Abby Ch. 10

Anson and Metcalfe then discussed the wagons to be dropped off; the wagons to be picked up; and with the contribution of the driver who had now joined them; how and in what order it would be done. With so few wagons nowadays it was relatively simple. Twenty years ago, the train was so long that many of the wagons had to be shunted on to the running line to give them the space to carry out the shunting, very often delaying the up passenger, which had to be held at the distant. Forty years ago they would have had a Shire horse to pull individual vans into place, reducing some of the many engine movements.

The shunt took place, again with the characteristic clanging of the buffers, and the groans of bearings in which the grease lubrication had gone solid. From the vantage point of the platform Thomas watched carefully, anxious to notice the shunting practice that would save time; but was deemed unsafe according to the regulations. Those involved in the operation were well aware of this scrutiny, and took care not to give reason for censure, not that they would have, as Metcalfe said. "With so few wagons there really is no need to cut corners." Reg Purvess was little involved, as once the train had entered the goods loop, it was effectively 'out of section', and moving trucks over the various points was effected with ground-based levers. Nonetheless having closed the level crossing gates he leaned out of the window in his box, and watched the process with interest, he was after all a railwaymen, and would no doubt tell Anson and Metcalfe where they had gone wrong, once they had their hands around the mugs of tea he would provide.

Thomas returned to his typing, he would have almost a full hour at this task before the next up passenger. Yet again that curious peace returned to the station. Thomas was working in his office. Anson, Metcalfe and the crew of the engine were drinking tea in the box with Purvess. The engine stood quietly simmering at the head of the now reformed train; occasionally attended by the fireman to keep the boiler quiet. The only person that could be seen working was young Bob Fairworthy, who had mopped out the gentlemen's facilities, and was now lethargically, weeding the flowerbeds along the platform. Most railwaymen were quite keen gardeners, either by inclination, or necessity. The Great Western had encouraged this by allowing line side plots to be cultivated for vegetables; very welcome to a family economy used to living on a low wage; and making seeds available for station gardens and hanging baskets. Bob had not joined; or so he thought; to become a gardener, and had incurred the displeasure of the stationmaster more than once by 'weeding' plants that did not require weeding. He was learning, though, and was starting to show some enthusiasm for the job.

In the box, the signalman, driver, fireman and the guard, supped noisily at their mugs of tea. The fireman, who was only in his twenties, took it upon himself to remark on Tregonney's habit of watching the shunting movements. "It's almost as if he doesn't trust anyone else to do the job right," he complained.

Metcalfe laughed. "Our Thomas is quite able to pull a few stunts himself." He commented, only carrying on when Reg asked him to explain the comment. "I remember one I was told about, it was during the war. The Yanks were up on the Moor for exercises, and as they couldn't go anywhere without all the comforts of home, the number of trains that went up to Paverton was considerable. Well on this one day the Yank movements officer down at Molton assembled quite a long train of wagons, and despite the fact that the stationmaster told him that it wouldn't fit into the loops, sent it off. They had put a large Prairie on from Taunton, so the crew didn't know, and the pilot had only been up the line twice before, so although he had signed for the route he didn't know what length of siding we had here.

"Hang on," interrupted the fireman, "the regulations. wouldn't allow that."

"No," replied Metcalfe, "but this was wartime and a lot of things like this happened."

The driver nodded. "Yes I heard tales of crews having to drive on to all sorts of unlikely places, remember when that Hall ended up somewhere near Sheffield, it was over-gauge for the line, and took quite a few platform edging stones off, the crew were so far away from home they thought they would be interned for the duration."

Metcalfe grinned, he knew the story well. He continued. "There was no trouble until they got here, when it had to go in the loop. It was of course too long. They stood there for some time with the crew, the guard, and the signalman all scratching their heads. Then they heard the whistle of the up passenger at Lills platform, and the panic really set in.

That's when Thomas Tregonney came onto the scene. 'Split the train,' he says, 'get as many wagons as you can into the Good shed road, and then get the rest into the loop.' Well they did that, but it soon became obvious that there were still too many wagons; the last wagon was still fouling the turnout. 'Right,' says Thomas 'we'll get them right up into the down head shunt.' Now that would have been o.k. but the Loco couldn't get behind the wagon, because they were still fouling the point, and of course it couldn't haul them into the head shunt as it would trap itself. Thomas beckons the driver to come with him into the shed, where he points to a great coil of Manila rope. "Do you reckon that that would take the strain?"

The driver looked at the rope, and then at Thomas. "You're not thinking what I think you're thinking?"

"Well you tell me another way of clearing the line," says Thomas.

The driver thinks about it and says. "Mr Tregonney, I'll do it, but get everybody well away, because if that rope parts it will kill anyone nearby." So that's what they do, attach the rope to the wagons, and the back of the Loco, and the driver takes it slowly up the main line, until the rope's taut, then gradually the wagons move up the goods loop into the head shunt, where because they had no braking on, they demolish the stop block, and the lead wagon drops two wheels off before they stop. That clears the line, except for the Loco, which had no place to go, so they attach it to the front of the up Passenger when it arrives and send it back to Molton, double headed. Then it came all the way back light engine! By this time Thomas had managed to get a Shire Horse from one of the local farms, and they moved sufficient of the wagons for the loco to assemble the train again, except for the wagon that had dropped off. That stayed there for days until they could get the Breakdown crew up."

They all laughed at this story, and Reg Purvess ventured the opinion that it was all make-believe.

"No," says Metcalfe. "I know it happened because the driver was my Dad. There is one other thing though. The wagon was full of supplies for the Yanks, which included a couple of cases of Whisky. Needless to say they weren't in the wagon when it eventually got to Paverton. Their laughter was heard all over the station site, and Bob cursed his luck that he could not be with them.

Metcalfe was not done yet. "If there was something that Thomas loved; apart from the Great Western; it was Cricket. He turned out for the local team from time to time. He was quite handy as a slow bowler, off-breaks, leg-breaks, the Googly, he could do them all, as well as a rather tasty faster ball, which got him quite a few LBW's. Problem was that Thomas could never stay for the whole match. He had to get back here for the seven fifteen."

Reg interrupted. "He didn't have to; it was Sunday, his day off."

Metcalfe grinned. "Yes but you know Thomas, he didn't like to leave it for anyone else to do. Probably thought the leading porter would derail the train or something. So it was important that Combe Lyney won the toss and elected to field first, and then at least they would get the benefit of Thomas's bowling, before he had to leave. Of course he was never available for away matches." He took a sip of his tea. "I was told about another dodge that Thomas got up to. They were playing Bishops Nympton, and there had been a stoppage for rain, so the whole match which was a bit of a needle match was late. Well the Bishops Nympton team would always catch the eight-thirty five, but the way this match was going it probably wouldn't end until about eight ten, and it was going to be nip and tuck for them to get to the station in time. The train was in on time and the driver was very surprised that when he stops, Thomas goes down in the six foot and starts to examine the outside cylinder very closely. So the driver gets down as well and wants to know what Thomas is doing. Thomas explains the situation and the driver goes along with it, as Thomas said he would cover the report. Thomas gets back on the platform and tells the few passengers that there was a slight problem with the engine, says to those who ask that it could be gland packing. Wouldn't you know it but the problem disappears the moment the Bishops Nympton team run onto the platform. I heard later that he wrote in the late report that there was a suspected leak from the cylinder, so the driver could not get into trouble."

The fireman laughed and said. "Go on tell me the driver was your dad again." Metcalfe nodded. "Yes it was. Thomas would not have dared pulled that stunt unless it was someone he knew."

The sun was well up now, and heat was building. Bob had undone his waistcoat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves, as he bent to his task. Although he was some distance away from the Signal Box, it was so quiet that he heard the 'ting' of the bell. Knowing that this would herald the arrival of the up passenger, he straightened, and leaving the bucket he used for the weeds, started back down the platform, dressed as he was.

His fates were never so kindly, that he was unnoticed by Thomas; who appeared on the platform just as Bob walked past the Porch. "You will not be greeting the service dressed like that, I trust?" Thomas growled.

Bob held up his hands, which were dirtied with soil. "I was going to wash before I buttoned my waistcoat, Mr. Tregonney." Thomas could not argue with the sense of this and merely grunted, "Carry on." He of course was wearing his cap, and frock coat, despite the heat. Bob walked on, a smirk on his face and the unspoken comment, 'gotcha,' in his head. Any victory, no matter how small was sweet.

The bell had also stirred others back to life. Reg was pulling signal levers, the engine crew rejoined their locomotive, and Metcalfe his van. Anson appeared on the platform and took his place by the wicket gate to collect tickets. The ceremony had started again. The train arrived, and left, leaving a handful of passengers trickling out through the gate, some to a waiting car, most to walk the mile and a half to Combe Lyney.

Thomas did not wonder why the station was so far from the village it served, this was often the case with country railways, laid down at a time when two or three mile walks did not deter folk. The better classes would have carriages to bring them to the station, so they would not have complained. Now attitudes were different, people would not use a mode of transport that was not convenient for them, and increasingly bought their own transport.

With the departure of the passenger train, the goods could resume its slow journey to Paverton. Reg set the points, and with much groaning and clanking the train cleared the station and commenced the uphill struggle towards Lills Platform. It was at this time of the day that Thomas would make his way over to the signal box. Part of his responsibility was to sign the train register, a record that Reg was required to keep, listing all train movements and their times, in and through the section. It had once been the time to await the "signal", a tone broadcast from Paddington over the company's private telephone lines that enabled all stations to synchronise their clocks. This was the end of the first part of Reg's shift and he would 'switch out' the Box. He worked what was known as a split shift. Coming on early, and working late, when there were most trains, with a break in the middle of the day, when there were least train movements. Switching out created one long section from the Junction with the Barnstaple line; to Paverton, controlled by the boxes at those two points. Thomas climbed the stairs to the box, and knocked on the door. The door carried a sign marking it 'Private' and even Thomas would observe the courtesy of knocking.

Reg was speaking on the telephone, the railway's private line, which connected the signal boxes. He was confirming to the boxes at either end of the branch that he had switched out, although they would already know this from the bell codes and the line indicators.

He waved Thomas in. "Good morning, stationmaster, there is tea left in the pot, would you like a cup?" Thomas accepted, not just because he had to remain on good terms with the signalman; but also because they lived close, in railway houses, and his widowed mother, would shop for Thomas when she went to Paverton. Reg's father had been on the railway, and had been killed by a shunting accident at South Molton.

Sipping his tea, which was stewed to an extent that not even the Sterilised Milk could disguise. Thomas tried to make small talk, not a skill with which he was at ease. "It's a warm day today," he was standing there in his cap and coat, with perspiration trickling over his forehead.

Reg smiled. "That it is, Mr. Tregonney," thinking to himself, why didn't Tregonney take off that stupid coat. "Saw Marion going off to school this morning, you will be proud of her, the way she has adapted." This was a reference to the death of Abigail, Thomas's wife, and Marion's mother just three years ago. Thomas was cautious; he was unsure of the Signalman's attitude towards Marion. Particularly after the incident when Marion had operated the box, she must have spent quite some time here to learn the skills. Reg was in his late twenties and was going out with a girl from Combe Lyney; surely he would have no interest in Marion? Reg didn't have any interest in Marion, apart from the fact that he felt sorry for her, especially as Thomas was always too dedicated to his job to have much time for her.

"Yes, she is a good girl."

Anxious to change the subject Thomas moved on to ground upon which he felt safe. "Not too much on the goods today."

Reg agreed. "And it's getting less all the time."

Thomas nodded. "Time was when we would have need of every inch of the track out there, just to clear the line for the passenger, and then to add to the problems, there would be the quarry trains. I don't know what we will do when it starts picking up again, I shall have to see if District will put in some improvements." He finished his tea. "You will be going off now, let me sign the register." Thomas did that, but not before scrutinising the page to make sure that everything was in order. "Thank you for the tea, Reg, I shall see you later."

He left the cabin, and Reg rinsed his cup out with hot water, and hung it on a hook to drain. Funny old Bugger, he thought, aloof and throwing his weight around one minute, and then quite reasonable the next. Then he laughed to himself, if he thinks that things will get better, he's kidding himself. The whole system is falling apart; soon there will nothing left. Reg was realistic, he had been looking at other jobs, and felt that he could in all probability get another box. It would mean moving, he had talked with his girlfriend, Gladys, and she had agreed that if that happened they would marry and she would move with him. He checked around the box, closed the damper on the stove, and left himself, locking the door on the way out.

To be continued