Bron-24

Continued from Chapter 23: Bron-23 | ABCtales

The lights of Dawlish twinkled. No one stirred in the small resort as 47840 powered through. Rain – or seawater  - clattered on the windscreen. Higgins turned on the wipers which arced arthritically to and fro –thwop-thwop-thwop.

“They told Brunel he couldn’t build a railway along the sea wall,” Higgins said. “Proved them all wrong.”

“Pity the bugger didn’t listen,” said Brean. “This stretch has been a pain in the backside ever since. Always getting washed away,” he said, in explanation to Bron.

To the left, a few house and streetlights, to the right the dark empty nothingness of the Atlantic. No. 47840’s rain-lashed cab felt like the bridge of a boat in a storm.

“You know,” said Bron. “Georgetta – that woman I was telling you about – was right. Trains CAN be romantic.”

“Think you’ve found your vocation in life?” said Fred.

“Not being funny,” broke in Higgins. “But what’s a nice girl doing in the cab of a Brush Four? I mean, you could be in films, if you wanted…”

“Oh, but I am. Well … “

“YOU?” said Fred. “What sort of film? Not one of those …”

“No! It’s not porno. It’s not finished yet. I do it on my days off …”

“What’s it about?”

“An American lady fighter pilot. In World War Two.”

“Did they have them then? So do you get to fly planes?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. Never been in a plane – except on the ground.”

“Ground’s safest,” said Higgins. “A man can’t fall off the floor.”

“Come close to that on a few Friday nights,” said Fred. “Bron doesn’t drink, by the way.”

“Why not?” said Higgins.

 

Plymouth under arc lights, 05.10, journey’s end for Higgins. Still dark. The clocks had just gone back. The relief driver greeted them with a half-wave from the end of the platform.

“Right time. Glad to see you Paddington buggers haven’t messed things up, for a change,” said Driver Pugsley, panting slightly from the exertion of climbing up into the cab. “All serene?”

“Yeah. Your horrible West Country weather behaved itself, blowing a bit over Dawlish, that’s all. Got company tonight – but you knew that? This is Bron, traction apprentice extraordinaire, star of the silver screen, aviatrix. And she can milk a cow.”

“Wow, I’m impressed!”

“By what? The film career or the cow?”

“Actually, I’m just a trainee shunter at the moment. Maybe traction apprentice in a couple of months.”

“Well, I must be off to my humble abode. Bye bye Bron. And by the way, if you need anyone to put in a good word for you with the powers that be – you know where to find me.”

“Brill. Night Mr Higgins.”

“Night-night Higgsy…”

 

 

The exhaust rattled off the brickwork of Mutley Tunnel, then the train clattered over Marsh Mills Viaduct. A double yellow signal loomed glumly through the now lightening dark. Brean and Pugsley exchanged glances. “What’s that mean, Bron?” said Brean.

“Primi-lilly caution. Next signal may be at yellow.”

“Correct!”

“Bit rum. Nothing supposed to be up ahead, this time of night,” said Brean.

The next signal was a single yellow. Driver Pugsley grasped the brake handle and slowed 47840 right down, no more than 20mph. A red signal glared sullenly though the murk. Pugsley slowed to a crawl, trying to keep the Riviera  rolling in case the signal suddenly cleared; it could just be a slow moving engineering train up ahead. The signal stayed stubbornly red. With a sigh, Pugsley pulled the brake lever over, bringing 47840 to a complete stand with an exhalation of air. He got up and disappeared out of the door, his feet scrunching on the ballast.

“Well, you’re certainly getting your money’s worth tonight, Bron,” said Brean. “Driver’s gone to the signal post telephone to report our position.”

“And ask what the fuck’s going on,” said Fred.

“That too. But, above all, it’s for safety. Tell the bobby that he’s got us at a stand, which signal.”

Just then Pugsley heaved himself up the steps into the cab, panting visibly this time

 From the exertion. “Cattle on the line ahead, between 224 and a half and 224 and a quarter. Proceed at caution.”

“Oh, fuck-a-doodle. This could take till morning,” said Brean.

No. 47840’s exhaust clattered again, muted this time, as Pugsley kept the Riviera at a 10-15mph crawl. The faint yellow of the headlights spilled across the track. Then, round a left-hand bend, half a dozen black shapes loomed in the grey early morning murk.

“Well, we’ve found our cows. Now what?” said Fred.

“Steak tonight?” said Brean.

“Give ‘em a bit of horn,” said Fred.

The beasts stared sullenly at the train. The crew stared back. Pugsley gave a couple more two-tone blasts. The cows stood and watched.

“They’re not budging!” said Bron.

“Well, we could wait for the farmer to get out of bed,” said Brean. “Or, maybe …”

“No way am I getting down there and wrestling with them brutes, not in my condition” said Pugsley “My cow-wrangling days are behind me.”

“I’ll do it,” said Bron, getting up from her seat.

“Ooh, I dunno. She’s got no trackside pass…”

“Oh go on!” said Brean. “We’ll be here all night otherwise. We’re all friends together.”

Before Pugsley could argue, Bron was shimmying down the cab steps, boots crunching the ballast.

She edged slowly up to the herd. “Dewch ’mlaen, dewch ’mlaen!” She gave one of the beasts a firm, gentle slap on the rump. It stood its ground, blinking uncomprehendingly, then raised its head and ambled slowing down the track, away from the train. “Dewch! Dewch! Hwsh! Hwsh!”  The others ambled gently after it. Bron spotted a broken-down farm gate to the left of the track and gave the leading cow another firm slap. “Dos! Dos! Dos!” The cow hesitated for a split second, then headed for the gap, her mates following.

Behind, Driver Pugsley kept a respectful distance. The crackle of 47840’s exhaust started again, wheels and brakes gently squealing as the Riviera got on the move again briefly, then groaned to a halt again. Bron pulled the fragile remains of the gate shut and looped the piece of orange twine over the post. She looked down the field; the cows seemed to have lost all interest in trainspotting and were ambling slowly over the crest of the hill towards the still-dark farmhouse.

 

“You’re a woman of many parts!” said Fred, when she was back in the cab, to admiring cheers. “Wait till the guys at the Birch hear about this.”

“Better if the Birch didn’t hear about it,” said Pugsley. “But all credit, would have been there an hour at least, if we’d waited for the farmer,” said Pugsley. “Only twenty down, thanks to you.”

“The cows understand you, then,” said Brean.

“Course they did. They’re Welsh Blacks…”

 

With its slack overnight schedule, the Riviera would be back on time by Penzance. Old no. 47840 creaked and clattered as she galloped the last twisting miles of the Cornish main line – Treviddo, Tremabe. Gwinear Road, Truro for Penryn, Penwithers Junctions, names half-glimpsed on location plates. The sun burst gloriously over the horizon just as they dropped down into Penzance.

Pen Sans. The headland of the saint.

To be continued in Chapter 25