by Ed Zenith
11.
They were an hour out of Swindon when Ash finally succumbed to curiosity.
“So why do they call him Iron Acton?”
Ash had been shovelling coal continuously since they left, but with every spade full another question was added to the ever-growing pile in his mind. For Ash the myth surrounding his new employer was fascinating. Acton was certainly a taciturn joyless bully, but not the monster of his legend. What prompted the folk stories and the campfire tales? It was clear to Ash that he was totally naïve when it came to matters such as this, but he still wanted explanations. Unfortunately, Frampton was not about to illuminate him.
“Well that’s his business now isn’t it?”
“But…”
“If you wants my advice lad, stay well clear. Young Master Acton’s a prickly fella at the best of times, but throw that awful nickname into the mixture and he’s likely to be as grumpy as a badger with a sore paw. Now, you’s want to learn to drive this thing or what?”
This distracted Ash from his line of questioning.
“Drive?”
“Got to learn some time, hasn’t you? You do want to drive her, don’t you?”
“Yes! Y-yes, of course!” Ash stammered with delight.
Frampton smiled a wide toothless grin.
“Thought as much. Could see it in your eyes when you first looked at her. Now some people might say that you isn’t old enough to drive an engine and there are laws in place saying as much, but,” Frampton’s smile grew wider, “we don’t pay much attention to that sort of stuff around here.”
And so Ash came to learn about the Horton, its history and its beauty. She had been made in 1872 to pull the commuter trains to London, but as soon as the capital moved, she had far less carriages to pull and soon found herself redundant. Acton had snapped the Horton up for a song and Frampton was the only person willing to work for him. He strengthened and adapted the engine to pull tons of freight, but this meant that to drive the Horton meant knowing all about her foibles and eccentricities.
“To put it another way, I’m the only begger what knows how to handle her,” grinned Frampton proudly. “Master Acton knows the basics of course, but only I can get the best out of her.”
They came to a nice long piece of track and Frampton gave Ash the controls, guiding him through every part. Ash was nervous at first, but soon became familiar with the controls. He could suddenly feel the engine around him, her weight and power. He was amazed how it responded to his controls, how the slightest move he made meant this great iron beauty slowed down and sped up at his command.
“That’s it, you got her. You sure you never done this before?”
“Never,” Ash grinned.
“You’s a natural lad! You can feel it can’t you? Every turn, bump and slope in the track? Not many get the feeling so quick, if at all. Natural born footplateman, that’s what you are!”
Ash went on to learn the basics of the engine and some of her idiosyncrasies. He grasped the concept of the steam engine very quickly, for someone who had no education to speak of. The fuel burnt in the firebox, which heated the water in the tank, which produced steam, which drove the piston to and fro to push the wheels forward. It all added up in his mind, a perfectly simple system that he could make sense of easily. He longed to learn more about the engine.
“How fast can she go?” asked Ash.
“Oh, normally about sixty.”
“What do you mean, normally?” Ash felt he had to ask, or rather, Frampton wanted to tell. He obviously loved showing the Horton off.
“Well, usually you got to be careful not to over boil these models. She’s only got a small tank see? But I made a slight adjustment,” he pointed to a crudely welded lever in the cab. “Pull that there and I reckon she’d do ninety, easily. I calls it the welly lever. Gives her some welly, see? Never tried it mind. Never been in that much of a hurry!”
Ash smiled and applied the brake slightly as they snaked around a corner. Already he could feel that this was what he was born to do.
*****
Acton and Sandy sat alone in the carriage, silent. Sandy had had the foresight to bring a book to pass the time, but her finishing school tutors had always told her that it was bad manners to read in the company of others (a silly rule, Sandy had always thought, as if reading for pleasure or education was some sort of strange taboo that should only go on behind closed doors). She often flouted the rule by reading in public, in a street-side café, even whilst walking down the street (an acquired skill, especially on the dirty streets of Swindon), but she recognised that in a one-on-one situation she should make the effort to have a conversation. Despite her finishing school education however, her years in polite society and hundreds of upper-class gatherings, she could not for the life of her think of a single thing to talk about.
Acton was the same. He had not attended finishing school of course, or any other sort of school come to that, but he was well practised in talking to clients and having a laugh with the locals in pubs up and down the land. Despite his quiet and grumpy personality, he could always turn on the charm when needed. He could not however think of anything to say. Sandy was a little different to his other clients, he reasoned. His usual employers were normally large men with scars on their faces, tattoos running up and down their forearms and had a stench of tobacco and urine about them. They certainly never came on the jobs themselves, preferring to stay in a local pub in case the Horton was stopped by customs. Things were more deniable that way. Miss Lane was different. She had no visible scars or tattoos and of course did not smell at all, except for a light fragrance of roses. Not that Acton had noticed.
Her freight also seemed to be completely above board and legal, which made a change for the clients of the Horton.
“So what’s in the crates?” Acton found himself asking. He was so used to not asking questions about his freight that he surprised himself. Excellent conversation starter though, he thought.
“Aid boxes for victims of workhouse abuse. Mostly energy biscuits for malnourished children and medicines for common ailments.”
Acton nodded, impressed. “It’s a good cause,” he mumbled. “You do much work up north?”
“No…” said Sandy. She lost herself in thought for a moment. “No, not at all. It was strange really. I was sent a letter asking for my help. Some local merchants were turning their hand to philanthropy and had heard my name bandied about. They could have asked someone closer to Yorkshire, I suppose, but they insisted it had to be me. It was quite flattering, so I said yes.”
The arrangement struck Acton as odd and he said as much.
“Why not do it themselves?”
Sandy shrugged. “Busy I suppose. Plus, I already have the contacts. I hope as well that it will encourage other businessmen to help their fellow man. President Carnegie of Scotland is helping to pave the way up there, but in England we seemed to be obsessed with industry and capitalism. Prime Minister Brunel has the country swathed in railway tracks, the sky festooned with airships and smog, while children die in workhouses and these disgusting Homes. You can’t tell me that’s right?”
Acton paused. He didn’t want to giveaway his past in the Home, or Ash’s come to that. He shrugged.
“S’pose not. A fella’s got to make some cash for himself though.”
“Of course, but capitalism can only help the world so much.”
Acton was instantly impressed by this woman. He had never met anyone like her. She believed in things and made them happen. The women Acton knew were generally pretty but were just waiting for a rich man to marry. Sandy had an energy to her and she spoke her mind.
“It’s self-serving merchants like you that are driving this country into the ground.”
Of course she had the habit of insulting and infuriating those around her, for which Acton could cheerfully choke her.
*****
The Horton ploughed further and further into the countryside, a great plume of smoke ri
sing above it. Ash stood behind the controls, a great grin plastered across his face. He felt like an all powerful giant in his chariot, racing past the fields and hedges. He glanced to his left to see another train running parallel to his, so it looked as though they were going at no speed at all. Suddenly to his right, another train whipped past them going the opposite direction, making him jump. If he looked further into the distance, he could see yet more plumes of smoke rising up, more tracks and trains littering the landscape.
“Greatest country in the world, we is now,” said Frampton, seeing the look of wonder on Ash’s face. “That Prime Minister of ours, Whasisname Brunel, he had the right idea. Technology and engineering, that’s where the future lies, you mark my words. Now this country’s laden with tracks from Carlisle to Canterbury and we make a grand living from it. You want a life on the rails, lad, there’s no better.”
Frampton went back to stroking and cooing over Studley. He was supposed to be supervising Ash, but obviously found the scruffy little dog more entertaining. Ash felt much more comfortable with Studley now and found it hard to relate the growling, semi-robotic Alsatians of the Home with this soppy little Terrier. Frampton couldn’t seem to go a minute without talking, so he told Ash all about the dog. He had got Studley when he was a pup as an attempt to make him settle down into his retirement from a life on the rails. Frampton soon became bored however and took a job on the trains once more and so Studley became an engine dog.
As Frampton didn’t seem to want to stop talking, Ash tried to get him onto the subject of Acton’s past. The old engineer only replied with a smile and a reproachful comment.
“Now then young Ashton, we’ve all got parts of our past we don’t want others getting wind of, haven’t we?”
Ash understood. He would certainly want to forget his time in the Home, given the chance. He started to apologise, but Frampton was already waving the gesture away.
“Never mind that now hmm? Eyes on the track,” and he burst into another long explanation of the Horton’s history.
*****
“What’s wrong with trying to make a living?”
“When it’s at the expense of your fellow man, a great deal!”
The argument had waged in the carriage for several hours, interrupted only by several periods of silence and contempt. Every time either Acton or Sandy went to apologise or attempt a civil piece of conversation, the same old argument, or a completely new one, would flare up again.
“My fellow man? Who am I harming exactly?”
“How about the underpaid coal miners that fuel your engine? Or the innocent victims of wars overseas funded by your duty taxes?”
Acton had never thought about where his coal came from and was about to say that he’s never paid taxes in his life, when a hoot came from the engine. He peered out of the window as the train slowed to a crawl. Buildings were beginning to litter the landscape as they came into the outskirts of York.
“We’re here. I’m afraid we’re going to have to continue this delightful meeting at another time. You should get ready for your clients.”
*****
Frampton had followed the route Sandy had supplied to the letter and it had brought them out to a railway yard on the outskirts of the city. The engine slowed and Frampton edged the Horton into a large train shed, as the directions dictated. Here he applied the brakes and pulled the great engine to a halt. He and Ash jumped down from the cab and took a look around.
The shed was large and littered with packing boxes and various merchandise. The way they had come in was also the only way out, for in front of them was more piles of boxes and an office situated on a mezzanine, raised high above the ground. A spiral staircase led to its door.
Acton jumped down from his carriage and walked off to the front of the train. Sandy hovered in the doorway for a moment or two before Frampton came to effortlessly lift her down to the ground. There was no one else in sight.
“Where’s these clients of yours then? Done a moonlight already?” Acton grumbled.
“I doubt it. They are very wealthy merchants and may have other engagements. We shall wait. You can start unloading the boxes,” Sandy directed. Frampton and Ash started toward the freight carriages.
“Hang on, it’s my train, I dish out the orders,” said Acton.
Sandy sighed. “I just thought we might get cracking so this won’t take all night. I, for one, am eager to get this over with.”
“Likewise,” snapped back Acton. “Only I’m not so naïve as to believe your wealthy friends will turn up with the cash. Come to think of it, if they’re so rich, why can’t they just buy the goods themselves?”
Ash and Frampton stayed exactly where they were. It was clear that an argument was still waging.
“Mr Turville, I am anything but naïve. I simply recognise a trustworthy soul when I meet one.”
“Well, well, well!” interrupted a booming voice from above them. “Lover’s tiff Acton?.”
They turned to see the figures that had appeared on the spiral staircase and found themselves facing two large, heavyset gentlemen, with bald heads and dark suits. Acton recognised them at once and felt a tingle of fear shoot down his spine.
“Long time no see,” said the slightly younger one.
“Oh, bugger,” said Acton.
12.
Bradford, England, 1892.
Six years earlier, Acton had been a very different person. Far from the taciturn grump that Ash had come to know and fear, he was much closer to the hard-drinking, prize-fighting giant of his legend.
Some of the stories Ash had heard were true, to varying degrees. Acton had escaped from the Great Western Home for the Unruly and Damned when he was just fifteen and had made his way north to the industrial town of Bradford. Here he cut out a meagre living as a coal boy in the train yards, carting the coal needed for the engines into a centralised depot. It was hard work, but he soon found that jobs where employers ask no questions as to your history and criminal record were few and far between. It was here that he learnt about the railway and gained his legendary muscles. He also gained another great interest: freight.
Through his work Acton came to know several train drivers and their owners and through their conversations he gained a knowledge of the industry. It wasn’t hard for a boy who had been raised in captivity to envy the freedom and independence that was offered by a life on the rails, but interestingly it was never the footplateman’s position that tempted him. It was the owner of the train that he aspired to. He would often see them climbing down from their carriage, dressed in a sharp suit and dishing out money to the crew and engineers. That was what he wanted. Freedom wasn’t enough for young Acton. He wanted money and power.
He worked hard and slept rough for years, until he had enough money to buy an engine, a dilapidated old Stoudley Terrier, named Horton. It came without a driver, but with plenty of character and rust. His friends at the coal depot laughed when they saw it, but he didn’t care. All he saw was his future. He knew that this engine would make him his fortune and that he would live and die on it.
When it came to getting the old heap to run, Acton had a stroke of luck when he bumped into an old footplateman in a pub, Frampton Cotterell. By rights he should have retired long before, but he said that he just never seemed to get around to it. Along with Frampton came an equally stubborn mutt, who Frampton had adopted in a failed attempt to get himself to settle down and retire.
Acton soon realised that Frampton was the real power behind the engine, not the coal that fuelled its fire. After a life tending to trains, he had a way with them, almost as if he was speaking to them, nursing them back to health. He had worked wonders with the Horton and never asked for anything more than a warm meal and a place for him and Studley to rest their heads. When he had finished with it, the Horton was a thing of beauty and Acton’s friends were forced to eat their collective hats.
Acton worked and worked, until he became relatively wealthy. When he wasn’t wo
rking, he was drinking, a regular in every pub in Bradford. While all seemed rosy, Acton was not a happy man. An escaped convict’s life is a lonely one and working night and day was exhausting. He put on a brave face, knowing that the alternative was rotting away in the Home. His drinking became worse and his fighting became legendary. He would fight every night and eventually he became one of the most feared men in Bradford. It wasn’t that he was particularly big, or that his drunken blows would even hit the mark every time, but he was stubborn and tenacious. Even when he should be falling to the floor, begging for mercy, he would stay fighting and wait for the other man to tire and fall.
His professional life suffered. No one would approach him for work, knowing he was a fearsome fighter, unruly and untrustworthy. After years of quality freight haulage, work dried up and Acton was forced to take some jobs that were not exactly legal.
Some of his clients were two pale young runts from the rough side of town. He hadn’t met them before and knew nothing of their previous heists. This meant that they had never been caught, which he took as a good sign. His task was to transport a few carriages worth of illegally mined marble to Middlesbrough. One short journey for a lot of cash and that was all he needed to know.
The job went smoothly and Acton returned to Bradford with a few hours to spare. He made his way to a rough area of town, where he entered his client’s warehouse, intent on reporting back and collecting the rest of his money. He found them both bound, gagged and hanging lifeless from the rafters; the trademark sign of two fearsome gentlemen. Acton knew that his associates had ignored the one golden rule of life in Bradford; Respect the Heaths.
Milbury and Berkley Heath owned Bradford. From an early age, they had masterminded crimes and robberies in the area and through a strict regime of respect and extreme violence, had seen off any competition to make sure they were the most feared gangsters in town. Everyone was afraid of them. Every robbery planned had to be run past them and a percentage of the profits would end up in their pockets. Businessmen would pay them protection money; this not only ensured that they would not get beaten up or burnt down by the Heaths, but also if another party were to rob them, the Heaths would track down the person responsible and make sure they would never breathe again.
