Railway Boy

I had trodden the bramble-lined footpath near Bickle signal box many times, but on this certain day I cannot recall the exact reason for walking along it; perhaps I was on my way home from visiting friends in Grington. Indubitably I had not been to the signal box, for had that been the case I would have known of irregular circumstances surrounding the pick-up train. In the event, it was a shock to see the pick-up not being its usual industrious self but, with its customary short train of three or four wagons, gently simmering in the warm afternoon sun at a point midway between signals. I think the Class J21, the funny engine, by now no longer hauled the pick-up; the locomotive on this day might have been a Class J39, a more recent design of 0-6-0, one without a distinctive tall chimney. The quiescent engine emitted a gentle, purring roar. At a point where the village footpath and railway alignment veered away from one another, I climbed over a wooden fence, crossed the corner of lush pasture, and arrived at the steel wire and concrete fence that marked the edge of railway property. Astonishment at what I now saw surpassed the initial surprise of seeing the train ruminating in the station area: the pick-up was on the wrong track. I hurriedly looked up and down the tracks for an answer. A few moments of frenzied investigation revealed the front end of the locomotive standing just clear of the revolving ground signal authorizing movement through the crossover from Down Main to Up Main. The ground signal displayed a red disc to the engine driver forbidding movement. My feverish behaviour had not escaped notice of the driver. In characteristic pose, the driver leant out of the side window with his upper body weight placed on his left arm that lay on the armrest. His head protruded sufficiently from the engine side to afford an unobstructed view of an agitated boy at the trackside. I called out to him: “What ’appened?” “We’ve gotta wait for one on t’Up Main,” he replied, smiling to himself at my inquisitiveness. The pick-up had been shunted from the Up Main to the Down Main to enable a more important train on the Up Main to overtake. The signalman at Kewlby would probably have sent the bell signal 1-5-5 Shunt Train for Following Train to Pass. Whether the Kewlby signalman would have sent the bell code on his own initiative, or whether he would have been prompted by the next signal box down the line, Shorborough, or whether the instruction had come from Control, one can only speculate. One mystery solved, another anomaly now stood out like a burning torch on a dark night. Steam engines carried paraffin-burning white headlamps arranged in various combinations of four positions to denote the class of train they were pulling. A lamp over each buffer was a Class A express; one lamp beneath the chimney a Class B stopping train; one under the chimney and one centrally on the buffer beam a Class H unfitted freight; and so on. A pick-up, Class K, should have had one lamp over the buffer nearest the outside of the tracks, the off side (the right-hand side when viewed from the front). The pick-up I was looking at had its lamp on the other side. I had difficulty remembering some aspects of railway operations, but the headlamp code for a Class K was not one of them. Indignation at the transgression smouldered within as I glared at the offending lamp. The longer I glared the more inflamed my feelings became, till I could contain them no longer, and they burst forth in a heartfelt, audacious cry of agony to the train driver: “’Ead lamp’s on t’wrong side!” The train driver, unaccustomed to outbursts from youthful trackside spectators – not that any train driver would be accustomed to outbursts from youthful trackside spectators – was startled; his square face froze for a second, his eyes dilated. But he was quickly over the shock. The pick-up train driver allowed a small smile to creep across his face, and uttered a breathy exclamation, “Phaw!” Then, without taking his eyes off the source of the impertinence, the driver turned his head towards the inside of the locomotive cab and addressed his fireman: “Go ’n ’ave a look.” The fireman dismounted, and walked along cinders to examine the front of the engine where he found the headlamp to be indeed wrongly placed. Upon correcting the gaffe, the fireman returned to the footplate to give his report. I do not know the initial exchanges between the footplate crew, but I do know what the driver said next, for he leant out of the window far enough to ensure I heard. Addressing his fireman, the train driver said: “I think that deserves a ride, don’t you?” A rush of emotions exploded from the mind outwards at the thought of riding on a steam engine. The driver leant further still out of the cab to look both ways along the Up Main, he then beckoned me across. I scrambled through the wire fence, picked my way carefully over a low, weedy embankment, and crossed the track to the foot of the locomotive. The machine now seemed twice the height it appeared from afar; the entrance, located between cab and tender, soared above this nine-year old boy like a cliff face, a formidable climb. “’Ere, gimme yer ’and,” said the genial engine driver.