False Starts, Near Misses and Dangerous Goods
Page 4
We were often reminded how fine the line was between walking away and real trouble. Most of us railway professionals saw dreadful things at some time, and rules and equipment needed constant vigilance, but these stories might amuse even if – fifty-four years later in my Swiss village – I still have a crooked arm as a reminder.
NOCTURNE AT HAYMARKET
Harry Knox describes a musical escapade performed by the young cleaners at Haymarket Motive Power Depot
In the early part of my railway career, I spent some very happy years as a cleaner/fireman at Edinburgh Haymarket Motive Power Depot. There, in the late 1950s, was a large allocation of engine cleaners, most of whom, myself included, were also employed on firing duties on a fairly regular basis (and later continuously) from April through to October. During the winter months, however, the cleaning squads were large, with some thirty-five cleaners on three shifts spread over 24 hours, with no firing duties to relieve the monotony.
With such a gathering of young men together, and there being little joy in cleaning engines during the hours of darkness, there was, on the night shift, often some nonsense or other being acted out. Mostly this was nothing more than innocent fun but sometimes this ‘fun’ was taken to extremes. Whilst not a paragon of innocence myself – but with an earnest desire to continue in my chosen career – I have to say that, this time, common sense dictated that one should not get involved in some of the wilder escapades, and thus I shied clear of much of the nonsense.
Now to the story! Immediately south of the shed and bordering the quadrupled main lines – the South Main and North Main lines running west out of Edinburgh Waverley station – Edinburgh Corporation had premises from where the city’s cleansing and refuse collection operations were conducted.
In the 1950s, when many of the citizens were being rehoused into new council-owned accommodation from older properties, the dimensions of the new properties were to give rise to a problem – mainly centred round pianos of all things. Large pianos and small rooms did not sit well together and there arose a glut of pianos – pianos which could not be negotiated through the restricted access and doors to, and limited space within, the said properties. Sadly, there was little or no demand for second-hand pianos at that time and so they became a problem of disposal. Edinburgh Corporation quickly set up a service to collect unwanted instruments and these were placed in storage in the Russell Road premises close by the engine shed. Perhaps the Council had decided that the pianos might, at some later time, come back into favour and have a value. Whatever the reason, there was a store containing many pianos just across the railway from the shed, and herein lies my story.
It was late in the year and, during the night shift at Haymarket, whilst the supervision of cleaners was robust, there were just so many boys on duty that it was easy for a few to slip away into the dark recesses of the shed – a gloomy and dismal place even in daylight – and inevitably some new nonsense was devised. On one particular evening, using darkness as a cover in the wee small hours, a few cleaners ventured across to the Corporation’s refuge disposal premises and discovered the pianos, just lying there. Not without some considerable effort on their part, a number of pianos were manhandled out of storage, up a small embankment and across four sets of running rails, almost under the noses of the signalmen in Haymarket Central Junction signal box. The raid had been well planned in advance and a depository for the purloined pianos had been well chosen. As a relic of Second World War days there were two redundant air-raid shelters – brick-built with concrete roofs, but otherwise windowless – lying empty in the shed yard. It was here that the acquired pianos were to find their way.
Now we come to the humorous aspect of the story, and humorous it indeed was. During the transfer of the pianos across the main lines, the perpetrators became aware of an approaching freight train on the Up North main line. This was a train from Thornton yard and bound for Portobello yard and was being worked ‘through the town’ at that ungodly hour of the morning. Putting down their burden in the ‘ten foot’ between the lines, they awaited the passage of the train, and one of their number, standing at the instrument, opened the lid and ‘tickled the ivories’, as they say. The train passed safely and the transfer across was completed.
A few days later all hell was let loose when the loss of the pianos was discovered; Lothian and Borders’ finest were soon on the case. The shed and its cleaners were soon to become suspects and the police duly descended on the shed. Both the shedmaster and running foremen dismissed any suggestion that Haymarket cleaners were involved. How, it was asked, could heavy pianos be manhandled across four sets of busy running lines – for what purpose and, indeed, who would think of such a thing? Nevertheless, a full search was made, but nothing untoward was found and, in due course, apologies were made and accepted and life returned to normal, or so it seemed.
The search had missed the air-raid shelters, which were, to all intents and purposes, sealed and out of use, but it was to these shelters that attention was turned a few months later. The general-stores building was creaking at the seams and additional storage was required for some of the bulkier items, such as bales of cotton waste, firelighters and drums of cleaning material, and so the shedmaster ordered that the long-abandoned air-raid shelters be cleaned out and brought back into service as temporary-storage accommodation. This task was duly undertaken by the shed labourers and, lo and behold, there in the gloom of the shelters, the pianos were discovered. The reasons for appropriating the pianos were never to be explained and, obviously, whilst it had seemed a good idea at the time, there was no ulterior motive involved.
The discovery of the pianos then became the main talking point at the shed for several weeks and gave rise to much bothy humour. One day, in the drivers’ bothy, the tale was being retold for the umpteenth time, and this time in the earshot of an elderly Thornton-based driver who was having his meal break. He listened intently and then said to the audience in the bothy, ‘You dinnae ken just how pleased and relieved I am to hear what you are saying. You see, I was workin’ a goods for Portobello through the toon some weeks ago and, when passing the shed and approaching Haymarket Central box, my fireman shouted to me, “Will ye come and look at this silly bugger” and, dae ye ken, there in the darkness was someone standing and playing a piano between the running lines! We thought we might report it at aither Waverley or Portobello but then, being unsure jist whit I thocht I had seen, and in discussing it with my fireman, we baith thought wha’ the hell’s gonny believe us, so we just kept quiet, but noo, I am really gled to ken that I wasnae really seein’ things.’
This revelation set the bothy off once more!
LESS THAN GRAND OPENINGS
Ceremonies for the opening of new facilities do not, as Ian Body discovered, always goes as well as hoped
Not for the First Time
When the infant seaside resort of Weston-super-Mare got its first railway in 1841 it was just a short Bristol and Exeter Railway branch off the main line from Bristol towards Exeter, which was to be erratically worked for a number of years by a team of horses and second-rate coaches. The town commissioners at the time did not think much of this, and even less of the fact that they were expected to pay for their own meal at the breakfast that had been arranged to mark the opening. Local dissatisfaction also reappeared when the Great Western Railway (GWR) was finally persuaded to put the fast-growing town on a through loop from the main Exeter line. One local councillor pointedly compared the GWR’s hospitality shortcomings with the lavish banquet that had been provided by the contractor who had built the new seafront esplanade. This cloud over local railway openings was to reappear nearly 150 years later, in September 1990.
It has always been the practice to make an event out of the opening of a new station, irrespective of the size of the location – or lack of it. And it was no different when Worle, on the outskirts of Weston-super-Mare, was due for its grand unveiling. This new facility for the growing outer area of the town had been
supported by local-authority funding, and therefore the council, not unreasonably, expected a formal event.
Unfortunately, not only did it not rate highly in railway circles, but also most of those invited seemed to be able to find a conflicting engagement. On top of this, it was arranged at the very last moment.
Suffice to say that the grand total of attendance was two representatives from the council, one reporter-cum-cameraman and two staff from the West of England’s public relations office at Bristol. That might not have been too bad had the event not solely hinged on a formal tape-cutting for the camera. Only halfway on his journey from Bristol to Weston did the public relations officer (PRO) realise that the crucial element for cutting the tape – the scissors – was missing and that the options available were limited.
Worle station on the outskirts of Weston-super-Mare looking west towards the junction for the loop line to the town’s main station in the distance..
The local news that evening carried a very brief piece about the station, with an underwhelming piece of footage showing the local council official gamely cutting a 1ft-wide opening tape with a pair of nail scissors – which was all that the local chemist had available!
A Rather Soggy Event
Another station opening, with rather more activity, was at Pinhoe just outside Exeter on the main line to Waterloo. On 16 May 1983 local groups had rallied round and provided a healthy rent-a-crowd of schoolchildren (grateful for a day out), a brass band and even a variety of fast-food sellers sensing a quick buck.
This time, the formal part of the ceremony would be the breaking of a large banner stretched across the line, proclaiming the momentousness of the occasion; this would be done by the first train due to call. The banner was duly stretched out, whereupon a deluge occurred leaving everyone to run to the shelter of the catering tents. The first one out was the PRO, who saw that the once-proud banner was absolutely sodden, falling apart and with its lettering running badly – nothing for it but to remove it and squash it into a ball for disposal.
At this point, the divisional manager (for such was the status of the event) appeared and said to the PRO, ‘Well done for protecting our banner from the rain, now let’s have it out again and get the ceremony underway.’ The PRO could, of course, only wonder how on earth a ball of superb papier mâché could be unrolled, ironed, repainted and displayed in the 4 minutes left before the arrival of the first train.
TRAIN ‘GAPPED’
Checking delay and incident reports could be laborious, but Jim Gibbons recalls one report with a touch of humour
Reading reports by inspectors and managers could sometimes supply a lighter note to non-safety incidents. One of the hazards of the conductor rail system of electrification, apart from being close to staff walking at track level, was the loss of power to a train due to it becoming ‘gapped’. Most conductor rail trains are multiple units and, therefore, have collector shoes at both ends, but a short train, particularly a two-car multiple unit, could become becalmed at a location with a long conrail gap if under the control of an unwary driver. One such driver was notorious for getting his train gapped, causing delay and disruption, whilst assistance was provided to get ‘back on the juice’.
At about this time, Lord Lucan, who was wanted by the police, had disappeared and every so often a sighting would be reported somewhere in the world, followed by a media frenzy. Gapping incidents were usually investigated by a traction inspector, who would then submit a report; one such report concerning a particular recalcitrant driver on his latest escapade concluded with the sentence, ‘If Lord Lucan was a gap in the conductor rail, Driver X would find him!’
THE SHOW MUST GO ON
‘The Radio 2 Railshow comes to town’, but involved some desperate, last-minute measures on the part of Mike Lamport
In the realm of railway public relations, even after months of dedicated planning of promotional events, things could still go wrong. Or, as our former chairman Sir Peter Parker had so pithily put it, ‘On the railway every day is Open Day!’
Of course, the trick was to solve the problem before anyone, the public or the media, realised it. One example of snatching success from the jaws of defeat occurred in Aberystwyth in August 1987 when the ‘Radio 2 Railshow’ came to town. This never-to-be-repeated tour saw the stars of BBC Radio 2 touring the UK by a specially adapted train – the BR Exhibition train – in yet another fee-earning guise. The show began in the south and west of England and then moved to Scotland, via the west coast, before calling at resorts on the east coast on its return.
With the regional public relations teams at full stretch, I, along with other members of the BRB-based PR team, were asked to help out. Our role was to liaise with local rail staff and any members of the local media who might decide to cover the story in what was, after all, the media ‘silly season’. This is the time of the year when politicians – who, as we know, normally drive the news agenda – are themselves on holiday, leaving the media scrabbling around for stories.
I chose to cover the visits to Aberystwyth and Llandudno for no other reason than it gave me the opportunity to return to a holiday area favoured by the Lamport family some twenty years earlier. To reach the Cambrian coast on the evening before the show meant travelling to Shrewsbury where my Godfrey Davis ‘Rail Drive’ hire car awaited me at the station, and where the long, but lovely, drive westwards began.
It was a good job that I arrived in Aberystwyth when I did, as, to my horror – and to the consternation of the local staff – the train had for some reason been shunted into, and left in, what could only be described as a permanent-way depot siding! This scene of near desolation was complete with the rotting, grounded body of an old GWR coach and the usual detritus – split-open sacks of bolts, chairs and fishplates – that one would expect to find in a working area that was normally out of the public gaze.
With the locomotive already despatched back to England for refuelling and the train now only being powered by its generator vehicle, there was no possibility of having it moved before Radio 2’s presenter Ken Bruce was due ‘on air’ at 9.30 the next morning! This start time had been agreed so that Ken could warm up the audience, who would then be on hand to hear, and cheer, his much anticipated daily handover with Terry Wogan, who remained throughout the show in the London studio.
So while rail staff scurried around picking up the many tripping hazards and getting to work with shovels and brooms, I had to think on my feet. How was I going to hide those many immovable objects and provide a welcoming entrance to visitors drawn to the train? After all, we hoped that some of these, having been attracted by the BBC’s publicity effort and having found the station, might choose to return to ride the still BR-owned Vale of Rheidol Railway.
I commandeered a telephone and eventually, just as it was closing for the day, got hold of a very helpful person in the Borough Council’s Parks and Gardens department. I pleaded with him for as much ‘green cover’ as he could muster to help hide the ramshackle buildings and to create the desperately needed welcoming feel to the station (and, of course, their town).
At a BBC Radio 2 live show, Public Relations Officer Mike Lamport gets a hug and radio personality Gloria Hunniford a hat. (Mike Lamport)
Sure enough, early next morning, in the style of the then popular Challenge Anneka programmes, a convoy of council vehicles began shuttling backwards and forwards between various parks in and around the town and the station. They even ‘borrowed’ large potted plants from the council offices; the scene was set just as the first visitors arrived.
With Ken broadcasting happily in the sunshine from a now tree-lined engineers’ dock, I slipped away to the seafront where I was greeted by the unforgettable image of the ever-suave David Jacobs and his producer sitting side by side in deckchairs on the beach both eating ice-cream cornets. David (who, as chairman of Juke Box Jury, I used to watch every Saturday night as a teenager) was, as ever, dressed immaculately in blazer, shirt and tie and, if I recall co
rrectly, was even sporting a perfectly placed pocket handkerchief.
Later that day, with disaster averted, I drove through the breathtaking Llanberis Pass, quietly reflecting that this was one of the rewards of the job but, all the while, praying that I wouldn’t find myself thrown in the same situation again on my arrival in Llandudno! I needn’t have worried, as Llandudno was, at that time, blessed with what seemed like acres of empty platforms and one of these had already made a good home for the train.
Next morning, everything ran like clockwork and Ken Bruce went back on air without a hitch as I handed over to my regional colleague. It was he who would see the train move next to Morecambe, where Gloria Hunniford was waiting to join the tour, along with Adrian Love, presenter of the eponymous Love in the Afternoon show. He would then hand over to the incomparable John Dunn who, like Terry Wogan, remained in the London studio. This then gave time each day for the train to be de-rigged and made ready to move on.
Perhaps it’s no wonder that now, in my semi-retirement, I still enjoy Ken’s daily show on Radio 2, often reflecting how differently things might have turned out on that sparkling summer’s day nearly thirty years ago.
FALSE START