Weeping Cross is fifteen miles south of Shrewsbury on the Hereford line. They say if you look down on the town from the air it looks like the face of a man with a black eye. If that is so, then the railway station where I had my office would be the mouth and the Astoria cinema would be the nose. His right eye would be the boating lake, although since it was drained during the war it doesn’t look much like an eye at the moment. The black eye is over to the west and consists of a dark smudge of factories, yards and works. The left ear is the engine sheds and railway sidings. This was the spot where in 1151 Roger Sainte-Foy-de-Montgommery brought back a fragment of the true cross from the Second Crusade. He planted it and a tree grew that had the face of Christ formed by knots in the bole, and this wept tears of medicinal gum every Easter. My lodgings are on Devil’s Curtsy, the hilly ridge about where the right ear would be. This is where Silas sat.
He wrecked the train after staying up all night nursing Magdalena’s baby brother Ben, who had been very poorly with scarlet fever. Just before dawn the child died. Silas walked the three miles to the railway station where he declared himself unfit for work and asked to be relieved. The request was turned down. When you look at a signal box you see a quiet place where nothing seems to be happening. But this is misleading. The signalman’s domain stretches over many miles of track in all directions and he is forever moving, shunting, parking and switching trains from track to track. Parking a train temporarily on the wrong line is not uncommon. The trick is to remember where you’ve put it. The trains are everywhere, but you cannot see them. It is surprisingly easy to forget where you have put a train if you can’t see it. Especially if you have been up all night nursing a sick child. Silas had a special train not on the official timetable, a troop train. This was commonplace during the war and made the signalman’s job that much harder. It’s easy to forget a train that doesn’t normally pass at that particular time each day. He put the troop train on the wrong line, the ‘down’ line, to allow the late-running Liverpool to Newton Abbott express to pass. It was then, he later told the court, that he fell asleep for a few minutes, his mind so befuddled by the great agony of mind occasioned by the death of his son. When he woke he accepted the Taunton to Aberdeen night express sleeper forgetting that the troop train stood in its way. It was then that the fireman from the troop train appeared at the door of the signal box, in accordance with Rule 55 which stipulated that if a train was detained at a signal for longer than three minutes the driver should dispatch the fireman to the signal box to remind the signalman of his presence. The fireman asked Silas what he intended doing with the troop train and Silas replied that he had already sent it on, to which the fireman said, ‘No, you haven’t, I just left it not two minutes ago.’
Once you have realised your error it is already too late to do anything about it. Nothing on earth can now stop what is about to happen. But a lot of time can pass before it does. Or it can seem like a lot. Perhaps it was no more than a minute but that minute will be the longest that any man has ever known. It is like an arrow shot from a bow. It may still have many miles to cross before it hits its target, but no amount of wishing can make it return to the bow. In that window of time, Silas did three things, all of which have become part of railway legend. First, he looked at the fireman and said with a desperation that was all too apparent: ‘You can’t have.’ This was enough for the fireman who turned tail and raced like a devil to warn his driver who no doubt was taking the welcome break to catch forty winks. Silas then stood up and walked to the window where he rubbed a little hole in the condensation. This was pointless. The die had been cast. He said, ‘Lord, I’ve done it.’ Then he turned to the boy who kept his ledger and said quietly, ‘Please telephone the station master and say that I have wrecked his Aberdeen sleeper.’ And then they waited, doing nothing except listen to the wind whistling around the eaves of the signal box, to the rain spattering against the panes. There was nothing to be done. All they could do was listen. After a minute or so there came from far off a deep, deep rumble. When the sound reached the men in the box, something very strange happened, but the boy swore on the Bible in court that he had seen this. Silas’s hair turned white in an instant. Then the night turned as bright as if a full moon had appeared from behind a cloud and both knew, too, what this meant. The passenger train had been provided with the latest electrical lighting, but the troop train would have been composed of older rolling stock, illuminated with gas, piped to each carriage under pressure. The entire reservoir would have escaped in seconds and caught on the spilled coals of the overturned engine. Sixty people died on the sleeper and no one knows how many troops died because this was war time and such information was kept secret. But it is hardly likely that any could have survived the blaze, which raged for eighteen hours.
Silas was handed down a sentence of twelve years’ imprisonment with hard labour and his wife collapsed in court and died of a broken heart. Magdalena came to live with us at the orphanage. That’s why Silas sits up on Dandelion Hill every evening to watch the passage of the 5.23 Aberdeen sleeper.
The first chef’s hat of smoke appeared in the sky beyond the tower of the spire of St Bede’s; it was followed by a tiny wail. From this distance, there was almost no sound, it was like watching a silent film, but you could still feel the joy of the train, like a dog returning to a place he loves. More chef hats of steam filled the sky. Each one bigger than the one before. Soon there was a trail of them strung out like washing against the sky, and the black snowflakes of soot would be fluttering down in a thousand back gardens on to real washing hanging on the line.
Silas was sitting quietly on the bench, looking out over the town. I sat down next to him. I took out of my coat pocket a tin of powdered egg and offered it to him. ‘I think this might be yours,’ I said. ‘I found it here on the bench yesterday.’
He took the tin gratefully. I expected he would trade it for drink or cigarettes but I didn’t mind.
The train wailed again and I checked my watch. ‘Bang on time,’ I said.
His cheeks were crimson but not with the bloom of health. He nodded. ‘Three minutes late yesterday.’
I took out my flask of medicinal brandy and offered it to him. He took a drink, then tapped the newspaper lying next to him on the bench. ‘We’re going to get our own atomic bomb. What do you think of that?’
‘I must admit, I don’t really know much about it.’
‘It’s something to do with diverting the rays of the sun.’
‘I suppose if everyone else has one, we’ll need to get one.’
He paused to consider the possibility. ‘You keeping well?’
‘Yes, never better.’
‘What will happen to you once the government takes over the railways?’
‘I don’t know.’
He sighed. Clearly he already knew what was going to happen.
‘How’s Magdalena?’ I said.
The question brought a smile to his face. ‘Oh, she’s doing all right for herself, I can tell you. You’ll never guess where she’s got to now.’ He reached into his jacket. ‘Only that new holiday camp at Barmouth, Buckley’s.’ He pulled out a postcard and showed it to me.
‘By gum!’ I said.
‘There’s a cold tap in each room and if you want a hot cup of tea in the morning you can get a flask of hot water from the restaurant before you go to bed.’
‘It’s the modern world, Silas.’
‘You can say that again. There’s a dance hall, swimming pool with a border of rhododendron plants, and even a miniature railway to take your suitcases from the reception area to your chalet.’
‘Yes, I heard about that – hauled by a 0-4-0 built by Hudswell & Clarke. I expect it must cost a packet to stay there.’
‘Week’s full board, complete with free entertainment and three square meals a day, cost £3 at the height of the season. A week’s holiday for a week’s wage.’
‘It’s a wonder how they do it. Is it true they have a televisio
n receiver?’
‘Yes, but she hasn’t been able to get a seat so far.’ Silas chuckled. ‘My oh my. The roof is real asbestos, too. Who’d have thought, eh? I never in my wildest dreams imagined I’d see a daughter of mine staying somewhere like that.’
The news that Magdalena was in Barmouth pleased me a great deal, since it would provide me with an excuse to go there myself. As children, we used to make an annual summer outing to Barmouth, and for all of us, the trip was the highlight of our year. It did not surprise me, therefore, that Magdalena was there. I expected she had travelled with a gentleman who would pay for everything.
People who have read about orphanages in books may imagine that our life was harsh. I have nothing to compare it with but it never struck me as unpleasant at the time. We were seldom beaten; the masters and mistresses were generally kind. Part of the reason we were treated well, I believe, is the very fact that this was an orphanage paid for by the railwaymen out of their own pockets. For hard-up working men to make such an allowance out of their small wages shows generosity of spirit that communicated itself to all connected with the establishment. If a railway man died and his widow was not able to support all her children, one or more could apply for admission. The home was established in 1883 and was chosen for reasons that I do not know for the Railway Gosling programme which began in 1902. This was when Lord Apsley became a regular feature.
The building itself was built of red brick with a clock tower rising above the central portico of the main door. The tower ended in a spire. Only visitors used this rather grand entrance. We children entered by a door on the side of the building. On the ground floor were classrooms, cloak-, hat- and boot-rooms, a kitchen, a pantry and a dining hall, which also served as the place of assembly and religious instruction. Lavatories were outside at the back, next to the garden where we were taught to grow vegetables. On the second floor were dormitories named after the benefactors of the orphanage. My bed was in Duchess of Albany. There was also an infirmary and one floor up were the masters’ rooms and a library. And above that in the garret the punishment room.
The next morning was a wild day, with sheets of rain sluicing over the platforms as if they were the edges of a weir. Some might think it hardly the best weather to travel to the coast but the journey is so lovely my heart would leap at the prospect at any time of the year. The clouds boiled in the sky, blue and black, and where they occasionally broke apart the shafts of light were too dazzling to look at it. The Cambrian Coast Express had arrived in Shrewsbury 23 minutes late, although I am sure this was no reflection on the skill of Driver Mann and Fireman Satchell. I arrived to find a gentleman from first class pressing money into the hand of Driver Mann to encourage him to make up the lost time. This is a common sight. The driver takes the money but it makes no difference to the speed of the train. There is no power on earth that would prevent a driver from making up lost time. You might as well bribe him to make his heart beat faster, or bribe a nursing mother to love her baby more. Since there is every chance that, all being well, between here and Machynlleth they would be able regain some of the time lost, the gentleman from first class would assume, no doubt, that his bribe had worked.
I was lucky enough to be invited by Driver Mann and Fireman Satchell to join them on the footplate on the approach to Barmouth, but sat on the cushions as far as Dovey Junction. Even at a distance of some three coaches back I was able to appreciate the skill with which Driver Mann adjusted the cut-off to suit the changes in the gradient and Fireman Satchell placed his shovelfuls of coal. The crisp response from the exhaust bore testimony to this accuracy. I spent some of the time considering the strange death of Driver Groates, a case that had taunted me with its mystery for more than six weeks now. It was a conundrum that I examined in idle moments like this, much as one would a crossword puzzle. I was confident all the information necessary for a solution was contained in the bare details of the case and that sooner or later the truth would be revealed to me in a small epiphany. Sherlock Holmes would have called it a three pipe problem. The incident took place at the end of October on the Birmingham to Paignton night train, which departed Birmingham Snow Hill. Driver Groates and Fireman Stalham were on the train returning home after having brought the express from Bristol earlier that evening. Sometimes when a driver and his fireman returned home they were given another train to work but in this case they were lucky and were allowed to travel on the cushions. The train left Birmingham Snow Hill at 11.47 and at approximately 13 minutes after midnight Fireman Stalham pulled the communication cord. The guard was the first to arrive on the scene. He found Driver Groates slumped dead in the compartment, with a very severe head injury. Fireman Stalham – who was in a state of extreme distress – claimed that someone had thrown an object through the window of the compartment and this had struck Driver Groates and killed him. There was indeed some broken glass on the floor, but the window seemed to have been broken from the inside, and no trace could be found of the object said to have flown in and killed the driver. Strangest of all, the light bulb in the compartment had blood on it. Fireman Stalham walked out of the hospital in his dressing gown sometime between 3am and 4am and has not been seen since.
We reached Dovey Junction at 17 minutes past two, which meant Driver Mann and Fireman Satchell had made up 15 of the 23 minutes’ delay incurred on the run from Paddington to Shrewsbury. And it was here that they were kind enough to let me join them on the footplate. There are few more dramatic stretches of railway line in the world than the run north from Dovey Junction up the Cambrian coast to Barmouth. Visitors from Norway and Switzerland, where the railways are renowned for their beauty and engineering daring, admit that they have nothing that compares with the wonder of it. Only the British could have built such a marvel, they say. In other countries the engineers would have thrown up their hands in despair at the task. For many miles the line is no more than a ledge on the sheer cliff face, so close to the sea that on windy days, when the waves break against the tracks, passengers get their feet wet and find crabs in their bags afterwards. In 1883 a whole train was washed away in a storm. All being well, I should arrive at Barmouth by tea time.
As we crossed the Barmouth Bridge a passenger pulled the communication cord. Driver Mann was halfway through telling me about the new sensation at Paddington station whereby announcements concerning train cancellations and other alterations to the timetable are communicated to passengers via a system of electrically operated loudspeakers. The system works very well, he said, although some elderly passengers had been disturbed because of what they described as the presence inside their own heads of a voice. I’ve seen a loudspeaker used in this manner at the Ideal Home Exhibition, and I was most impressed. I was keen to hear more but before I could ask further, the communication cord was pulled, and since we were already proceeding at Dead Slow across the bridge, we very shortly came to a standstill. We each scrambled to lean out of the cab and peer down the line. Normally the location of the coach in which the cord has been pulled is indicated by a small flag operated by a butterfly valve connected to the brakes, but in this case we had no need to consult this contrivance because the man who had pulled the cord could be plainly seen climbing out of the carriage and clambering down the bridge towards the sea.
If you have travelled this section of the railway you may think the man was in no great peril. The estuary is not deep and the bridge, built across low piles, is more of a causeway. However, on this particular afternoon the sea below him was roiling and bubbling like tar in a road-mender’s cauldron, and the fierce wind blew in such gusts that the entire train shuddered beneath its onslaught. It was quite clear that the man would certainly drown if the wind tore him from the side of the bridge. Only a fool would have attempted a climb like that. A fool or a Gosling.
I handed the driver my hat and climbed down the ladder to the track. As I did, two men from the middle of the train also climbed out and jumped down to the track. I thought they were trying to help the man
but it was obvious from the desperation with which he increased his pace after seeing the two men that they were his pursuers. He now climbed over the parapet and was trying to work his way down the lattice of wooden struts. It wasn’t clear where he thought he was going. The two men walked in an unhurried manner along the side of the track towards him, causing him to turn and change direction, but when he saw me he stopped, hesitated, and in that moment a wave like a giant’s hand reached up from the foaming waters and plucked him off the bridge and into the darkness. The two men stopped and looked briefly over the parapet and cast me a glance before walking back to the compartment from which they had come. The long wail of the man’s cry followed by the splash that ended it reverberated in my mind long after the sound had ended.
THE BOY’S OWN RAILWAY GOSLING ANNUAL
Vol.VII 1931 Price: 1/-
Replies to our readers’ letters
E. C. BINGHAM, BIRKINHEAD—As currently constituted the British Army has no need for torturers, although skilled interrogators will always be highly sought after. We suggest you apply to a regiment of your choice when the time comes but do not send them the drawing of your blood-curdling invention.
The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste Page 5
