So from that day forward I sat in that new chair for my cups of tea, but I didn’t dare ask the whereabouts of the old blue one. Perhaps some bygone memory had upset her? I didn’t dare risk an upset by referring to it, so left my questions unasked.
Nowadays she chatted to me and made my usual cups of tea as she told me of the people she met during her travels and how nice they all were. She used the buses, or a taxi if it was urgent, and I knew the job had given her a new lease of life.
Sometimes I found her ironing chair-covers and curtains as well as her own washing. But I still wondered what had happened to Old Bill’s chair?
Where had it gone? Why had she moved it? It was really no concern of mine although I often felt like asking about it. Maybe it was linked with her acceptance of this job? But I never asked.
Then one summer morning, I called as usual but she didn’t hear me enter. I had knocked and walked in like I always did, but she was busy in the front room. I could hear her old but efficient sewing-machine whirring away, so I stepped across the floor to tap on the front room door.
She stopped her work; the door opened and I saw the old treadle machine with yards of material strewn about it. She had a mouth full of pins and the floor was covered with paper patterns and cut pieces. I was surprised to see such a large amount of cloth but I was equally surprised to notice the material was the same colour and pattern as that battered old cover on Bill’s chair. Was she covering his chair? Here was a new design, an exact copy of that old one, but all this material for one chair?
She smiled as I entered and took the pins out of her mouth.
“Go and sit down,” she said. “I’ve got to finish this edge and I’ll be through.”
“Don’t rush and spoil it,” I told her. “I’ll make the tea!”
Her quiet smile told me that this was a good idea, so I left her to continue her work. I knew where everything was and before long had the kettle boiling. When I made the tea she came to join me and brought a length of cloth which she hand-stitched as we chatted.
We talked about the weather, the news, the village problems and a young couple down the road who were expecting their first child. Occasionally we lapsed into silence as she came to a tricky part of her work; throughout, I watched her quietly.
In some ways, my time in her house was like stepping back half a century — there were the worn beams, the ponderous tick of the grandfather clock, the black-leaded iron grate and its glowing fire which invariably crackled and spat with logs newly cut. The brasses shone and the windows glittered after years of methodic housework.
I enjoyed the peace and atmosphere of this place. Mrs Flanagan had captured the slow-moving rhythm of her life and her mode of existence was the epitome of country life. I liked it.
“You know,” I spoke after a spell of silence, “I’d miss this cup of tea and chat, Mrs Flanagan. I really look forward to it. I’m pleased you don’t work full-time.”
“So am I,” she said, “and it’s nice to talk to somebody who doesn’t pass on everything I say!”
These confidences were clearly something she treasured and yet we had never reached the Christian-name stage. I always called her Mrs Flanagan and would no more dream of using her first name than she would of using mine. We were friends but kept our distance and our chats were confined to these occasional visits. Maybe that’s why our talks were so successful — in some way, I was like one of those anonymous people who answer letters and give advice in magazines and newspaper columns. I was someone she could trust with her innermost thoughts and I knew we had a fine platonic relationship and eventually I knew that I could safely broach the subject of Old Bill’s chair, more so because she was working with material which was an exact replica of that which covered his absent fireside friend.
“That’s nice material.” I pointed to the piece in her hands. “Is it an urgent job?”
“For the weekend,” she answered. “The van is coming for it on Friday afternoon. It’s for a young couple over at Fernley. Their parents gave them an old three-piece suite to start their home and they wanted it covering. It’ll look nice when it’s finished — it’s a real good suite, you know. One of the type which seem to last for ever.”
“They made things to last in those days,” I said.
She nodded and there was another pause.
“It’s exactly the same as the pattern on Bill’s chair,” I spoke slowly.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have said it! Immediately the words were out, I regretted having said them. But I needn’t have worried.
“I know,” she spoke quietly. “It’s funny really. Here I am, covering furniture for a young couple with material which is exactly the same I used for our first chair — the very first bit of furniture we had, me and Bill.”
There was no finer moment to ask about Old Bill’s chair.
“Where is his chair, Mrs Flanagan? You haven’t sold it, have you?”
She shook her head. “It’s upstairs, in the spare room.”
“I liked that chair,” I told her. “It looked so comfy and warm.”
“It was Bill’s,” she said simply.
I didn’t answer. Perhaps she didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and that last brief sentence told me everything. Because it was Bill’s, she wouldn’t want to give it away or sell it, and yet for the same reason she wouldn’t want it in this room where it would constantly remind her of his absence, especially when others tried to sit in it.
But she was talking again.
“I always wanted to cover it for him,” she was saying. “I did it years ago and he liked it so much that he didn’t want any other pattern on it.”
“It was nice,” I said briefly.
She was in full flow now. “It became very shabby, you know. He would sit in it after work, often in his working clothes and it got awfully dirty. I washed the covers time and time again to try and keep them fresh-looking.”
“It was always nice when I came,” I added.
“Yes, but it was so worn, wasn’t it? Faded and threadbare.”
“And he didn’t want another cover! Was that why you moved it, because it was getting shabby?”
She shook her head. “No, not really. It was my Bill’s chair, you see. He didn’t want me to touch it — he loved it just as it was, you understand. Well, if I’d had it in this room, I’d be itching to re-cover it. And Bill wouldn’t want that.”
“So you put it out of temptation’s way?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t part with it, not for the world, so the spare bedroom was the best place. I use it sometimes myself, when I’m dusting upstairs. I use it to have a sit down, you understand, and it gets dusted regularly.”
“Why didn’t he want it re-covering?” I asked, feeling that we could talk freely.
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Can’t you guess?”
“I think I can,” she answered slowly. “I covered that chair specially for him. He found the material in a shop years and years ago, and it was just what he wanted. He grew attached to it — he wasn’t a fellow for changing things without good reason.”
“I know,” I sympathised, “men get like that. But you could cover it now, couldn’t you?”
“Do you really think so?” Her eyes sparkled with new interest and I knew she’d been wanting someone to say that.
“With this new material,” I continued. “It’s exactly the same as Bill’s chair — he would love that, wouldn’t he?”
“It’s just what he always wanted,” she whispered. “We looked in all the shops for this colour but never found it. Not in all our years. All the shops said it was too old-fashioned and out of stock.”
“That was a few years ago,” I reminded her. “And now that same pattern is right in fashion again. That often happens — I know Bill would agree now, wouldn’t he?”
“Thank you,” for her only reply, and I rose to leave, then she said, “Would you like to see the finished covers?”
Puzzled,
I followed her into the workroom and there I saw a fourth cover, shaped differently from the rest, and admired the style and loving workmanship it contained. When I called the next time, Old Bill’s chair was back in its place before the fire, looking regal and splendid in its new cover.
It was a perfect complement to this room.
“I’ll make the tea now,” she said. “You sit there.”
And she pointed to Old Bill’s chair.
* * *
One of my favourite characters was Simon Rawlings, a gentleman of eighty-seven who lived with his daughter in a tiny cottage at Elsinby. Tall and erect, he had a guardsman’s figure and even though his broad back was stooped with his great age he always tried to walk upright. It was a display of his deep personal pride.
Awd Simon, as the village knew him, was a retired railwayman. He had retired 22 years ago, long before the railways were nationalised, and lived quietly, his wife having been dead nine or ten years. Awd Simon passed his time by gardening and enjoying a pipe of tobacco, plus the occasional pint in the Hopbind Inn. For his age, he was impressive to behold. A good six feet tall, he must have weighed seventeen stone and was built like an ox. The village was full of stories of his young strength, but he was a gentle giant with a lovely touch of humour and a kind word for everyone and everything, man and animal alike.
I got to know him because he spent some sunny afternoons on the seat near the War Memorial and I made myself known to him very early in my period at Aidensfield. I quickly discovered he still lived for the railways, but not the modern diesel engines with their rows of anonymous coaches and hooting horns. Awd Simon worshipped the lovely polished green of the LNER and the maroon livery of the LMS, the romantic days of steam and high-quality service.
As I got acquainted with him, I found it easy to get him reminiscing about his time with the London and North Eastern Railway Company, where he’d worked his way up from track maintenance to fireman, and he’d even been a guard. He told me of the beautiful engines with their own names and distinctive personalities; coaches with splendid first-class compartments and brass fittings. There were pictures of landscapes to interest the passengers and it was essential that the timetables be maintained at all costs. Fear of competition from the maroon giants of the London Midland and Scottish Railway was always present and the company served its customers as a faithful servant would obey his master. Everything had to be right. Second-best would not be tolerated.
He told me about the coal fires in the waiting-rooms, the huge watering-tanks for engines to take on supplies, and the gorgeous floral gardens of the rural stations as they competed for the annual Best-Kept Station prize. Awd Simon would talk for hours about his days with steam-trains and he clearly exuded pride at his part in the history of the railways of this region. He had once seen the Flying Scotsman in Elsinby Station and had actually been on the footplate, the purpose of its visit being a publicity venture in the region. The Mallard too with its distinctive shape had come this way, and he’d seen the King aboard the Royal Train parked overnight in one of the sidings near Elsinby Station.
I often wish I’d written down everything he told me; he was a fund of historic knowledge while his anecdotes and love of the LNER were nothing short of phenomenal.
He had no time for the nationalised British Railways; the stations had become seedy and grimy and no one bothered to light the fires any more. The trains were grubby too, and it was soon after nationalisation that they turned to diesel engines which weren’t any better than buses and couldn’t cope with the deep snows of the moorland lines. The contrast for Best-Kept Station had ended and all the stations became areas of weeds and overgrown rubbish. Paintwork was allowed to deteriorate and then they began to close the stations. One by one, the rural lines ended . . .
During my conversations with Awd Simon, the process of rural closure was underway. Many branch lines in the north had closed and stations lay derelict in many areas. The newspapers were full of the story, with cries about rural communities being deprived of their lifelines. Some of the villages were so hilly and isolated that no bus company would risk its vehicles on the steep hills or narrow twisting roads. The public joined the general outcry, but the wheels of a determined government were not to be halted. More lines would close; more jobs would be lost and more rural districts would suffer.
No one ever thought this could happen to Elsinby. The busy little station must have paid its way because the locals used the rail service to commute to York or to go shopping to Leeds. They went off to Scarborough or Whitby for the day while the truly adventurous travelled to London and other distant cities. Even though the trains were now drawn by diesel locomotives and bore the British Rail insignia, they were used frequently by the public of Elsinby and district. With its coal business too, the station surely paid its way.
The tiny station, with its signal-box, level-crossing and two platforms was beautiful to behold, for the station-master, a Mr Benjamin Page, made sure it was maintained in an immaculate condition. He boasted white-washed platform front edges, clean oil-lamps, painted seats and offices, a glowing fire in the waiting-room and flowers to adorn the brickwork. For Awd Simon, this was a haven of comfort and he spent many happy hours helping about the station. Mr Page welcomed his presence — he left the responsibility for the appearance of the station in the hands of Awd Simon who weeded between the lines, watered the potted plants, cleaned windows and kept the place at its traditional peak of cleanliness and beauty. Mr Page made good use of Awd Simon.
And then the axe fell. Elsinby Station and the entire branch line through here via Maddleskirk to Thirsk was to be closed. Every possible avenue of reprieve had been examined, and every attempt made to keep the line, but the decision had been made by Parliament. Elsinby Station would close.
Awd Simon blamed the inefficiency of the nationalised system, saying no one had had any heart in the job right from the start. No one cared. For a long time, he looked pale and drawn and, during my regular chats with him on the seat, he was a picture of misery. He could not visualise life without his beloved railway line and the one bright spot was Mr Page’s thoughtfulness towards the old man.
He gave him souvenirs, objects which would disappear once the line closed for ever. I know that Simon treasured his square-based oil-lamp from one of the platform lights, the seat with “Elsinby” written across the back and several small items from the booking-office, like a ticket, a pass, a book of rules and so forth.
With his little collection of railway souvenirs, Awd Simon looked rejuvenated. His colour returned, his zest for life reappeared and his general outlook seemed infinitely more hopeful. Even though the line was not reprieved he appeared to have accepted the inevitable. He spent less time around the station although he continued to regale me with the tales of his beloved green engines and the LNER. I was no longer bothered about his health. Awd Simon had accepted that life must go on, and that changes must occur.
I thought no more about his love for the vanishing railway until firm news came of the closure date. It was to be one Friday morning in September.
On that day, the last train would run along our branch line. It would call at all the stations en route as it travelled from York via Scarborough, and then through Ryedale via Eltering, Brantsford, Ashfordly, Crampton, Ploatby Junction, Elsinby, Maddleskirk, and eventually into Thirsk where it would join the main London-Edinburgh line for its return journey to York. Passengers would be carried and souvenir tickets would be issued. There would be a restaurant car on the train, with other entertainment, and the sad occasion would be made memorable.
Not wishing to miss any chance of a celebratory occasion, the regulars of the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby formed a committee to arrange suitable festivities in the village. The railway station was to be the focal point and Mr Page agreed. I was duly informed and assured the committee I would attend in my official capacity to control crowds and direct traffic.
What would normally have been a sad occasion for E
lsinby became a festive one and I admired the stalwarts of this place for their ability to turn any affair, however sad, into something exciting and enjoyable. For the next few weeks, the place was alive with industry and ideas. I was pleased to see that Awd Simon had been drawn into the arrangements and he was given the special task of informing the new generation about the merits of LNER, LMS, GWR and all the other great rail names of bygone times. He identified engines on postcards and in books, he told historians how they operated and how much coal and water they used . . . notes were made, publicity brochures were printed and, in all, Elsinby was going to lose its station and trains in a blaze of local glory.
When the day came, I motorcycled into Elsinby and parked my Francis Barnett behind the pub, where I left my crash-helmet and motorcycle gear. I donned my regulation-issue flat cap and walked towards the station. Although the last train was not due to pass through until 12.35 p.m., the place was alive with colour and gaiety at 11 o’clock. It seemed that half the village population was already present, few of whom were to travel on the last train. True Elsiners preferred to attend their own celebrations rather than joyride with strangers.
I remember that I was suddenly very busy. Somehow I was inveigled into the last-minute organising and it seemed that everyone had a job of some kind. Then quite suddenly it was twelve noon. There were thirty-five minutes to go, if the train was on time.
Everyone was now on the platform; cars were neatly parked, the pub had shut for the occasion, although George did manage to arrange a makeshift bar in the waiting-room, and everyone queued on the twin platforms. I looked around the gathering, smiling at the young faces, the middle-aged ones and the elderly, all with memories and personal impressions. For the children, it was the start of a new era; for the old, the end of a bygone style of life.
Then I realised I hadn’t seen Awd Simon. I thought about it — I’d been here since 11 o’clock and had not once set eyes on the old fellow. I wondered how he was feeling — maybe he’d gone to another station to secure the final ride into Elsinby? Or maybe he was at home, sad and moist-eyed at the thought of this final chapter of his life? Perhaps the emotion was too great, too overpowering, for him to face among crowds?
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 56