Bron-16

Continued from Chapter 15: Bron-15 | ABCtales

“Oh, and one more thing, Fred. We’ve got a new trainee shunter starting tonight.”

“Get away, Phil! Not seen one of them since we got privated … “

“Name’s Bron – Bronwyn Jones.”

Before the night shift manager could answer, one of the yard drivers barged into the office without knocking:

“Phil! Phil! Have you seen the new trainee? It’s a, she’s a …”

“Yes, I know all about Miss Bronwyn Jones …”

“Wouldn’t mind doing some close-coupling with HER!”

“Dave. Shut that door, and shut up.”

“Now listen, you two. I’m only go to say this once. She’s eighteen, she’s just about the first female we’ve ever had, and she’s in the middle of bloody New Birch Moor depot. I’m counting on you to look after Miss Jones as if she was your own daughter. And if I hear anything – ANYTHING – at all, I’ll ‘AVE you. You tell the others; same goes for them. No funny stuff – understood?”

“Yes, Phil. I just…”

“You just make sure she’s OK.”

 

 

The yellow depot lights shone opaquely through the gathering clouds of diesel fumes as a dozen 2,250 horsepower engines throbbed away. Now and again, a low throb deepened into a high-pitched scream, then fell away as a driver shifted a train a few yards. The night shift at New Birch Moor was getting underway.

“OK, Bron,” said Fred. “You’ve seen me do it. Now you try to uncouple the next one.” The carriages thud-thud-thudded slowly over the rail joints; the driver applied the brakes with a screech and hiss of air, then a final ‘Ker-PUFF!” as it ground to a halt.

“Right, Bron. What do we do, before we do anything else?”

“Check that the brakes are on, Mr Wills…”

“And you know that because…?”

“Er, the driver told me?”

“He could be a liar.”

“I’ll check … “
”She walked over to the handbrake and tried it. Solid as a rock.

“It’s on!”

“Watch this, Bron!” He nodded towards the driver. “Just a notch, mate…”

The engine note deepened from its idling –chugga-chugga-chugga to a low throb. Nothing budged.

“He’s not lying. For once. Right, get to work…”

Bron ducked smartly underneath the buffers; Fred followed, grunting slightly with the effort. “Me knees ain’t getting any younger…”

“OK, shut the air!”

Bron reached for the air isolating cocks and gave a sharp turn, before disconnecting the first brake hose. The air rushed out with a sharp Hiss. “Oh SHIT!” The hose jumped out of her orange-gloved hand.

“No worries - it’s not going anywhere – take your time!” She picked up the hose and placed firmly on its hook.

Then it was the turn of the electrical jumpers that connected the carriages – a quick twist and pull and then drop them clear.

Now for the coupling. When British Rail brought in the High Speed Trains back in the mid-seventies, the adverts showed a pointed-nose express slicing slickly through the countryside, more like a plane than a train. But underneath, the HST carriages were Old Railway – heavy, brutal, tons and tons of solid steel. Bron pulled the release lever on the buckeye. It thumped down heavily with a sharp clunk…

 

 

A lull in the shunting; time for a break. Everyone trooped across the yard to the low brick-built messroom, boots scrunching on the ballast.

“What’s the most important liquid on the railway, Bron?” said Fred.

Dunno. Oil, diesel, water?”

“Wrong! It’s tea. Whole railway runs on tea. Siddown, I’ll be Mother - same for you Ivor, Aiden?”

“Yes, boss, don’t need to ask twice…”

 

“Your family railway, then?” asked Aiden.

“Kind of. My uncle William, he’s a senior guard at Holyhead.”

“Thought I recognised the accent. Uncle put in a good word for you?”

“He tipped me off that there was a job going here; helped me a bit with filling out the form…”

fred broke in: “Always helps, dunnit? So how you enjoying your first shift then? Not too noisy and dirty for you?”

“Yeah – it’s great. Everything’s very oily, though.”

“Goes with the territory, I ‘spose…”

“My Mam always says men never clean up properly…”

“Oi! Less of the sexism! We’re all equal now…”

“Yes, Ivor…”

 

 

“Can you drive, Bron?” said Fred.

“What, one of them? Course not!” She tilted her head back to the yard with its grumbling diesels.

“No! I mean, a car, or a van.”

“I can drive a tractor. Or a herd of cows.”

 

 

“Oi, Bron!” called one of the shunters above the racket of machinery and clashing train buffers as they trudged back to the yard. “Can you ask the storeman for a long weight for a…”

“SHUT the FUCK up! Wasn’t born yesterday…”

 

 

“So, how’s our new trainee shaping up?” asked Geoff, the duty manager.

“She’s incredible,” said Fred. “I mean, most of the guys when they start, they’re a bit hesitant, they don’t want to duck and dive under the buffers and all that – it’s understandable, like, if they’re not used to it. But this lady – she’s absolutely fearless. Like she was born to it.”

“It’s the fearless ones you have to watch. Get old Sid to show her his hand, the one with the three missing fingers.”

To be continued in Chapter 17