Abby Ch. 08

He nodded slowly, and indicated Dinmore Manor. "I shall be taking her out with the next train."

She then asked him. "Have you been driving for long?"

He smiled, 'forty years or so."

Abby's next question surprised him, not the usual what is it like to drive, or what is your favourite engine, but. "Is this what it was really like, or is this just make believe for the tourists?" He looked at her, deciding that she wasn't a critic, sneering at them for playing trains, but earnest in her question.

"No, this isn't what it was really like; it can't be, can it? The true picture was not just the railway, but the times as well. Look around; all we have here is a small part, based mainly on the engines that have been saved. The coaches we use are from the sixties, not at all representative of the way people travelled even as late as the forties and the fifties, when the stock used on a local train down here was probably built in the twenties, or even earlier. That building being used as an engine shed, the old part, was the goods shed, and those tracks over there would have been full of trucks, waiting to be unloaded, or ready to go with the next goods. The real engine shed was behind us, where the car park is now, small shed it was, with a turntable and a couple of short roads."

He stopped watching Abby to see if he was boring her. Undertanding that she was really interested he continued. "If we were to be really accurate, then there would be as many goods trains trundling down this line as passenger. Almost every station had a goods shed, and the pickup goods stopped at every one and shunted trucks in, and out until it had the train made up. A pick up goods train leaving Taunton with thirty trucks could arrive here with thirty trucks, but only about six of them would be part of the original train. There would be what was called express goods, which would come straight through, but express wasn't really the word to describe an unfitted freight that rarely exceeded twenty miles an hour. No Miss, we can only re-create part of the scene, but even so it is important. We keep alive skills and knowledge, and as well as entertaining people we give them an insight into how the railway operated. It's funny in a way, but there are young people now, whose only experience of travelling by train is on a preserved line like this, behind a steam loco. The car serves them for every other purpose." The man lapsed into silence.

Abby didn't want the opportunity to pass, as here was someone who had worked the railway at the time of her grandfather. "My grandfather worked on the railway, he was a stationmaster, not far from here. I didn't know him, but from what I've gathered he was a difficult person. He spent all his life on the railway, but had nothing at the end."

The man looked at her closely; he could see the sadness in her face. "I know quite a few men who finished like that. When I joined in nineteen fifty-four, I was twenty. I'd done my National Service, and already tried one or two other jobs. I started as a cleaner at Bletchley on the old L.M.S."

Abby interrupted. "I thought that the nationalisation happened in nineteen forty-eight."

He laughed. "It did, but the men still thought of themselves as L.M.S. men, like G.W.R. men, old habits die-hard. I suppose the L.N.E.R. men thought the same. I don't know about the Southern though. The Southern was always different." Abby was inclined to ask why, but instead filed that away as a question to ask Mr. Brasher at some time. The man continued. "It was at a time when lots of men were leaving, retirement for the older ones, and well the younger ones didn't like the hours and dirty conditions, so I progressed through to firing and driving quite quickly. It was strange though, I was working alongside men who had spent forty years getting to the top link, and suddenly I was there in next to no time. I don't suppose they liked it too much. The older men had worked for all that time, and were now coming up to retirement on a pension that would hardly keep body and soul together. They had gone through the War, experienced all the problems after, cheered when the railways were nationalised, expecting that it would all change. It didn't though, the owners might be different, but it was still the same bosses, and the conditions didn't change either."

Abby didn't quite know if he was trying to show his sympathy for her grandfather, but his words did help a little, knowing that many other men were in the same boat. "So you come down here to drive steam locomotives in your spare time?"

He shook his head. "No Miss, I took early retirement, same as lots of other men, my wife originally came from this area, so we moved down here. I drive because I always enjoyed driving steam, and as I'm local, it's easy for them to call me in when the volunteers can't make it." He stood, collected his bag, and told her he would have to take over Dinmore Manor now, "but if you're here again, say hello, it's been nice talking to you." He gave her a cheery wave and moved to the edge of the platform. After looking carefully in both directions he dropped down to the track and crossed the lines to the engine. Abby pondered his comments, yet again she was aware of the separateness, she could think of no other word that seemed to be part and parcel of railwaymen. There were other things to puzzle, like "unfitted freight", and "top link". She had felt too daunted to ask. Perhaps Mr. Brasher would have an explanation for her.

Abby's logic told her she should leave now, but the emotions stirred by these sights wanted to stay, and stay she did, wondering what would happen next. Whatever was to happen next migrated to the back of her mind, as the calm of the place permeated her thoughts. She sat back and just enjoyed the quiet that had descended over the station with the departure of the train. That was odd she thought, all that activity and suddenly it all stopped, only the Seagulls wheeling overhead brought movement and sound, the harsh cries 'aark, aark' assaulting the ear. After a while even that grating sound was lost as her consciousness no longer heard it. "Dinmore Manor" sat quietly a curl of steam coming from the top of the Boiler, and occasional spurts of hot water from a pipe under the cab. She imagined she could actually hear it simmering, a gently comforting sound. Sitting there, warmed by the Sun and soothed by the gently voice of the engine, she closed her eyes. She awoke with a start, wondering for how long she had dozed off, and also what had awakened her.

That question was answered fairly swiftly; as it was the whistle of an engine that had startled her awake. The beep, beep of the warning at the level crossing as the barriers came down was a response to the whistle, and with the gates safely in place the engine opened up to draw the train over the level crossing and into the station. The signalman came out of his box to receive the token, and the train gently coasted along the platform. The locomotive was the twin of "Dinmore Manor", but named "Odney Manor". The train halted, and crowds of travellers alighted from the coaches. Mums, dads, kids, grandma's, grandpa's, and dogs, milled about, and sorted themselves before making their way back down the platform to the exit.

A scene not too far removed from that which must have existed years before, when the railway was the prime mover, and Summer Saturdays meant family holidays. The children would be excited, wanting to get their first glimpse of the sea. Dad would be harassed, ensuring that all their luggage, (except that which was sent in advance), was gathered together. Mum was trying to cope with the children, possibly wiping their faces with a damp flannel, to remove the dirt and grit collected by the journey, a consequence of heads which would insist that the only way to travel was at an open window, despite dire warnings of retribution from their parents. Grandmas eased aching limbs, and tried to straighten flowery, Polyester dresses creased from the extended journey, as ever, the train was much delayed. Grandpas would show much technical interest in the locomotive, seemingly apart from the turmoil on the platform behind them. All these things were so similar to the scene today, with the exception of the luggage, as now the travellers were simply on a joy ride, and the train wasn't late, well not too late.

Whilst all this was happening, "Dinmore Manor" had moved, up and was in the process of backing down to attach itself to the set of coaches, which were now refilling themselves with new passengers. The guard strolled up towards Dinmore, resplendent in peaked cap, and uniform, the cap and uniform liberally trimmed with gold braid in every possible location, the ensemble completed with a Rose for a buttonhole. He spoke briefly to the driver, before retracing his steps back down the platform. Abby would learn that it was incumbent upon the guard to inform the driver of the number of coaches, and also if any request stops had to be made. Doors were now slamming, as porters patrolled ensuring that all those who wished to travel were safely in their seats. The guard now stood by his compartment, awaiting the all clear from the porter at the back of the train, who was busy ushering the final passengers into the last coach, advising them to walk through the train to find seats. The ceremony moved towards its close, with the guard's whistle and green flag, the response from the driver with a short whistle, and the great clouds of steam boiling from the locomotive, creating a mist through which it pulled the train to start its journey. Abby was moved by this spectacle, a timeless event that drew her inevitably back, and closer, to her grandfather, whom she could see in her mind's eye as part of this, not just a figure from the past, who happened to be related to her. Had granddad seen this scene, and been part of it? Yes, of course, many times, and had his senses been moved by the ritual, the sounds, and the smells? She felt somehow that that was so; his allegiance to his job, and the company that employed him could only have been part of the tie that bound him to the railway. He would have been active in all this, a figure of authority to whom all other railway employees would defer, imperiously directing passengers into compartments, porters to carrying suitcases and parcels, and with frequent and obvious references to his watch would remind everyone that there was a timetable to be kept here. Abby smiled to herself as she pictured the scene.

With the departure of the train, the station lapsed into that torpor again. The platform deserted apart from her and a couple of photographers who were packing their equipment. Odney Manor had come to a stand by the water tower, although there seemed to be no moves to fill its tank. Of the crew no signs were to be seen. Abby sat for a while longer, telling herself that she should move on. She looked at her watch, and was horrified to see that it was quarter past three, what had happened to the time? As if the realisation of the time had reminded her stomach, it suddenly groaned and announced its empty condition. This was silly, she had rarely eaten at lunchtime, and never before had hunger pangs disturbed her, so why now? Ignoring her stomach's immediate demands she determined to wait and do justice to the meal that Mary would certainly place in front of her later this evening.

Back in her car, Abby consulted the map. As she had overstayed at the West Somerset Railway, it would now be difficult to spend any reasonable time at Porlock. She decided that she would make her way back to Combe Lyney, but taking a more leisurely route. The map indicated that the A39 and then the A396 would take her towards Taunton, but she could turn off either between Washford and Williton, or later before Bishops Lydeard and cross the Brendon Hills and find her way towards Wheddon Cross. In the event she followed the A396 up the valley towards Bishops Lydeard, delighting in the names of the villages signposted off the road, Bicknoller, Stogumber, and Crowcombe, which she discovered was separated from its railway station by at the least two and a half miles. She recalled something that Mr. Brasher had said, that the G.W.R. was not too concerned that its stations should actually be in the town or village it purported to serve, it was uneconomic to divert the railway from its best line. Besides the best customers to use the railway would be the gentry, who would have horse and carriage to bring them to the station. The lower classes could walk. The journey was pleasant relaxed motoring, the roads not at all suitable for fast driving which suited Abby, the tailback caused by a tractor not causing her any inconvenience, unlike the driver of a Blue Saloon, who demonstrated his impatience with constant lunges to the off-side, not achieving anything as oncoming traffic continually frustrated any passing manoeuvre. Abby was pleased to see the signpost for the B3224, which was where she intended to turn, convinced that the Saloon driver would shortly make an impossible overtaking move with possible disastrous consequences.

The B3224 took her towards Wheddon Cross, and judging from the road Signs for Crowcombe, and then Stogumber, on an almost parallel course to the road she had just used. She smiled wryly to herself, so much for her map reading! This road climbed steadily into the Brendon Hills, passing cottages that were now far removed from the prosaic and utility purposes for which they were built. Never had Thatch looked so pristine, nor did Cob walls gleam so bright, indications that the current owners had cash to invest in their upkeep, Capital gained from commerce that was unlikely to be agricultural. Beyond Elworthy the road gained the crest of the Hills, and ran relatively straight and level for some miles, she was tempted often by signs indicating roads to Bampton and Dulverton, and the curiously named Wimbleball Lake but ignored them, reasoning that there was plenty of time to explore in the weeks to come. It was therefore with some surprise that Abby arrived back in Combe Lyney earlier than she would have thought. Therefore instead of going to the Inn drove instead to the old Station.

It wasn't strange that this place attracted her so much. She felt a warmth and comfort here, where her family had lived and worked.. Wandering along the platform she tried to marry the images she had seen at Minehead, with the scene of desolation evinced here. Try as she might she could not conjure up the rails of shining steel, the trucks standing motionless awaiting their next load, or the picture of the platform itself, never crowded as Minehead was, but with at least a few intending passengers. She sighed with the frustration. This jigsaw had all the pieces except the most important, and it would be with a good imagination alone that she would see it complete. It was with a slight despondency that she returned to her car and drove the mile and a half to the Inn.

Abby was astounded with the activity that surrounded the Inn. Cars were parked; filling the meagre parking places at the front, and the road either side was similarly filled. She turned into the drive leading to the back of the Inn, but was unable to follow it all the way, as the gate was closed. Leaving her car nosed to the gate she went around the back to find a flustered and slightly perspiring Mary, laden with a tray full of cups, saucers, tea-pot, milk, scones, a pot of thick clotted cream, and another of strawberry jam. The yard was dotted with trestle tables, each under a Sun umbrella with lounging customers chatting or attending seriously to the Cream tea placed before them.

Mary smiled grimly at Abby, and whispered. "Cream Teas for Grockles."

Abby almost laughed, but restrained herself sufficiently to ask, for Mary was obviously under pressure. "Can I help?"

Mary shook her head. "Almost all done now, but it's been pandemonium all afternoon. Go sit yourself down and I'll get you some tea shortly." Abby did as Mary bid, but feeling a little guilty, until she saw Jack emerge from the back of the Pub, followed by a young girl in her teens, both similarly laden with trays as Mary had been. Seeing that Mary had help made her feel a little better. The young girl was faster than Jack at unloading the trays, and came straight over to Abby.

She smiled. "Hello, can I get you anything?"

Abby shook her head. "No thanks, Mary is going to get me some tea."

The girl regarded Abby, and suddenly said. "You're Miss Tregonney, aren't you? I'm Liz."

Abby was caught for a while trying to remember if she should know whom Liz was. Suddenly she remembered. "Oh yes, you help out in the stables for James Comberford. How are you?" She offered her hand and Liz shook it.

Then in that easy manner which most of the people in the valley seemed to have she sat down, and asked. "Are you going to come here to live?"

The question caught Abby unawares, not because she hadn't thought about it, as this was something that had floated around her mind, but because of the directness of the approach. "I haven't really thought about it that much, it's a lovely place, and somehow I feel that I'm at home here. Having said that I have still got to earn a living, and I don't know if there's much I can do around here."

Liz looked at her with astonishment. "Oh! I thought you were quite well off." The girl's simple honesty caught Abby for a second time, and the thought of the gossip that must have been bruited about, tickled her.

She broke out laughing. Liz sat there wondering what she had said that was funny, until Abby explained. "I'm not laughing at you; it tickled me to think what the gossip must have been."

Liz's face cleared. "It would be nice if you came to live here, there's not many young people like us around. Mr. James would be happy; I think he quite likes you."

Liz was going to go on, but an interruption came from Jack, who leaned over Liz's shoulder and said. "Lizzy, it would be a great help if you served customers, instead of sitting down gossiping with them."

Unabashed Liz got to her feet. "O.K., Uncle Jack, just going." As she walked away she turned back to Abby. "I'll get you your tea." Putting the emphasis on the 'I'll' as if to make the point, that others who had promised had failed to deliver.

Abby smiled up at Jack. "I'm sorry, it was my fault, and I shouldn't have kept her."

He grinned. "No, it wasn't your fault. Lizzy will take any opportunity to stop work and chat. She just can't help herself. If you want to publicize anything, tell Lizzy, you can be sure that within twenty-four hours, half the county will know."

To be continued