Trembine Halt

by Ivan B

  At 8:45 she made her way to the old ticket office that was now the Cargo-Haul administration office. She threaded her way to the desk at the very back of the office. Behind this wooden edifice sat an over-confident and over-weight twenty-two year old called Stuart, who looked like a sad-eyed beer-sodden bar-room bouncer and who believed that he was God’s gift to women. Stuart’s hazel eyes looked up, “Well if it isn’t our Sarah, still driving at we?”

  She ignored the jib, “Got my paperwork?”

  He nodded, “You’re taking back some empty chipping hopper wagons and your extra freight today is ceiling insulation, as that’s light we’ve added five extra container trucks; that makes a maximum length train. You train is designated as Cargo Nine-Seven and we have a little diversion for you as well.”

  Sometimes, just sometimes she dropped off a few trucks at Ely. She muttered, “Ely drop-off then?”

  He shook his head with a smirk, “Nah, apparently there’s trouble with a bridge at Shippy Hill Halt.”

  Sarah cut in, “You mean Shippea Hill Halt.”

  He rolled his piggy eyes, “Whatever. In any case once you get to Ely you’ll be taking the Kings Lynn Route as far as Stowbridge and then the old Trembine route to Brandon when you’ll be back on your old tracks.”

  Sarah studied the route-map he passed over to her. She raised her eyebrows, “That’s single line working with small old-fashioned passing loops at Methwold Hythe and West Derham, only if I have a maximum length train I won’t fit into those loops, does the signalman know?”

  Stuart shrugged, “Sent him your details by fax.”

  Sarah drummed he fingers on the table, “You’re supposed to ring him.”

  Stuart sighed and reached for someone else’s file, “I’ll get round to it.”

  Sarah studied the rest of her papers, “What’s this about a snow-plough plate?”

  He shrugged, “Weather forecast for Norfolk is heavy snow, but we haven’t got time to fit the plate or you’ll miss your outward slot.”

  Sarah sat down and put her feet up on an adjacent chair. Stuart peered at her and sneered, “Shouldn’t you be going, don’t want another black mark do we?”

  She, irked by his offhand manner, gave him a death-stare. “Not budging till you phone the signalman and endorse these papers that it was your decision to leave the plate off not mine. I’ve had enough trouble already this week to last me for the rest of this year and I don’t intend to let your abysmal administration and organisation fall on my head. You had plenty of time to put that snow-plough on as there have been weather warnings for the last three days.”

  Stuart looked at the clock, made a skin saving decision, scribbled on the papers and then phoned the signal control room. As soon as he started talking Sarah left for her train. When he put the phone down he smirked, “Stupid bitch, it was only their ansaphone.”

  “QUIET!” Yelled Julia across the hockey pitch. A willowy sallow faced youth rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, “’Ss not fair miss, why should you have to stop training us?”

  Julia gave him a cross between a withering stare and a friendly smile. “Because, as you were told by your form teachers, we’re moving the staff around and I’ve been put on other duties. I’m sure that Ms Proust will work you just as hard.”

  From somewhere near the back a girl’s voice whispered not too quietly, “Her! She doesn’t know a hockey stick from a Pritt stick.”

  Someone else none to subtly added, “Or her arse from her elbow.”

  Julia’s head shot up and there was silence. She said, in a voice they could all hear, but would not carry. “I’ve enjoyed working and playing with you, especially during these pre-school training sessions, and I am especially proud that you won the County Cup last year. Please don’t throw away all your good effort and skills just because there’s a change of trainer – remember the team is bigger than an individual. If you want to make me proud you go out there and win the cup again and give Ms Proust your full backing.”

  She turned and walked away, partly because she had nothing else to say, and partly to hid her tears as she knew in her heart of hearts that Ms Proust would destroy the hockey team with her continual emphasis on making sports so safe and not over-energetic that nobody ever exerted themselves or went for the ball that was just their beyond reach.

  Ten minutes later Sarah was sitting in her cab ready to go. She’d prepared the laptop computer that was strapped to the dashboard for the new route she was taking. This would now inform her of every signal and marker board that she needed to look out for and the phone numbers she might need for every inch of the journey should she need to use a mobile phone rather than the normal radiophone. The passenger train drivers had all this information automatically as they drove and pre-warning of the colour of the signal they were approaching, but she didn’t. For freight trains the minimum requirement were that she had a route map, phone numbers, keen eyes and faith in the signalmen, and Cargo-Haul only worked to the minimum. This was both as a matter of economics and because the other rail companies wanted a slice of the cargo action and would allow no outside use of their ‘special facilities.’ The yard supervisor suddenly appeared from his office, pointed at her and waved a green flag. She responded by removing the power-brake and pushing her power control forward to let the engine take up the strain and smoothly pull the train out of the shunting yard. She was on her way.

  At roughly the same time Julia was standing in the sixth form gymnasium inspecting the general state of the room. She counted no less than eight squashed fizzy drinks cans on the floor and about the same number of empty crisp packets. In short the place was a mess. She moved to inspecting the individual pieces of equipment and came to a double conclusion, firstly they were well maintained and secondly they were abused, mainly with chewing gum, but also with the odd piece of unwholesome graffiti. She closed the main entrance door and hung up a ‘closed’ sign against the door-glass. If this was to be her domain there were some changes to be made, and she might as well start right now.

  Sarah didn’t really need the cues on the laptop for the first part of her journey as she rode the Grantham – Peterborough – Ely tracks every day. However, when she reached Ely she was routed onto a side-track just before the station complex and given a red light. After ten minutes she phoned signal control and, to her annoyance, got Mr Knowles. He was over blunt and to the point, “I know where you are Cargo-Nine-Seven and you’ll just have to wait.”

  “Approximately how long?”

  He snarled, “Till I’m good and ready to let you go and not get in the way of anything important.”

  “I just want to know if I should shut down, it’s your rules that I should shut down if I am going wait more than twenty minutes.”

  He swiftly retorted, “Keep it running you shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes and don’t quote regulations at me again or I might leave you there till doomsday.”

  He put his phone down and Sarah sighed and reached for her black-bag; twenty minutes should give her time for a sandwich and a cup of coffee and a visit to the on-board loo.

  “Closing the school?” Julia could not believe what she had been told.

  Becky nodded, “Apparently the Council’s issued a snow warning and called for all the school busses to come as soon as possible. Most of the sixth form has already disappeared and if I was you I’d disappear as well and certainly before the Head puts you on extra bus duty, he’s hunting for likely suspects as we speak.”

  “Can you drop me at the end of my lane?”

  “Course.”

  They grabbed their coats and over-stuffed cases and headed for the car-park. Two minutes later Mr Prestonne entered their staff room and swore. How was it that all the junior staff disappeared when he needed them for extra duties, just where, he wondered, did their loyalties lay?

  Forty minutes later it had begun to snow with a vengeance and Sarah was sitting in her cab with the engine still running and mentally fuming that she wa
s, once again, being ignored by signal control. She was just about to give then a ring and a piece of her mind when, without warning, the light in front of her turned green. She pulled out of the siding onto the main line, to immediately turn North and head towards Kings Lynn. She now had to concentrate hard, not only was this unfamiliar rack, but there was also reduced visibility due to the snow. By the time she reached Stowbridge her eyes were aching and she was fervently hoping that the rest of the journey would not be like this. She’d driven in snow before, but not this type of snow; thick heavy and persistently sticky. Once she’d been directed off of the main line and onto the prelude to the Trembine route she once again stopped at a red light, this time signal control radioed her to tell her that she’d have to wait at least fifteen minutes for another freight train to clear the line. She relaxed slightly and took time to rest and ease her aching eyes.

  Twenty minutes later the freight train rattled by and she got both a green light and verbal confirmation that she could enter the single track. She glanced at her laptop, the route was simple Stowbridge – Bexwell – West Dereham – Trembine Halt – Methwold Hythe – Weeting – Brandon. She reached Bexwell in seemingly no time and when she went through West Derham there was a single-carriage passenger train in the passing loop and she sighed with relief that she hadn’t had to stop again as gaining traction on the cold wet rails was becoming harder even with the use of the super-series control system and sand from the automatic sand boxes. However, as she was halfway towards Trembine Halt signal control came on the radiophone again and, once again, it was Mr Knowles. He was as uncivil and brusque as ever, “There’s another freight train coming the other way, so you’ll have to let him pass at Methwold Hythe as it’s too long to go into the passing loop.”

  Sarah sat bolt upright, “So am I.”

  “Pardon?”

  Sarah swallowed as she’d already realised the implications of what was happening, “So am I, this train is at maximum length.”

  The reply was swift, “Silly cow, why didn’t you tell us? I’m not a mind-reader you know”

  Sarah bit back a retort, “My controller faxed you the details and he rang up the centre.”

  Mr Knowles swore using a string of strong expletives and then became seriously decisive, “Right, stop at the signal before Trembine Halt level crossing, I don’t care what damn colour it is just stop and wait for instructions.”

  The radio went dead and Sarah took the train down to a dead crawl and peered through the dense snow that now seemed to be falling harder than ever. Eventually she saw the outline of a small platform and a red signal. She stopped the locomotive beside the platform and just before the ungated level crossing to watch a tractor with a trailer piled high with wood bounce across the level crossing in front of her.Ten minutes later a different signal controller came on the phone, “Cargo Nine-Seven can you please back-up to Stowbridge.”

  Sarah considered her options, though about the rule-book, and opted for safety. “Sorry no, even if I change cabs I won’t be able to see any signals as the train is longer than the current visibility and I do not have a second engineer on board.”

  “Still snowing there then?”

  “Visibility is about twenty yards at the most.”

  “Please wait.

  Sarah jumped in before he left the phone, “What’s the other train?”

  The signal controller coughed, “FF-Freight Twenty-four.”

  He went off of the line and Sarah interrogated her laptop, eventually finding the listed numbers of FF-Freight, and by simple deduction working out the phone-number of the mobile phone in the cab of FF-Freight Twenty-Four. She rang the number and had a chat with the other driver, he too was single handed and had a train composed of empty containers from Felixstowe Dock, hence he was no where near maximum weight for the engine he had. Sarah knew what she would do and turned her cab heater up to full. Ten minutes later the signal controller came back on the line, “Cargo Nine-Seven we’ve assessed the problem and are dispatching a locomotive to aid FF-Freight Twenty-Four to return to Brandon, your estimated waiting time is two hours.”

  Sarah nodded to herself, given the weather conditions that is exactly what she would do. “Understood.”

  There was a brief silence, then, “Sorry about this Cargo Nine-Seven, we realise the conditions are bad and will do the best we can.”

  Sarah smiled, an apology from signal control, whatever next!

  “Understood, but please don’t be too long or I’ll never get going without assistance.”

  Signal control muttered something and went off of the line. Sarah shut down her engines and, in the ensuing silence, took a thermal fleece-lined boiler-suit out of the locker in the cab and put it on over her normal boiler suit. Whatever cheapskate methods Cargo-Haul used it didn’t extend down to safety clothing and she had all the different sorts of clothing she would need. She ignored the electric cab heater as she wanted to conserve power, but she did drink the last of her coffee before she settled down to wait.

  A quarter of an hour later it stopped snowing. On minute it was falling in great clusters and the next nothing. As the residue of the snowfall settled she began to appreciate the landscape, which at the moment was white and flat, totally flat as she was in the middle of the Cambridgeshire Fens. Trembine Halt appeared to have few buildings and what looked like a church on the other side of the station from her. She shivered at the view and began to wonder how cold she would let herself become before she turned the electric heater on. She checked, and re-checked, the route in her laptop, watched a muffled figure stagger across the level crossing and spent a few minutes wandering up and down inside the locomotive doing needless checks before returning to her cab. She hated doing nothing; other people seemed to revel in inactivity, but she always liked to be doing something unless she was deliberately resting. She smiled to herself as her mother’s words, “Idle hands make for mischief,” floated through her mind. She glanced out onto the platform and looked straight into a pair of endearing deep brown eyes looking up at her. The eyes belonged to the biggest and hairiest black dog she had ever seen. She tried to determine its breed and failed, the nearest she could come was Old English Sheepdog, but she knew that they didn’t come in black. The dog suddenly stopped staring at her and bounded up and down the platform as if enjoying the snow, as it turned and jumped great swathes of snow lifted into the air. She slid back her cab window so that she could look out and watch as she had nothing better to do. A few minutes later a man appeared on the platform, called the dog and looked at the train. He immediately gave the impression of being distinctly odd, even odder than the average train-spotter. For a start he was a wearing pair of faded brown cords tucked into unevenly coloured red socks that stood out from turned down grey wellington boots and he walked as if he was strolling on a summer’s day not wading through snow. As he got closer she decided that the brown duffel coat should have been placed on a scarecrow years ago. His general demeanour, coupled with his half-bald head, two inch long sideburns and black tufty eyebrows made him look over-intense and best avoided. He wandered down the platform and looked up, “Don’t often see a class ’59 on these tracks.”

  Sarah internally grimaced, he was a train enthusiast. She sought for a brief answer to get rid of him. “On a diversion to avoid a problem at Shippea Hill Halt.”

  He nodded sagely, “Your engine’s off.”

  “Problems up ahead, they’ll take some time to clear.”

  He nodded again, “How long?”

  She shrugged and he nodded. Sarah decided to try for diversionary tactics, “What breed of dog is that?”

  He face lit up with a smile and for the first time she noted his brown eyes that seemed a perfect match for the dog and an academic otherworldly looking face. “He’s a Bouvier – they’re Belgium sheepdogs.”

  “He’s certainly enjoying himself.”

  He nodded yet again, “He loves it.”

  He turned, called out “Hoff, come!” And
strode away. Sarah relaxed and closed the window just before her radiophone sprang into life. It was signal control; estimated waiting time was still two hours. She relayed this information to her administration office and fished an old magazine out of her bag, maybe; just maybe, there was an article in it she hadn’t read.

  Julia thumped her bag down with a vengeance and beat her arms against her sides causing a minor snowstorm or flakes to fall on the kitchen floor. Becky had almost made it to the car before been waylaid by another deputy head and asked to supervise the cars stopping at the front gates to pick up pupils. The result of this had been an hour standing in the freezing cold taking flak from irate parents and being sprayed with salt laden slush. Even Becky’s normally over-efficient car-heater had failed to thaw her out before she’d had the three mile walk down the lane to her parent’s farm. Normally this walk was enjoyable and part of Julia’s wind-down routine, today it had been freezing cold and irksome, especially as she had missed Colin and his wood-laden tractor by less than a minute.

  Sarah’s concentration on an article about the rejuvenation properties of fish-soup was disturbed by someone calling; it turned out to be her unwanted dog-owning train-enthusiast. He waved a giant thermos flask, “Brought you some hot-pot.”