The Enginemen, Chapter 9/1

Glossary

‘City Of Truro’ – A GWR 4-4-0, No. 3440, which achieved fame in 1904 by allegedly achieving the first rail 100mph in the UK down Wellington Bank in Somerset when running the mails from Plymouth Docks to London. Since challenged and thought to be around 97 mph.

Chapter 9: October 1961

News of the strike quickly swept through the depot. Notices were posted and clusters of men were seen surrounding George and Arthur Campion the day after Mountford’s appeal had failed. Even though George was not booked on until the evening, he found it necessary to be on hand all day to deal with queries and ensure, whatever his own feelings, that there was a solid response to the strike call.

James Peplow only discovered the intended action when he booked off on the Friday evening. He swore under his breath and went back to look at his engine, now in a queue of locomotives over the ash pits awaiting its turn for a shed labourer to drop its fire and empty the smokebox of ash. On the following Monday he was rostered to the 9.15 Paddington - Worcester, a relatively easy turn but one which was satisfying involving a fast run to Oxford, then a pleasant run through the Cotswolds culminating in a dash from Chipping Campden down Honeybourne bank, the location of the Great Western’s first authenticated 100mph unless ‘City of Truro’s’ Wellington bank exploit was to be believed. He spied Arthur Campion buttonholing men in the lobby and managed to slip away without being collared. He had no wish to spend half the evening arguing over that idiot Mountford, stupid young man that he considered him to be. He saw no reason why he should be expected to sacrifice his turn. It hadn’t anything to do with loss of earnings. He was comfortably off, especially since his mother’s demise, he would not miss the loss of a day’s pay.

He went home and put the strike to the back of his mind. The winter timetable had commenced the previous week and the summer holiday extras were no longer needed, so an increased number of Rest Days were on Saturdays, enabling more staff to take the whole weekend off. He’d planned what he was going to do for some time now and didn’t see why the ructions over Monday’s strike should change his intentions in any way. He’d decided to go and look at the historic Raglan Castle after which his own 5008 was named. He’d looked it up in a book on castles in the Welsh Marches he’d borrowed from the Kennington library some weeks before, and decided there and then to explore it on the ground. From the illustrations in the library tome, it looked impressive. The only snag was the problem of how to get there and back in a day. Then he thought, why not spend a weekend there, book into a local hotel and pamper himself. He could afford it. He looked Raglan up on the map and found it was between Abergavenny and Monmouth. He could take the 7.55 down to Newport and pick up a North & West express to Abergavenny. He couldn’t find out if there were buses but if necessary he could take a taxi for the ten miles or so that he could glean from his map.

James spent the evening rereading the library book about the castle, scribbling key facts in his notebook to take with him. He packed an overnight bag with a few bare essentials and made himself some cheese and pickle sandwiches in case he could find no suitable café. Despite steeling himself to squander money on taxis and a hotel, he still resented paying what he considered exorbitant prices for food he could easily prepare at home.

It was a strange experience to arrive at Paddington station early on the Saturday morning and join a queue of passengers waiting to purchase a ticket. He fished out his authority card and bought a staff ‘privilege return’ to Abergavenny, and made his way up platform 1, where the stock for the 7.55 was already berthed. He hurried past the pannier tank simmering at the buffer stops, masking his face in case he was recognised by the Old Oak crew who’d brought up the stock from the carriage shed and made his way, as if by instinct, to the front of the train. He checked himself just in time before revealing his presence to the mainline crew, then realised that the engine had not yet backed down. For some unexplained reason, even to himself, he was too embarrassed to share with anyone who knew him what he was doing, where he was going or why. He was perhaps subconsciously afraid of being ridiculed. What he was doing was perfectly innocent, but they wouldn’t understand. If challenged, he could explain that he was visiting relations, then they’d ask more questions and before long he’d have invented a whole mythical branch of the Peplow dynasty. It was just too complicated. Better to remain anonymous, secretive, say nothing.

He avoided making eye contact with the Paddington guard at the back of the train and any ticket Inspectors en route would be London men also who would not know him. He put his bag on a seat in an empty compartment in the first coach, and, after ten minutes or so, heard and felt the bump as the locomotive coupled on. He waited until the fireman would have completed his task and rejoined the cab, and then stepped out of the front carriage door and took a quick glance at the engine. It was, as he knew it would be, one of the other No.3 link regular engines, 7036 ‘Taunton Castle’, and he was well aware that this was Percy Steel’s steed. He assumed Percy was on board, he didn’t check, but got out his notebook and determined to keep a few notes to compare with his own runs to South Wales.

The train had hardly started before a ticket inspector appeared at the door of the compartment. James fished in his pocket, found his ticket and handed it over for inspection. The man scrutinised the ticket, clipped it carefully and glanced at James Peplow’s notebook and his biro which was rolling around on the small shelf in front of the window.

“A busman’s holiday, eh? Where are you from?”

James blushed and muttered, “Old Oak.”

“A driver? You know Perce Steel? Did you speak to him before we left London?”

“No, I only just got here in time.”

“A good bloke, Percy. I often have a chat with the driver, even though it’s really the guard’s job. I don’t think I’ve seen you before though. Which link are you in?”

A pause. “Three.” The information was dragged out of Peplow.

“Ah, the steam passenger link too. What’s your name?”

“James Peplow.”

“Weather looks fine for a day out, Jim. Beautiful country round Abergavenny. My wife’s got family that way. By the bye, my name’s Ken - Ken Painter. I’ll look out for you in the future. Anyway, enjoy yourself. I’d better be getting on. I’m meant to get through the train before Reading.”

He handed James his ticket back.

“I guess I don’t need to tell you to change at Newport.”

James watched him go, leaving the compartment door gaping open. He waited until the man would have been several compartments further on, then rose and slid the door shut, cocooning himself in his compartment. Then he tugged at the top light of the window and the steady accelerating exhaust of the engine reverberated back from the stone wall of the cutting they were passing. Blast the man, he thought, he’ll be back after Reading and settle himself here for the duration, nattering at me for the rest of the way.

James estimated the speed of the train by counting the number of rail joints in forty one seconds indicated by the sweep second hand of his watch and he noted with satisfaction that Percy had 7036 and his train up to a steady 75mph after Slough. At the Reading stop his compartment was invaded by a couple of car delivery men complete with red substitute registration plates, who chattered non-stop to each other and took scant regard of him. Even so, James only noted the train speeds and key station passing times when he thought they were not looking at him, and even then he only glanced surreptitiously at his watch. The running was brisk but steady, settling between 70 and 75 mph all the way up the Vale of the White Horse, so that they were waiting time at Swindon. An energetic climb to Badminton followed, with the summit cleared at well over 60mph, and James awaited the downhill dash past Winterbourne and into the Severn Tunnel with curiosity to see what speed Percy would whisk the train up to. He was partly disappointed that Percy Steel and 7036 took it very easily, still not exceeding 75mph which they had previously sustained on the level. At the same time he was quietly complacent that he was known as ‘the speed king’ and few attempted to rival him, although in truth only his own fireman was really aware of his keenness to get into the annals of the Railway Magazine or its ilk.

Despite the easygoing nature of the run from Badminton, Percy had time well in hand, and they ran into an unusually sunny Newport a good couple of minutes early, and with plenty of time to indulge in a cup of tea and scone in the station buffet before his connection was due. The Swansea - Manchester express duly appeared behind Cardiff Canton’s Britannia pacific, 70027 ‘Rising Star’, but the short journey to Pontypool Road and Abergavenny, admittedly steeply uphill, did not really test the huge engine and its comparatively light load. James only took a superficial interest, his mind was on the practicalities of where to seek overnight accommodation and how much the taxi fare to Raglan would cost.

Alighting from the front of the train, he glanced at the autumnal bronzed Sugar Loaf mountain silhouetted against the blue sky and walked back past the standing carriages towards the station exit, as ‘Rising Star’s’ chime whistle echoed from the surrounding hills. His thoughts were interrupted for a moment by a thunderous slip from the engine as it attempted to restart the train on the rising gradient, and James stood undecided in the deserted station yard, now devoid of taxis, as the locomotive’s staccato exhaust gradually dwindled as it forged towards the summit at Llanvihangel.

He was just contemplating walking into the town centre to enquire about buses, when a cab swept into the yard and he made up his mind to take the taxi.

“Where to, mate?”

“Raglan, the castle. How much?”

“I’ve got a meter, mate. But it’ll be about three quid, that okay?”

James got in the cab and sat back as they joined the A40 and skirted the impressive Skirrid Fawr on their left.

“Sightseeing are you?” The cab driver was a local man and clearly not used to long silences. “The castle’s impressive, but don’t get many come by train. They’ve all got cars these days. Travelled far?”

“I’m a Londoner. I’m staying the night in the area. Do you know any good B&B’s in Raglan?”

“No, it’s only a tiny village. There’s a couple of hotels in Abergavenny but you’ll do best in Monmouth, there’s a load of B&Bs and hotels there. It’s slightly nearer than coming back to Abergavenny, less than eight miles.”

The taxi dropped James in the car park directly in front of the main gateway and entrance.

“Three pounds, two shillings, mate.”

James drew in his breath, parted with the exact money, but gave no tip. He did not believe in tipping. The cab driver hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders and drove away with a squeal of tires on the asphalt. He joined the short queue of visitors waiting to pay the entrance fee and noted that there was a good sprinkling already in the castle grounds. He waved away the proffered guidebook, as he had already noted all he thought he needed from the library book at home, and drew his notebook out of the bag he was carrying. To his left was obviously the Great Tower, which he’d noted was also known as the Yellow Tower because of the colour of the stone with which it had been built. It stood in its moat, reflected in the water as was the brilliant blue sky on this glorious October day.

James began to relax, he passed dozens of family groups interacting among themselves, but they were occupied, no-one attempted to intrude upon his solitude. He regretted he had not brought a camera. In fact he did not own one. His family had eschewed the habit of taking family snaps on every auspicious occasion. The only records he had of his own childhood and of his parents were a few fading tiny prints snapped by a beach photographer on some windy promenade, and his parent’s wedding photos. They must have been singularly uninterested in his own arrival, because there were hardly any photos of him as a baby, just a tiny bundle in his mother’s arms on one seaside jaunt. There were a couple of school photos his mother had not thrown away. He made a mental note to indulge himself on his return to London.

After an initial browse through the castle, he found a sunny spot and sat down to eat his sandwiches, overlooking the rolling countryside. He was left in peace and even allowed his eyes to close, to slumber for a while. When he awoke, he read his notes once more and set about exploring the castle in a more methodical way, notebook constantly in hand. He read about its building by Sir William ap Thomas and his son, William Herbert, its development by the Somersets and the Worcesters, and its peak of power and splendour in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries until the Civil War brought tragedy and ruin. After a couple of hours on foot, he began to tire and thought it was time he sought another taxi and lodgings for the night. He drifted down to the gatehouse and waited but no taxis were to be seen and eventually he enquired whether there were any cabs to be had. The woman at the information kiosk said it was unlikely that any taxi would arrive at this time of the afternoon, but she had the number of a cab in Monmouth, should she call it on his behalf?

Half an hour later a battered black London taxi stuttered onto the scene and drew up.
A sinister looking rogue emerged, dressed entirely in black like his cab, capped by a dirty black beret pulled down over his eyes so that it was hard to look him in the face. His black greasy sweater was cut low enough to reveal a prominent adam’s apple, which was hairy, obviously left untouched when the man bothered to apply a razor to the rest of his face. His mouth seemed to be pulled into a perpetual sneer, made worse when an attempted smile produced what looked like more of a grimace. James eyed him nervously, but felt that he had no choice and climbed in the ancient vehicle.

“You’re going to Monmouth, right?”

It didn’t seem like a question, just a statement of fact. Before James had time to answer, the man spoke again.

“You need lodgings?”

James nodded.

“I was told there were plenty of hotels there.”

“You don’t want a hotel. They’re expensive. I know a good B&B. Mrs McQueen, she’s a widow, she’ll look after you. I’ll take you there.”

James was about to say that he just wanted to be dropped off in the town centre and he’d find his own lodgings, then decided he was too tired to argue and let the man have his way, thinking that he’d just get out and walk around the town after the taxi had deposited him at the lodgings where quite clearly he had some sort of arrangement with this Mrs McQueen.

James shut his eyes and tried to relax, but the man was droning on about this widow, her husband had been the local butcher before he’d had a heart attack one night as he was locking up his cold store. Dreadful it was, he’d lain there all night amid the carcases, and the widow had gone white within the month, but had used the insurance to buy herself this bed and breakfast business. The more James heard, the more he determined to find himself some different lodgings rather than frequent this macabre widow and her personal attentions, which the cab driver was promoting as if he was her pimp.

The taxi drew to a halt in a narrow backstreet beside a dingy-looking terraced house, paint peeling from its black door, the nearest window draped with heavy net curtains. I’m getting out of here as fast as I can, thought James, I’ll just pay the taxi-driver and get rid of him, then search for somewhere better.

The driver got out, opened the door and picked up James’ overnight bag before he could struggle out of his seat and alight.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Never you mind about that for the moment. Let’s get you fixed up with Mrs McQueen first, then we can sort things out afterwards.”

“No, it’s fine. Just give me the bag and I’ll pay you. I can take charge from then.”

The cab driver ignored James completely and pushed the door to the house, which was unlocked, and called out:

“Eunice, here’s a lodger for you. Just for the one night. Look after him and I’ll call again in the morning, he wants to go back to Raglan.”

James made to protest, but it was too late. Mrs Eunice McQueen, the merry widow, was already at the door, grinning her toothless smile inanely at James and his captor. She was small, very small, barely five feet high, had a mop of tangled grey hair tinged with fading blue rinse and grey eyes enlarged by the thick-lensed spectacles she was wearing. She wore a long dark purple dress over which was draped a tea-stained pinafore adorned with welsh wizards attired in black.

“This way,” she gabbled, grabbing his bag from the hands of the cab-driver. “Don’t mind me, you took me by surprise, I couldn’t find my teeth, so you’ll have to take me as I am.” And she smirked her gums at him again.

“Just a minute,” said James, finally getting a word in, “I haven’t paid for the taxi yet.”

The cab-driver had followed them into the narrow vestibule of the house.

“You just owe me,” he murmured, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning and take you back to Raglan. You can pay me then.”

“No, really, I should pay now. How much do I owe you?”

The cab-driver put his hand on James Peplow’s arm and shook his head.

“I trust you, sir, yet I don’t even know your name. I’m Archie Trefusis, everyone round here knows me. You’ll find me at the Undertaker’s in the High Street if you need me, but don’t worry, I’ll call for you in the morning around ten o’clock. I assume that time will suit you.”

James could think of no way out of this situation. He nodded in acquiescence and allowed himself to be steered by the widow McQueen towards the narrow steep staircase. As he turned to follow the tiny woman, he could have sworn that the taxi-driver winked at her.

Eunice McQueen staggered to the top of the stairs, already out of breath, and pushed open one of the firmly closed doors on the landing, plonked James’ bag on a bed that took up most of the space in the dark room.

“What’s your name, you never said?”

“James Peplow.”

“You must write it in the register in the hall and your address. I charge fifteen shillings and sixpence, that will include your breakfast. Perhaps you would be good enough to pay me now.”

James breathed a sigh of relief that the price was not excessive after all, he had feared that he’d fallen into some sort of conspiracy between the driver and this woman that would fleece him. He paid up straight away and hoped that the woman would now go away. She still hovered.

“Will you be going out?”

Of course he would be, it was only just five o’clock, and he’d had nothing but a few sandwiches at lunchtime.

“Please be back by ten o’clock, I go to bed then.”

He thought to ask for a key, but then realised that he’d no reason to stay out late and accepted the woman’s demand without demur. He was finally, and at last, left alone. He took stock of his surroundings. He drew back the dark brown curtains to let more light into the room, pulled the net curtains to one side and found that his room overlooked the backyards of another row of terraced houses. To one side was a patch of rough ground with three or four parked cars and he noticed at once that the familiar black cab was one of them. It was next to another large black car which he belatedly recognised as a hearse. He shuddered.

The room seemed tiny until James realised that it was the excessive quantity of furniture that had been crammed into the room that made it appear so. The bed was a single one, but the eiderdown was puffed up and was a raucously decorated amalgam of colours, pinks and purples and bright reds, that was totally incongruous with the sombre brown and beige hues of the walls, skirting boards and door. There was a large crudely made wooden table on which stood a porcelain bowl and giant jug, and a double wardrobe of mahogany, dusty and gaping half open as the catch was broken. In it a row of metal coathangers rattled in unison whenever James moved within the vicinity of the monstrous hulk, and the floorboards squealed wherever he trod on the bare slats.

James dumped his meagre belongings and escaped from the house as fast as he could. Even so, he had to pass Eunice McQueen in the narrow hallway, grinning absurdly at him, displaying her gums. After he’d found a restaurant where he managed to obtain a reasonable meal, he wasted time wandering aimlessly around the town to delay the return to his house of imprisonment. As the chill in the air became too apparent, he decided that going back was the lesser of two evils and gently pushed the front door open and tiptoed inside, hoping not to alert the landlady. However, whatever her other eccentricities, her hearing was still acute. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at him. He immediately began to feel guilty as though he owed her an explanation of his evening absence. He determined to say nothing to provoke an enforced conversation, and he brusquely squeezed past her, muttering a brief ‘goodnight’, the least he thought he could get away with. He hurried up the stairs, two at a time, before she could do more than reciprocate.

He barricaded himself in his room, removed his shoes and lay on the bed, hearing the sound of Mrs McQueen’s radio which she had clearly turned higher once he had gone upstairs. He heard voices but could not distinguish words, then roars of laughter and he could swear he heard the old woman cackling. Later, after he had washed in the cold water from the jug, he undressed and buried himself under the mound of heavy bedclothes wrapped around the narrow bed. He thought the sheets felt clammy, even damp, but he lay there and got used to the increasing warmth generated by his own body.

For a while the sounds of the radio continued to waft into his consciousness, then when silence finally came, he found that his mind was dwelling on the friction back at the depot, and the one day strike that had been called for the coming Monday. He felt anger welling up inside him, why should he do the bidding of Arthur Campion and his gang of militants? He was now wide awake, listening to a distant church clock chiming the quarter hours. As the night wore on, he thought he heard a flurry of raindrops beating on the window pane, then he heard gusts of wind. He got up, drew the curtains aside and peered into the blackness. He could just discern the outline of a distant tree swaying in the gale and another stronger gust blew a spattering of rain against the window in his face. He watched for a while and then returned to his bed, which now seemed a haven from the hostile elements. He listened to the fury of the weather outside and somehow this calmed him and before he knew it, sleep had come.