The Enginemen, Chapter 9/3

He had no idea how long he’d have to wait and was gratified when he scrutinised the timetable pasted in the dark booking hall to note that he had less than half an hour before a train was due for Newport. He crossed the overbridge to the far platform and took shelter under the awning watching the rain splashing steadily in the widening puddles on the platform’s surface. As he sat on one of the wooden benches, he realised that he was trembling and, now that he had relaxed, the shock of his encounter in the castle was surfacing.

He was uncomfortable sitting still and began to pace up and down the platform trying to rid himself of the images of the embarrassing intervention. He ignored the rain and looked to the hills but they were obscured by low cloud and mist. He began to berate himself under his breath for the stupidity of taking such an inconsequential scene so seriously, the boy would have long since laughed the incident off and forgotten about him. Why could he not do the same?

He was eventually rescued from his self-absorption by the arrival of his train and his endeavour to create space in a corridor because it was packed with travellers returning to South Wales unexpectedly this Sunday lunchtime. The train windows were heavy with condensation, the rain streaked the outside of the pane distorting whatever passing landscape was visible and damp bodies jostled against each other seeking respite from aching limbs. Despite the crowd, the only noises were the rustling of mackintoshes and the rhythmic beat of carriage wheels on steel rails as the train free-wheeled downhill past Cwmbran new town and King Arthur’s legendary abode at Caerleon, before easing gently over the trickle of water between muddy cuttings that enclosed the River Usk.

James’s brain was still in overactive mode when the London train drew in, and having noted that a Landore ‘Castle’ was at the front end, presumably with a Swansea crew also, he concentrated on finding a seat in the crowded train. Having pushed himself between a slumbering soldier and a young mother who was attempting to control her two whining children, he squeezed uncomfortably into one corner seat opposite. James shut his eyes and began for the first time to contemplate the issues facing him the following day.

He was beginning to question his resolve to ignore the strike. He realised that if he intended to book on for duty, he’d have to negotiate a phalanx of pickets who would surely be guarding the entrance to the depot. He’d be called a ‘scab’, not to mention all the other obscenities the militants could muster. He’d be shoved around, he had no doubt about that. As he thought about it, he felt anger rising within him. To hell with them, he thought, what need did he have of their approval? He would cope perfectly well without them, thank you, a few moments of unpleasantness and then he’d be with his beloved engine and out on the road, free of them. And then, he thought, what about Pete? Would he break the strike as well? He realised how little he knew his fireman. If he obeyed the strike call, would his own show of rebellion be useless with no-one to fire for him? Would he be obliged just to sit around all day, surrounded by hostility, for no good reason?

However, our James was no coward. He was an obstinate man once he’d decided on a certain line of action, inflexible, even pig-headed. “To hell with them,” he again muttered under his breath, causing the soldier slumped beside him to stir and murmur, “What’s that, mate?” “Nothing, I was just thinking aloud.” The soldier wriggled back into his shell and was soon fast asleep as the train drew into Swindon station. No-one got out, but more people pushed into the overcrowded corridor, so that James, who was in a corner seat next to the corridor, could see nothing but the backs of raincoated silhouettes.

After the Reading stop, both the young children began to squabble, and when one punched the other when his mother’s attention was distracted, all hell broke loose, the younger boy’s screaming waking the whole compartment. Everyone tried to ignore the situation; the young mother looked more and more flustered and embarrassed as her efforts to quieten the lad were in vain, until a man in the opposite corner produced a couple of toffees which eventually silenced both boys. At last Paddington was reached and James escaped as fast as he could, scarcely giving ‘Tiverton Castle’, sizzling quietly at the buffer stops, a second glance.

James obeyed his alarm early the following morning and washed and dressed in automaton mode. He prepared his sandwiches and caught an early morning Northern Line train changing to the Bakerloo Line at Waterloo, and descending, still half asleep, at Willesden Junction. As he walked down Old Oak Lane towards the depot gate, he felt a first stirring of nervousness at the fast approaching ordeal. He began to dawdle, then thrust his chin in the air and quickened his step. At the gate there were about half a dozen pickets already there. As he drew near, the Branch Secretary, George Munday, stepped forward and put a hand on James’ shoulder.

“Where do you think you are going, James? You know we’ve called a one day strike in support of Mountford, don’t you?”

“Nothing to do with me. I’ve no quarrel with anyone. Just want to get on with the job.”

“James, the Branch has voted in favour of the action. That means you, too. If you do, you’ll lose your union membership.”

“So what? I don’t need it.”

“James, I really advise you not to do this. It’s only for one day. Why upset everyone? You don’t need the money I know. What principle are you trying to uphold?”

“I’m just being bloody-minded, that’s all. I don’t see why I shouldn’t fulfil my booked turn. Why are you all making such a fuss about that good-for-nothing Mountford? Let me through.”

The other pickets now began to crowd him, seeing that he was not easily dissuaded by George Munday’s cautionary words. A few began to shout and swear at him; others jostled him and told him in no uncertain terms to get lost. George Munday stopped them and spoke to James again.

“You know that the Branch has voted for this action to support someone we believe was victimised by management. You have a right to ignore our advice but you realise that if you insist on reporting for duty that you could face a Trade Union disciplinary tribunal, with the possibility that your membership could be terminated?”

“George, I’ve nothing against you personally and I thank you for making my position clear. I’ve already given it thought and my mind is made up. You’ll not dissuade me. I intend to book on and take my engine for the Worcester as rostered. I’ll have no truck with ‘wildcat’ action, for that’s what it is. So let me pass.”

The pickets now swarmed round him trying to block his way forward. The tension was rising and George saw that he would have to intervene again to avoid violence.

“Let him go. It’s his right. We’ve made our point. In any case, I doubt if his presence will have any effect on our action - he’ll need a fireman if he’s to get out on the road.”

The pickets parted reluctantly and James moved forward. He nodded a silent ‘thanks’ to George and made his way determinedly down the slope towards the depot, catcalls and obscenities following him into the dawn sunrise. As he got to the bottom of the slope at the entrance to the main roundhouse, the familiarity of the surroundings got to him and he realised that he was shaking. He walked twice round the turntable calming himself and noted, despite the strike, that several locomotives were in steam. Then it occurred to him that most of the labourers and shedmen were NUR members, not ASLEF, and therefore unaffected by the strike call.

When he got to the booking-on lobby, he was surprised to find the Shedmaster deep in conversation with the Running Foreman. They both looked up in surprise when he tapped on the window and the Foreman came over.

“James, you’re booking on duty, are you?”

“Yes, I’m for the Worcester if you have a mate for me.”

“Did you have any problem with the pickets at the gate?”

“Not really - got sworn at a bit, but George Munday prevented anything nasty.”

“I’m not sure George’s heart is really in this,” interjected Doig, “I’m sure he doesn’t see anything useful coming out of it. He’s a realist. It’s just a gesture. Once they’ve got it out of their system, they’ll give up. They’ll not sacrifice another day’s pay for an idiot like Mountford. I was prepared to take him back if he’d backed down, I’m sure George advised him to do that, but the fool got obstinate.”

“Doesn’t bother me either way,” said James. “I keep clear of the politics. I just want to get on with the job.”

The Running Foreman then looked up from his scribbling and said, “If I had an experienced fireman, I’d ask you to cover the 9.30 Plymouth job, but I’ve only a youngster from link 8 and he’s been on duty since four o’clock this morning. If you’ll take him, I’ll book you on the Worcester, but see how far you get; if he struggles, you can come off at Oxford.”

“What about my engine? Is 5008 ready?”

“You’re in luck there, Peplow. I got the youngster to prep a couple of Halls and 5008 just in case someone was available.”

“Why did you light up 5008? Were you going to give my engine to someone else?”

“James, I reckoned that if anyone was going to break the strike, it would be you. So I thought getting 5008 ready was my best bet. I know you’d cause a rumpus if she was not available.”

James then realised that if he’d not turned up for duty, there had been the possibility that his precious engine would have been commandeered by someone else. So he’d been right to come in after all. Letting another driver take his pride and joy was unthinkable.

Doig went back into his office and O’Brien then gave James further information.

“You’ll find 5008 and young Daniel Simpson on roundhouse 1 - I’m sure you’ve discovered that already. I’ll ring Control and let them know I’ve a crew for the 9.15. I’ve got no-one to take the empty stock up, so they’ll have to turn round one of the incoming commuter sets in the platform. I’ll warn Oxford depot to check with you on arrival there. I don’t think Simpson will go beyond Oxford, so they might provide another mate for you or turn you back.”

James went to the Stores and collected lubricating oil, getting hard looks from the lad there, but nothing was said. He then found 5008, climbed into the cab and noted with satisfaction that the pressure gauge was already showing 190 psi, that the water gauge was showing full and that the blower was on. His fireman, however, was nowhere to be seen. James climbed down, and began his round of the engine, filling the numerous oil boxes, then descending into the pit to tackle the inside motion, avoiding dripping water escaping from the injector overflow. Whilst crouching there, intent on his work, he saw the boots of someone passing and, assuming it to be his allocated mate, called out. The man stopped and bent down to peer between the locomotive’s huge driving wheels. It was Daniel Simpson.

“I gather you’re to be my mate on the Worcester. Are you up for it?”

“I’ll check with the Foreman - he’s not given me any instructions yet, apart from prepping this engine and a couple of others. If he says it’s okay, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“It is okay. He’s already told me.”

“I’d better check for myself. Got to get it right, today of all days.”

“Okay, if you must, but I tell you he’s already told me.”

James finished his oiling and hauled himself out of the pit, climbing into the cab and grabbed some cotton waste to clean his hands. He observed that the boiler pressure had now risen to over 210 psi and he was impatient to be off. At length he saw Daniel Simpson approaching and shouted to him to set the turntable. The electric motor hummed into action and the turntable slid slickly into position. James eased the great engine forward by just cracking the regulator, opening the cylinder cocks at the same time to expel any water that had built up in the cylinders overnight. His mate set the turntable for the shed exit road, climbed aboard and they backed out of the shed to the water column, where James insisted they had a full 4,000 gallons in the tender. When the essentials were completed and James had whistled to indicate they were ready to leave the yard for the terminus, he began to question his mate.

“You’ve been on since four o’clock this morning, is that right? Did you find any pickets that early?”

“I slept here all night. I didn’t want to risk any confrontation this morning. I was rostered for 5am spare, but I saw the Foreman around earlier, so I asked him if he could use me straight away.”

“Why did you break the strike? You know there’ll be trouble later. I’m nearing retirement anyway, I don’t care, but you’re still a youngster. They won’t make it easy for you.”

“I don’t believe in strikes. It’s against my religion. I couldn’t live with my conscience.”

“What sort of religion is that? I don’t know any that require strike-breaking.”

“Well, I’m a Christian. My minister told me it would be wrong to strike.”

“George Munday who’s organised all this, he’s a Christian I think. He’s big in the local Methodist church anyway. So what’s the difference?”

“I go to the Gospel Hall in Acton. My minister says you should always obey your manager - he says he’s been put in authority over me by God. He calls it ‘giving Caesar what’s his due.”

“Bloody hell, I’ve never heard Doig called ‘Caesar’ before!”

“Haven’t you come on duty because of what you believe?”

“Me? What do I believe? I’ve no time for all that religious stuff. Had enough of it when I was a boy. Couldn’t abide all that emphasis on ‘sin’. And the parson bored the pants off me.”

“Don’t you feel the need to be saved? Don’t you feel you should believe in something higher than yourself?”

“Don’t preach at me, son, and we’ll get along okay. Just concentrate on firing this engine. That’s all I ask today.”

James was peering over the side of the tender looking for signals as they approached Westbourne Park. He suddenly called to the lad to look out for the next signal as it was best seen from the fireman’s side. Then he noticed that the boy’s eyes were shut.

“What the heck are you doing?”

“I’m praying.”

“What the hell for?”

“I’m praying for you and our partnership today. I always pray for anything important.”

“Watching out for red signals, that’s what’s important at the moment. Just do that and our partnership will work. Shut your eyes again and I’ll have you off the footplate before we even start.”

The young man went crimson with embarrassment and began hastily to shovel coal onto the fire; an automatic displacement activity. The engine was already beginning to blow off steam.

“Steady on, lad, we’ll be in trouble at Paddington if we make too much noise. Put the injector on and quieten us down a little.”

They were routed across the throat of the station into platform 5 onto a set of Hawksworth and Collett coaches, instead of BR Mark 1s which would have been the normal Worcester formation. The punters would have to go without their restaurant car today. As Daniel was coupling up, a deputation of station inspector and guard arrived together. The inspector was clearly there to ensure no unforeseen acrimony occurred between the Paddington guard, who would know all about the Old Oak Common unofficial ASLEF action, and the strike-breaking driver and fireman.

“You’re the 9.15 Worcester, but Oxford want you to hook off there. Other London depots are refusing to cover Old Oak turns and there’s a rumour that both Oxford and Worcester crews won’t work past Oxford on London jobs, so you may be wanted for a special back. You’ve got eleven on for 385 tons, GW stock off the Henley this morning. Normal stops, just Reading and Oxford. They’ll have a set of Worcester men to take over from you there.”

“If they want us off, I’m taking this loco off as well. She’s my rostered engine.”

“Know nothing about that, driver. I’ll warn them, but it’s up to the Oxford foreman. He’ll probably have a Worcester or Oxford loco available for you.”

“Over my dead body. I’m not parting with 5008.”

“Okay, don’t pick a quarrel with me. I told you, I’ll warn them.”