Chapter 7
Jocyspool Harbour
Before dawn had broken over the west of England, on the morning of December 20th, the rain had chilled to a brisk flurry of snow. The Old Man had turned up at 6am to start sweeping up the shed, accompanied by two fireman, he found his broom buried and the whitewash missing from the coal, having been embedded in the icy slush. Discovering some kindling in the engine shed, he made up the fire in the stove, before turning back to the others.
'Well lads,' he said, 'here's a rum do - we've the morning mixed due out in three hours, and no loco diagram. Guvnor's not even up, so which of these two do we wake first?'
'Well,' said Mr. Kilkenny, 'Ashwell's mine, and we can't get 'er out 'till t'other one's out the way.'
'Right,' said Mr. Curtis, 'I don't even know what I'm booked to go out on, but I might as well get the new 'un out the way so's you can free owd Ashwell.' This was greeted by a couple of affirmative grunts, and, while the Old Man (who was really Mr. Jenkins, but he was now nearing 80 and this was just what everyone called him) went outside to recover his broom and find some paraffin, the two fireman began to build the fires upon their respective engines, all the while passing around choice comments regarding the weather. The snow was over the tops of the rails outside, and the interior of the shed was little warmer then the atmosphere externally. Abigail woke up just as another man entered the shed, a cleaner, who took up some Brasso and a rag and began to polish her. The engine yawned widely:
'Ughhh.. Morning all... Who's that up there?'
'Only me, sweetheart, nothing to fear... Hang about - that doesn't much help you...' He scampered down, and stood at Abigail's front. 'Mr. Jackson, Engine Cleaner, at your service.' He gave a small yet ostentatious bow, to the amusement of all present, before:
'Mr. Jackson, please stop flirting with Abi and come up here, my safety valves want cleaning,' said a groggy voice, which raised further laughs about the shed and raised Abigail's eyes up to little Ashwell, who was looking quite glorious, bathed in the feeble light entering through the windows, if a little affronted - she seemed to be squaring at consciousness for having come upon her so suddenly.
'Now, now, Ashwell, wait your turn, I've to finish shining this up one yet,' said Mr. Jackson. He nodded his head to Abigail, and Ashwell glanced at the man a bit sharp and old-fashioned-like, before giving her shedmate a very long, warm look. The moment was, however, broken, by two more men entering the shed. Mr. Anderson, Ashwell's long-suffering driver, along with another man. He paused by Abigail's bunker, and examined her number-plate. This man then ambled in a well-worn, rolling gait to the engine's front, and spoke:
'You're Abigail, correct?'
'Mm? Oh, oh, yes I am! Good morning sir.'
'Ah, right, I'm you're new driver, John Edgeley. I take it that young layabout's got your fire started?'
'Yes, but not very long ago. He's just stuck the first lot of coal on now. I'll be ready in a couple of hours - have I any assignments?'
'Nobody has any particular assignments - but we do have a train out at nine-thirt - it's Saturday, you'll have all six on and probably a fruit van - be interesting to see how you run with a strong load as that.' Abigail said nothing, but arranged her expression as to show understanding. Mr. Edgeley seemed an alright sort - a kindly, northern accent made his heritage clear, and he was remarkably gentle and reverent as he climbed into the cab. He began poring over her controls, running a trained hand over each and every lever and valve. Then he examined minutely every gauge, rapping sharply on all the fixings, making sure everything was exactly in order with an outstanding level of effiency and concientiousness. Abigail was put greatly at ease by his confident, competent nature, and made a mental note never to swap drivers with Ashwell, for she could see Mr. Anderson floundering desperately with the water gauge handles - he seemed to be trying to clear them of limescale with an old screwdriver and some swearing. Ashwell was completely ignoring him, instead watching the Mr. Jackson, the cleaner, like a hawk, as he worked deftly to polish up the brass of Abigail's clack valves. Mr. Jackson, Abigail observed, was a perfectly decent kind of chap, and just as good a cleaner as had ever worked on her, however he did seem to climb down more regularly then most, so he could make himself another cup of tea. And of course, whenever he did that, somebody else would ask for one, and he'd often be detained at the copper kettle on the stove for quite some time, before returning with his rag and Brasso to his work. It took him three quarters of an hour to finish all Abigail's metalwork, and he'd not even had time to think about Ashwell. When he did begin work on her, she became rather fussy, spewing out such gems of information as:
'No-no-no, it's no use cleaning that, it'll be black in an hour,' and 'for God's sake, it's a bit of brass, not a daffodil, do it properly or don't bother!' Jackson's work must have been satisfactory in the end, though, for Ashwell asked him very sweetly to get a bit of sandpaper and etch quadrants on each of her buffers. He rolled his eyes, but agreed. Abigail had seen cleaners adorn the front buffers of Brighton express engines with this pattern, and she had to admit it was quite fetching, although short-lived, as the quartering was invariably worked off when the buffers first made contact with anything. Still, it did add a bit of flare to the engine's appearance. Before long, Mr. Jackson had finished his work on Ashwell's buffers, and put down the sandpaper, when Ashwell went:
'Jacksie m'dear, could you do Abi's as well, wouldn't want her left out.' And she gave Abigail a beautifully innocent sort of smile. Mr. Jackson gave them both a funny look, but set to work once more. There was still plenty of time, although steam was beginning to rise in both engines. Now, Abigail had never, in her Brighton days, found that time was devoted to applying extra fancywork upon her, or any of her sisters for that, they were only ever cleaned, polished, and then sent out to work commuter traffic. Any special adornments, especially things like patterned buffers, were saved for bigger engines. This was all a bit of a treat, really, she was usually woken up far earlier, and turned out into the cold by about half five, for a rigourous inspection by a pendantic foreman. No-one complained, there was never any point. Here, though, all was quite slow to start. When the cleaner had finished his work on Abigail, he stood back to admire his handywork. There was, it seemed, quite a bit of interest in her, as even the Old Man, leaning on his broom, delivered some laconic words of praise. He was, it was clear, a railwaymen of long experience, and a product of an even earlier time then Ashwell. Speaking of whom...:
'Kilkenny you div! There is fire in my smokebox! What are you doing you bloody great, soul-burning, incompetent, flue-firing APE!' Then - a great whoosh and a lump of burning coal, showering sparks, exited the little engine's chimney, and went straight up the ventilation shaft. It landed with a flump in the snow outside, where it lay smouldering gently. This outburst was followed by a chorus of laughter and jeering at Mr. Kilkenny, and a distinct set of clunks as the Old Man had begun throwing bits of kindling at the errant fireman. Mr. Kilkenny had been subject to the Old Man's wrath before, it seemed, and hurriedly evacuated the footplate. This was apparently for the best, as the ancient Mr. Jenkins at once took up the position of Ashwell's fireman, and declined to leave this post thereafter. Instead, he had a look at Ashwell's fire, and seemed satisfied with it - must have livened up a bit while the engine was hurling abuse. Mr. Anderson, her driver, seemed to stand a bit further to the right of the footplate, as though to keep out of the way, and made a show of being as dutiful and careful as possible when he began oiling up Ashwell's motion. By the time he was finished the very ancient, and rather dusty clock upon the wall read that it was half past eight o' clock. Somebody had the bright idea of opening the shed door, and at once a rush of cold air came in.
Clambering onto Abigail's footplate, Mr. Edgeley, with a surprisingly gentle hand, opened the regulator. The engine proceeded slowly backwards out into the cold, crunching the snow that had covered the rails. She got as far as the water column, then pulled up. Her fireman climbed down then, to change the points, so they could proceed up to the station. The two lines were deserted of trains, but there were already a number of families huddled about the platforms, and the waiting room looked to be quite full. Abi had to reverse again from the platform, to enter the carriage shed. The coaches were all asleep, or at least dozing, and Abigail didn't much like to disturb them. She didn't even buffer up, but got just close enough to couple without having to. The small engine withdrew the six-coach train, glancing cautiously at the one near the middle that had been a bit hostile the previous day. She brought them quietly over to the platform, and at once a flock of grateful passengers scrambled in. Following a swift uncoupling, she ran back from the train, and clattered over the undulating points down to the wharf (reversing direction do so.) Here, she found a number of battered wagons, varying in vintage, most very grubby, and most painted a dark red colour. Among them was a van, with white letters reading 'Perishable A - Not to Be Loose Shunted.' Her driver made a show of buffering up as gently as possible, (whether trying to preserve the patternwork on his engine or the cargo of the wagon, Abigail was unsure.) They took the old van to the station, and placed it at the rear of the train. At once porters crowded it, with crates and sacks, loading a seemingly endless procession of local goods until the vehicle was low on its springs and audibly groaning. Abigail ran once again around the train and waited for the off. That self-same roaring power that fills all engines was coursing through her, steam feathering from every join and valve in her system.
It is well known among railwaymen that little engines, like Abigail, love cold mornings, when their pressure is high and they are awaiting the starter with their first train of the day. She was, in fairness, a bit nervous, in fact she'd very much have liked Ashwell to be around about now, as to provide guidance. Abigail had not yet made a journey down the line on her own. The signal dropped with a clunk. The guard's whistle pierced the air, and a voice said; 'Right away, John.' The steam from the engine's drain cocks was warm and blooming, yet scarcely visible against the snow, as Abigail took up the weight of the coaches on her coupling. Her chimney billowed smoke and cinders, and her piercing Brighton whistle reverberated around the station.
The journey went smoothly, as far as the railwaymen and passengers were concerned. The market in Jocyspool got its van-full of produce, and the village of Foxhill filled the guard's compartment with local cabbages. Abigail, however, had been worked quite hard on the trip - six four-wheeled coaches and a van would not have been out of her design capabilities, but the steep slopes, tight corners and undulating track of the AFJR line made everything incredibly difficult. She was quite out of breath by the time the packed train came to a stand at Jocyspool. As she stood a small flurry of snow came down, making the scene feel quite Christmas-y, in Abi's mind, and a mist was coming in over the sea. In London, Abigail had rarely seen pure, clean air, or snow, or mist. She'd seen smog, and driving rain, and generally unpleasant gunge layering much of her surroundings. She had often overheard passengers talking of moving to the countryside for the 'healthier air' and she supposed this was exactly what they meant. It would have been very pleasant if she wasn't freezing her cylinder taps off (not that she'd ever go as far as to complain aloud!) From the station head-shunt, she could see the harbour, about which an unkempt, four-wheeled saddle tank was bustling, whistling loudly at intervals and bumping into stationary wagons, making her loosely hang-ing coupling chains swing violently. Abigail did not recognise the engine, though of course, we know it was Jo. Moreover, Jo clearly did not even seem register Abi's presence in the station, despite only being a few hundred yards away. A steamship was at the quay - a single-funnelled vessel of some vintage, still bearing masts and full rigging fore and aft. Abigail was not unfamiliar with ships, but she was certainly no expert. This large fellow at the quay was looking rather bored, as workmen fussed about his decks and the small dockyard cranes spluttered and wheezed while they unloaded cargo from the ship's holds. What this cargo was Abigail could not see clearly, but it seemed to largely contained in casks or crates, many bearing brightly coloured symbols. Jo seemed to take the most care with wagons when they had been loaded with this particular commodity. Anything else was punted about the harbour at no less then 10mph. Jo had, it seemed, arranged a short goods' worth of wagons entirely full of the boxes and barrels from the ship. Two men were in conversation by the dock-master's office - one was the dock-master, the other the ship's Master. It seemed they were transferring payment for the goods unloaded - for after the conversation one of them boarded the ship, and the other entered the office. Abigail viewed the exchange with no undue suspicion. She had just run around the passenger train when Jo came up alongside, light engine, and said, furtively:
'Hey, Nicola, can you give me hand for a minute?'
'Err... I'm not Nicola... B-but how can I help?'
'Oh! You're her sister - anyway, can you take some wagons on your train with you and leave them at Foxhill? And for the love of Christ be careful with them?'
'Erm, how many wagons are there?'
'Six.'
'I'll never get up through the tunnel.'
'You will - they aren't very heavy and... Look, if they don't get up there it's my arse for the high jump!'
Abigail wasn't like to refuse further - but her usually placid countenance was beginning to wear a very worried expression. The six wagons were placed on the rear of the passenger train, with great care, by Jo, and Abi, pointing bunker-first - readied to leave.
'Say, ermmm... Jocyspool - what's in these wagons?'
'Pickled winkles and pit props. And just 'Jo' will do - now go, your line's clear.' Abigail did not think that Jo had been entirely truthful in her answer, but Abi did as she was bid - starting from the station.
With great effort and using a great deal of steam, the train climbed the mile of 1-in-100 gradient, with a tunnel for a third of that distance, but had to pause so Abigail could have a 'blow-up' - that is to say a break to create more steam. Her driver was holding onto her regulator with a grip somewhat sterner then usual after they restarted, and everyone was glad to be shot of the wagons when they ran into Foxhill station and shunted them off into the goods siding. This journey had raised a lot more questions about this railway in Abigail's mind, and it would be all her effort not to bombard Ashwell when they arrived back at the latter's namesake station. When they did, Abigail filed the coaches away gently (they hadn't said a word all trip, she noticed) and then ran to the water column for a drink. Now, just where had Ashwell got to? She was no-where to be seen in the yard. She couldn't have gone far, though, so Abigail was content to stand and wait patiently for her return, while topping up her coal bunker and generating a bit more steam then perhaps was necessary for standing about in the yard. She soon began blowing off, and did not stop for some time - her fireman, it seemed, was not used to an engine steaming as well as this - and had consequently over-fired her on the way into the station. That added coal was now burning nicely, and Abigail was growing a bit ticklish with the steam creation. So ticklish, in fact, that some of the more volatile components in that coal began emitting pops and whistles of flame through her firedoor with alarming regularity. She couldn't help it - this coal was, it seemed, quite high in sulphur and other such impurities. It must have come from the nearby colliery, as an economy measure. 'Oh well,' she thought, 'no use complaining.' It was cold out, and the warmth was at least a comfort to her, if a little disconcerting for her crew. They sat down to eat, just as the clock over the platform chimed, and Abigail yawned, before falling asleep into a small shower of sparks from her chimney. No-one noticed that.
