Posted: Sat Jun 10, 2006 8:09 pm Post subject: The Last Train.
(This story is about a true event, but the charecters portrayed are fictional.)
It was the end of an era. After serving the local population well for seventyfive years, the line was being closed.
My Mate turned towards me and said,
"What's the fire like, Son?"
"Smoky, it's this bloody rotten coal they give us these days," I replied angrily, "it's bloody rubbish, all dust and bits. It just turns to clinker all the time. No decent steam or heat at all."
"That's right, and if we can't raise a decent head of steam we've had it, even if we do raise it we lose half of it because of leaky glands and valves", replied the Driver, adding, "what a way to run a bleedin' railway."
Bob Turnbull, my Driver was one of the Old School, but he was due to retire in under three months time. His days on the railway were almost over, whereas mine should have been just beginning. I had just turned seventeen and was what was known as a 'Passed Cleaner', which meant that although most of my working week was spent in the sheds cleaning and doing light repairs, when the occassion arose I could be called upon for 'light firing duties'. This was my first 'proper' firing job, and I had no wish to let my Driver or myself down. My first firing job, but the way things were going it could also be my last. Diesel Traction was rapidly replacing the ageing steam fleet on the Main Roads, and the Branch lines that were not paying their way were being closed up and down the whole country. Doctor Beechings Modernisation Plan was already reducing the rail network, and soon only the most profitable lines would be left open.
I looked out the side of the cab. The snow which had been threatening all day had finally arrived and was falling heavily. Already the station lamps were lit, their feeble gaslight trying to penetrate the gathering gloom of the December afternoon.
The Guard waved his green flag, Bob gave a tug on the whistle cord, and slowly opened the regulator. The little 0-6-0 Pannier Tank slipped briefly on the slippery rails, then it's wheels got a grip with the help of some sand from the sandbox, and we slowly moved away from the Bay platform, drawing our one coach and two six-wheeled milk tankers behind it.
The semaphore signal showed clear which gave us permission to join the Main Road. We would follow this road for about two miles until we arrived at the Branch Junction at Marsh Mills. We clattered over the points and headed into the murky snowy evening ahead.
I just sort of 'knew' that our trip wasn't going to be easy. A mixture of bad coal and snow, a terrible combination. I opened the firebox door and shovelled five more into her, then shut the box with a clang.
"What's her pressure, Bob?" I yelled over the noise of the engine.
"Don't fret yourself, Lad, we're alright for a bit." came the reply. Bob took out and lit his pipe, and settled down for the journey ahead. I peered through the front lookout plate. Clouds of blackish smoke swirled amidst the still falling snowflakes.
I saw the signal lamp of the Marsh Mills gantry, which was glowing red. We drew alongside the platform, and stopped. Here we would have to wait for the 'Down' train to pass, and relinquish his token. From here on, the road was single-tracked and was controlled by the 'One Engine in Steam' method of operation. Until we reached Tavistock, there were no more semaphores.
Jim, the Marsh Mills Station-Master cum Porter cum Signalman poked his head into the cab.
"Hello me lads", he said, cheerfully, "the Downs late this afternoon, probably due to the weather."
"Probably", replied Bob, taking off his cap and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Although it was cold outside, inside the cab was quite warm.
"Here she comes", I said, as a whistle blew in the distance. The other train shortly drew up alongside us on the down track. I knew the crew, they were Mike and Donald, our 'oppos' from the Laira shed where Bob and I were based.
"What's the road like mate?" shouted Bob to the other Driver.
"Still passable, but not getting any better, mate" he replied, adding, "rather you than me".
The other loco was a 45xx class 2-6-2 Prarie Tank, which had rather more tractive effort than our engine.
The Token exchanged hands, and Bob hung it on it's peg inside the cab. Now, and only now, were we clear to move.
Our road would take us high onto the edge of Dartmoor, and I thought things could only get worse. The little Pannier struggled valiently into the blizzard.
By the time we'd reached Yelverton, it was dark, and we were over ten minutes behind schedule. We drew alongside Yelverton platform one, and noticed the Station-Master hurrying towards us. 'Oh hell', I thought, 'I suppose it'll be all my fault.'
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "so you've made it then?"
"Yes, but only just", replied Bob.
"Well lads, you'll be pleased to know that this is as far as you're going tonight", replied the Station-Master . "The road beyond is totally blocked by snow, and the Down Launceston is marooned at Horrabridge."
The few passengers had detrained and were huddled around the open fire in the Waiting Room. We were told to run our train back into the disused Princetown bay, and we detatched our loco, and took ourselves off to the tiny one- engine shed. I dropped the fire, and cleaned up and made the engine safe for the night.
"Well Boy, after we've cleaned ourselves up, fancy a pint?"
"Good idea", I agreed, happily.
Lodgings had been found for us, and after we'd had a good hot soak, and a home-cooked supper, we walked over to the 'Moorland' for a drink.
The following day, we were rostered to return the loco running light, to Laira.
So the last train hadn't made it through after all. Between them, the Weather and Doctor Beeching had done their worst.
Bob retired soon afterwards, and I left the railway and put myself through Night School, and now I'm also retired. How time flies. But the memory of that last journey on the Plym Valley line will never die.
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