. In the oak-panelled directors office on the top floor the Boss was getting ready to go out.

“ So how are we doing with our targets on new houses this month?” a large well-padded middle-aged man asked his younger lackey. The lackey wore a suit that was too big for him, and his pale complexion told of a poor diet. He was a little round shouldered and only had one tooth in his top set. He smiled evilly with a sneer as he watched his boss with bright staring, light-grey eyes. They stood at opposite ends of the directors meeting table, it had such a deep shine their reflections looked almost real as if in a pool of deep dark water. The office was furnished with good quality, reproduction Adam style Chippendale.

“ Well Sir, we have had success with some, three planning permissions have been approved and you are to attend a meeting with the town council of one of them tonight,” the lackey told his master.

“A meeting? With which town is this meeting?” he asked.

“ A place called Long Bustard,” was the reply.

“ Long Bustard, where the hell is that? I have never heard of it,” the boss stated.

The lackey continued, “ It is actually where the company name comes from Sir. A chap called George Graham was our founder remember? There is one little thing I ought to tell you about though first.”

“ Go ahead man. George Graham eh! What is the little thing I need to know then?” the boss asked.

“ Well, the old quarry there has been given the go ahead for us to put houses in it, but the edge of it has a little railway where some enthusiasts run little steam trains on it,” explained our lackey. He continued, “ We have had our solicitors serve a notice on them to quit the land within the next month Sir.”

“ What, old men playing at trains. They can bloody well get off our land now and play trains somewhere else. This country needs more houses, not to mention this company needing more profits from the sale of those same houses. We are not a ruddy charity you know Bill. We are a multi-million-pound international company.” With that the boss picked up his phone and curtly ordered for his car to be at the front door to take him to the meeting with the Long Bustard Town Council. He then walked out of the office and as he passed his lackey, the servile man bowed his head in respect. The big cigar that the Boss was smoking had a long bit of ash on it, so he flicked his forefinger causing the ash to fall onto the lackey’s smoothed back, greasy hair as he passed him.

***********

At the same time as the shiny, chauffeur driven Rolls Royce of the Big Boss of GGD was pulling up at the steps at the front door of the head offices of the company some thirty miles away, the Long Bustard Town Council were beginning to arrive at the Council Offices.

“ Evening everyone,” the Mayor said as he entered the council chamber.

“ Hi there your honour,” replied the secretary, “I have heard via the grapevine that this boss of GGD often hands out incentives to agreeable councils.”

“Such as?” asked the Mayor. The other council members who had already arrived all leaned forward with interest to hear the reply from the secretary. There might be something interesting for them.

“ They built a new community centre for one town at no expense to the rate payers. At another they paid for a round-a-bout at the new estate entrance along with three pedestrian crossing,” the secretary told them all. “ Hope he offers us something similar.” The other council members pulled back, this was not quite the inducements they had been hoping for.

“ Well, now that Town councils have no more powers than the old Parish councils with equivalent tiny budgets, anything on offer is better than nowt,” the Mayor stated.

The council then settled down to deal with a few local matters for an hour and this was the time it took for the shiny Rolls Royce to whisk the Big Boss down the motorway to Long Bustard. By the time the chauffeur had found the town and then the council offices another half hour had passed. As the big car pulled up outside the council building the Mayor walked forward to greet their guest, his hand held forward ready to shake hands.

“ What a bloody awful place to find. Why did they need to hide this town? You have no main roads here, why not?” was the first thing the Big Boss asked bluntly ignoring the proffered Mayor’s hand.

The Mayor was taken aback a little at this outburst, but replied politely, “We had the canal first, then the London to Birmingham Railway, so we are on two national routes. Alas the Romans thought it better to by-pass us with their Watling Street. Do come in Sir, into the warm and have some refreshments,” the Mayor crooned. Just as the Mayor began to walk up the steps into the Council Offices, it began to rain. The secretary then ran forwards with an umbrella but unfortunately as she unfurled it she almost rammed it up the Mayor’s nose. The Mayor ducked back to avoid the steel tip of the umbrella that was about to impale him and in doing so almost knocked the Boss base over apex.

“I’m sorry Sir,” he stuttered but luckily they managed to gain both their balances by grabbing each other before entering the Council Chambers. The Boss did not look a happy man.

As is usual in such places an awful lot of rhubarb was spoken in long pointless speeches and the Mayor ingratiated himself with their guest. The town needed a bit of investment though not necessarily more housing estates by developers who disappeared as soon as the last brick was laid. They still had one estate where the County Council had refused to accept the roads simply because they were not finished. The speeches droned on and on and eventually the Boss got up to speak.

“ Gentlemen, I am very pleased to be able to tell you that our company is to build a very high class development in the old quarry by the park. It will require filling in first and we can use the ‘overburden’ from the new quarry we are to open next to it, further out of town. There is about forty feet of clay to remove first. This will make an excellent base for the new houses. I project we will be building the first house in about eighteen months,” he proudly told them.

There was a gasp from the assembly. Then one councillor stood up and asked, “ Only eighteen months, surely the land must be left to settle for five years at least before you can build anything on it?” he asked.

“Not today with current advances in the construction industry. We roll each layer with heavy rollers and put the houses onto reinforced concrete ‘rafts’ for foundations. I am very pleased to be able to also offer you a valuable carrot. The new houses will need community rooms and we will build them for you at no extra cost,” the Boss said smiling.

The same councillor then asked, “ Could you build these rooms into a new station for the Narrow Gauge Railway? They are in desperate need of new buildings.”

The Boss threw his head back and put his hands behind his back. If one looked closely he had his fingers crossed as he made his next statement.

“Yes of course we could. In fact I will offer to pay a fine of £100,000 if we have not completed these rooms in a year. How is that as a sweetener?” he finished. “It is time for me to leave, thank you for entertaining me.” With that he got up to leave and shook every ones’ hand firmly, a good ploy to give the impression of honesty.

In the Rolls Royce en-route back to the posh offices at HQ the Chauffeur spoke. “Sir, what was that about building a new station? I thought the old men playing trains were to be thrown off.”

“I have no intention of building any station, or any community rooms either. We wait a year and then just ‘pay the fine’ of £100,000. That is only one fifth of what the new station and rooms would cost us to build. By then we will have made millions and millions from house sales and moved on,” the Boss told him. The boss was a very harsh businessman and a clever politically motivated one.

The assembly at the Council Offices had been impressed. For some inexplicable reason those few who knew the little railway had been served notice to quit the land had forgotten so in all the excitement. Not everyone knew yet as the notice to quit had not hit the press. But the local press did know and it was the local paper’s headlines the following day. The Long Bustard Observer, known as the LBO, told the story of how the LBLR after nearly ninety years was being told to quit the land by order, so more houses could be built to meet government targets. They also reported that the Town Council supported the erection of the new housing development giving the impression they were also happy to see the railway go. The railway was the county’s third largest tourist attraction. It was also on the ‘Look East’ television news that night though only as a one line entry. As the general public only have about a three-day memory for news items, it would all be forgotten by the weekend. Long Bustard was on the edge of all the local areas; East Anglia, Home Counties and East Midlands so never really got any decent media coverage from any of them.

The next day the Mayor gasped at the LBO headlines and realised then that they had been duped by GGD. It really did look as if the council were supporting the closure of the town’s only and the county’s third biggest tourist attraction. What would Martin the general manager of the LBLR say to him as they knew one another well, being friends from childhood? Why then did they get that promise of a new station? There was something very fishy here.

*******

Chapter Three.
That Sinking Feeling.

John, who worked in the Café in turn as well as the shop, was the LBLR’s Planning Officer, part of the Permanent Way Maintenance Team and also a diesel driver along with many other minor jobs, was on the telephone to the LBLR company solicitors. Like others he wore many hats. This call was all about the railway working early on Sunday mornings and in front of him he had a copy of the Injunction that was to be placed to forbid the LBLR operating before 9am by the complainants.

It was Tuesday and the engine shed was a bustle of noise, clanks, bangs, whistles, hissing steam, people and machines. Tuesday was the day the maintenance crew for the engines did their bit. Again they were all volunteers and were called amazingly enough ‘The Tuesday Team’. Nearly all were retired men with the odd young boy and girl, though under the grime and dirty overalls you could not tell one from the other. Other than the few youngsters it seemed one vital qualification to join the team was to have a grey beard. Cleaning out boiler tubes, greasing axle boxes, sweeping out smoke boxes, polishing brasswork, tightening stuffing glands and wire-brushing rusty bits soon made anyone filthy and soon turned clean overalls, hands, faces and grey beards black. Obviously only those who were either retired, out of work or having a gap year could work midweek. The ‘Tuesday Team’ was a vital part of the organisation, without it faults would not be fixed and servicings would not get done. In the busy summer season ancient, hard worked steam locos often break down. In the machine shop, where one chap was busy skimming the face of a slide valve flat again on a milling machine after about eighty years of use, the talk was all about the possible closure of the station.

“Why do they need this bit of land? It has always been the railway as far back as I can remember and I know as my father worked here when the Quarry owned it,” said one chap with a long beard and bald head who looked as if it had been put on upside down.

Another octogenarian replied, “ Not here he didn’t. These workshops did not exist until we, the tourist railway, arrived. Before that it was just little 20 horse-power Simplex diesels pulling long lines of skips piled high with sand and gravel.”

“ I meant in the quarry, you silly old fart,” was the reply.

“ Who the hell are you to call me an old fart? You’ve got your head on upside down as it is Granddad,” came back the comment. The combined ages of this pair was almost 160 years and their banter amused the young girl next to them.

“ When I first came here I really thought you two meant what you said to each other. Now I know you just do it to tease one another,” she said with a grin. Not many women can understand the average males’ ego banter.

“ Oh no I don’t,” snapped the first, “ he is a silly old fart and always has been. I remember back in ’39 when he nicked my girlfriend from me. Just because he joined the RAF and he had a posh uniform…”

“ That is enough you two,” snapped a voice cutting in from the pit underneath the steam engine being serviced. The voice was that of Martin though you would never have recognised him. He was covered from head to foot in ash and dirty grease, only a pair of clear eyes and white teeth looked out from the mess. Just then the internal phone rang by the sink in the shed and a voice yelled out that Martin was wanted up the station office. Martin climbed out of the pit and washed as much dirt from his face and hands that the cold water supply would permit. Then he trotted off down to the office along platform two.

“Look at the paper,” Ann told him as she passed the LBO to Martin. “I cannot believe my eyes, the damned Town Council has supported this new housing estate that will close us. Look!”

Martin read the front page taking it all in.

“So this is the result of the meeting they had with the boss of GGD eh! It leaves us in a pretty hole. The season is nearly over but we need to get the Santa Trains organised for December. We cannot afford not to run them, we make 30% of our annual income that month,” Martin finally said putting the paper down. “ I will have to go and see the Mayor about all this.”

*********

Rodney was excited. He ended the call on his mobile phone with an evil grin on his face, folded the phone up and put it into his pocket. He was going to make a bit of money, easy money. Rodney was one of the town’s lost causes, a youth who thought living on the wrong side of the law was fun. He saw himself as a future Ronnie Biggs, others saw him as a waste of space drawing the dole, a nuisance who often got in the way. A major problem was that he was not a very good small-time crook either and had been caught quite often. His biggest claim to fame had actually never been publicised, even though he had made a good profit from his dealings then. A nearby big ancestral house had held a big pop festival the previous year and there had been problems with car parking. Rodney and a mate had seen a chance to make some ready cash so obtained two white dust-coats and a big roll of theatre tickets. They then drove to near the ancestral home, opened up some gates to a field that had recently had its crop harvested and put up a sign ‘Car Park £3’. As this was on the main road to the pop festival, large numbers of cars had turned into their ‘borrowed’ field and willingly paid up. The numbers of cars using their field soon went past the thousand mark. To park at the festival was a fiver and using this field meant a four hundred yard walk, so £3 was seen as a bargain by the punters. Very early the next morning and after the last car had left, Rodney and his mate closed the field’s gate, took down their sign and divided the substantial amount of tax-free cash between them. It had been a success for once and the farmer would never know. Even the police had cruised past a few times assuming they were an official part of the function.

Now, this story had got out to some big-time ‘ears’ who could use a useful fellow like Rodney. Luckily these ‘ears’ did not live locally or they might have also heard a few other less exemplary stories about our Rodney, like the time he stole a set of wheels from a police Panda car with the town centre CCTV watching him. He had denied being there until his brief managed to get through to him he was caught on video! The ‘ears’ had then got hold of Rodney’s mobile phone number, itself a feat of magic as the one he had was, as usual, a stolen one and not registered to anyone. The caller had offered to pay for some work to be done and our little crook was now off to organise it.

“Rodney here, that you Tom?” asked Rodney talking into his mobile again. It was best to check first to whom he was speaking as mobiles were often stolen these days. “Right, get hold of a couple of club hammers, the type you break stones with OK. Right, I’ll see you in the little car park at the back of the Town Park tonight late, say quarter to twelve. Right. See you then, bring a torch. Stop ruddy moaning, there will be some cash in it for you, money for old rope mate.”

*********

It was 4pm and time the ‘Tuesday Team’ began to pack up. It was autumn and the evenings were getting colder. Martin crawled out from under the steam engine he had gone back to after his talk with Ann, as he did so he banged the boiler side hard with his fist.

“Come on out Rob, time to go home,” he called out.

From inside the boiler came some odd sounds, then a teenager’s head with big ears popped up out of a large hole at the top, where a nice brass dome would normally fit. Rob was a very useful tool in the shed for the ‘Tuesday Team’ as he could be fed into quite small spaces with his long thin body. He was de-scaling the insides part-way through a boiler-tube change.

“You calling me?” he asked slowly.

“Yes, it’s home time Rob, time to go home,” Martin told him.

Others were also making their way to the one and only ancient stone sink used for washing. In about an hour lots of very dirty older men would be walking through their front doors to the horror of their wives. This was the price their wives paid for a day’s peace and quiet with the old man out of the house. Many men would be relegated to the garage or shed to remove their oily, greasy, ash-covered outer clothing. Overalls were not foolproof, really fine dirt could easily get through them. Very soon after that all would be having a nice hot shower to both remove the grime and ease aching old bones, but they enjoyed it all. It was nice to feel ones’ self was still useful. Martin was the last to leave the shed so he set the alarm and locked up. As he approached the station building the staff door opened and out came John who had been doing ‘admin’ all day. This was another of those jobs which was shared out, members offering to do one day a week each. Otherwise as no one was salaried the phones would not get answered, bookings and deliveries would be missed and the mail unanswered.

“Just look at these buildings we are still trying to use,” said John casting his hand across the scene in a big sweep, “They are all well past their sell-by-date. In fact the Café and the toilets were condemned before we even obtained them.”

“Yes, you are correct, but that was all we could afford at first. To update them would be a waste of money, what we need is a new purpose built station with a café and shop with toilets in one building; not the three ancient, rickety wooden-hut things we have now,” said Martin. “We can live in hope, we have come on a lot since 1968 you know.”

They stood and took in the ash and dirt car park, the cracked asbestos-panelled station, the old wooden school classroom that was the café and the stand-alone public toilets that had once stood in a school playground, next to the ‘café’ classroom. They all dated back to the 1950s in their first lives, now in their second they were still in use whilst those built with them then had long ago been eaten up by woodworm. If the truth be known quite a few woodworm were very busy getting fat inside these LBLR structures now.

“I get worried we might get notices served on us from the council that they are all Historic Buildings and they might grade them as such. Seriously, that would really screw us up as you cannot materially alter listed buildings,” added Martin.

“You are joking I hope?” said John. “The last time the children from the estate were caught running about the Café roof, one nearly fell through it. Had an adult had to get up there the whole lot would have collapsed.”

“If we are evicted, GGD’s bulldozers will make short thrift of the station,” Martin said as they parted. Both drove their cars out of the staff car park and John stopped to lock it up. As he was in a hurry he failed to scramble the combination on the padlock, jumped into his car and with a wave to Martin drove off home. On his mind was that evening he was going to see his mate, the Town Mayor over the Council’s attitude.

********

Not very far away an old Ford Transit van was parked up with a very large, posh, chrome-covered showman’s caravan attached to its tow bar. The driver of the van had seen the two men leave the station and noted that the car park was quite a decent size for a few of his friends. He dialled them up on his mobile and gave them the post code from the LBLR advertising board mounted out in front of the station. They then put that very same post code into their satellite navigation systems and in unison started up their vehicle engines. Clouds of smoke then bellowed from about a dozen vans exhausts as illegal ‘red’ diesel was burnt. From a lay-by some miles away from Long Bustard a number of small lorries all towing large similar caravans moved off in convoy. That morning they had all been moved off some private land about twenty miles away from Long Bustard, having out stayed their welcome right up to the issuing of the warrants to move out. Before going they had helped themselves to a farmer’s diesel tank, the dyed red, tax free fuel meant for farm machinery and not road transport! Meanwhile the scout’s Ford Transit growled its way up the station entrance road and pulled up at the staff car park gates. One lucky ‘Traveller’ found the padlock just fell open in his hands. This was useful as if a premises was unlocked and no damage done to enter it, they could stay a full twenty-nine days before the lumbering civil court action required to move them off private land could take full effect. It would also cost a small fortune in legal fees for the poor landlord. One wondered if the system was more for making money for the legal profession or for the rights of the public. But then most MPs are lawyers.

An hour later another dozen or so vehicles with their caravans arrived at the staff car park and neatly set themselves out in rows. By now it was dark and no one saw or heard them.

As the stars came out just after midnight the scout who had ‘discovered’ this car park for the convoy stepped out of his caravan for a pee and a fag before going to bed. He had been banned from smoking inside it by ‘The Wife’ and to even think about doing so would mean possible castration. He winced as he thought about it and having had a wee by some bushes he wandered towards the station and along platform two. It was quiet but reasonably clear as there was a good moon in the cold cloudless sky. Then he heard something and stopped. He looked down the darkened platform towards the shed and dropped his fag and rubbed it out with his boot quietly. Its glow would have given him away to whoever was there. Then he waited.

*********

Rodney had met up with his sidekick in crime at the small car park. They had wandered across Town Park towards the little LBLR station but had noticed some lights in the station’s staff car park.

“ Look, there is something in that car park,” exclaimed Rodney.

“So there is. Hey, it looks like a load of travellers have set up camp there. That will please the railway people no end. It might help your little job as well Rodders, they might get the blame, Ha, Ha!” the sidekick Tom gloated.

“Sssshhhh you idiot, they might hear us. We will have to wait until they have all gone to bed before we start,” Rodney told his mate. They then sat down on a seat inside the bowling green’s little shelter to wait a while. It would not pay to get caught especially as now it looked like there might be an ideal group to frame up for their intended little job.

After what seemed ages, but was probably only about an hour and a half, the two thugs set off to carry out their dastardly task, hammers in their hands at the ready. They soon arrived at the little station platforms and saw that platform one was obviously out of use by the moss growing on it. It was one of the jobs to be carried out soon by the society, to widen and relay that platform. It no longer conformed to the Health and Safety width that must permit commuters to alight and descend from the carriages at the same time. The fact that this was a tiny two-foot narrow-gauge light railway that only ran in the summer weekends, Christmas and some half terms did not matter. No commuter had ever used the station, the line only went three miles to the ‘The Henge’ Industrial Museum the other end. But ‘rules is rules’ and the LBLR had to conform to the very same ones as any main line railway company, as mentioned before. It was also true that platform one was falling to bits and unsafe so really did need updating. But platform two was a good one and it was a tarmacadam surfaced area with concrete flagstone slabs running down the rail side. These overlapped the brick wall underneath by about three inches and a thick, white painted line warned passengers of this edge. There was a two-foot drop down onto the rails, enough to dislodge granny’s false teeth if she tottered off the edge. It was to these slabs Rodney and Co made their way.

********

Our night-owl travellers’ scout had seen Rodney and Co at the far end of the platform only as moving shadows. Then he heard some odd knocking noises of a type he could not quite place, so he pulled back into a thicket at the rear of the platform then waited and watched. The two errant crooks were working their way down the flag-stoned edge, knocking them from underneath on the overhanging side. This caused them to break unevenly in a jagged line, the broken bits being strewn across the tarmac. As this was the only functional platform such damage would render the station inoperable which was the whole idea.

The traveller watched with interest, wondering why on earth it was being done. Then he had an idea and had to stop himself from giggling. From his jacket pocket he took out his mobile phone. He then pointed it at the two lads working away on the platform damage. He let them get to within about ten feet then he took a flash-photo of them. By pure chance Rodney had actually been looking at the place the traveller had been standing so he had a full-face photo. His mate however had been looking down at the rail, so all he had was a top of his hood photo. Tom was quite small for his age and if he wore a hood to cover his face had quite often got away with a half-fare on the bus. All the photo would show of him was the hood.

“What the ruddy hell was that!” yelled a startled Rodney, jumping back and nearly falling over the rails behind him.

“They must have CCTV cameras here, it just took a damned picture of us, run, run like hell,” an equally startled Tom yelled.

As the two scared rabbits upped, turned and ran like the wind, leaping over the station wire-mesh fence into the park on their way, Rodney’s foot just caught the top of the fence and it laid him out his full length on the grass the other side, winding him. The photographer burst out laughing, but by then Rodney and Co were streaking across the grass to the car park the other side of the park itself. They did not hear any laughter and pulled up once they were well away.

“What do we do now mate?” Tom asked Rodney breathlessly.

“ Well, we did what we were asked to do, so we phone the contact tomorrow and claim the cash. Let’s hope the photo was blurred, those damned coppers know my face only too well,” Rodney confided, panting himself at the sudden exertion. Neither of them were very fit due to the beer and fags.

Our traveller wandered back to his caravan having had a good laugh and went to bed. He was asleep in minutes, the sleep of those who have no conscience. Alas he had not wiped his feet upon entering the caravan and would suffer later. Fine ash and clay makes a nice mess of any carpet.

********

To be continued....as part two.