The Blackpool Highflyer (3 page)

It wasn't all honey, for there'd still be ordinary passenger
turns in between, and we'd often be put to working the
branch from the village of Rishworth to Halifax Joint, which
had no fixed crew. I said to Clive that this was our bread and
butter, and he said 'our bloody penance, more like', for it was
dull work. It was not above a couple of miles between the two
places, and although all of Rishworth wanted to be in Halifax,
Halifax didn't seem to want Rishworth, and we whiled away
half our time on those turns waiting at signals outside the
Joint.

On the crawl down from the Joint we had been going
south, but we were heading west now, and the Sowerby
Bridge Engine Shed - our shed - was coming up. Clive gave
two screams on the whistle for swank and, Sowerby Bridge
being a small place, the whole town would have had the
benefit. Clive wasn't known for scorching: instead, he would
put up
smooth
running, sparing of coal. But he was sure to
have a gallop with 1418.

We were tolerably quick through the little town of Hebden
Bridge, and on the climb up towards Todmorden, which was
a slog with many an engine, the Highflyer had us fretting
about the speed restriction. Here a lot of churches went racing
past, and for some reason I had it in mind to lean out and look
for the church-tower clock that had the gaslit face at night.
Clive banged open the fire door and grinned at me: his way of
saying that if I had quite finished daydreaming he wanted a
bit more on. Chillier sorts would have done it very differ­ently, but Clive would put a fellow straight in a mannerly
way.

'What's up?' he shouted, as I caught up the shovel once
again.

'Looking out for a clock!' I called back.

'It's coming up to quarter to!' shouted Clive.

Like all fellows of the right sort he never wore a watch and
always knew the time.

'I just wanted to see it!' I said. 'It's lit by gas.'

'Advertising, that is!' said Clive.
He was notching up once more, and things were getting
pretty lively now. We were running down to Rose Grove, and
I had to move about just to keep still, if you take my meaning.

'Sometimes,' I shouted, throwing coal and feeling the
sweat start to spring out of me, 'you can see more at night
than you can by day!'

What Clive made of this bit of philosophy I don't know
because he was too busy finding his own feet and looking at
his reflection in the engine-brake handle, trying to make out
whether the hair restorer was working. I took off my jacket
and laid it on the sandbox.

We were galloping past the black house that always had
birds flying over it. That meant we'd crossed over from
Yorkshire to Lancashire. Next came the schoolhouse on the
hill, the one that always had the big cot in the window,
which I didn't like to see because it made the place more like
a gaol.

I looked at the sandbox, and saw that my coat had been
shaken off by the motion of the Highflyer. This was the
engine's famous roll.

Clive suddenly stood back and started moving his hands as
if he was turning a wheel, and then bang - Clive had seen it
before me - a motorcar was alongside of us on the road to
Accrington. Clive was laughing. He opened 1418 up a bit
more, but this motor was keeping up all right, though it
looked to me like a giant baby-carriage. Just then the road
snatched the car right up and away, but it came back hard
alongside, and I saw the motorist - he might have been
laughing, too, behind his goggles.

But then he started to get smaller.

'Eh up,' said Clive.

The car was jumping; the road went out and in again, and
this time the motor was left behind us, still moving but only
just, and shrinking by the second.

'What's up?' I yelled.

'He's changing gear!' shouted Clive.

Number 1418 steamed like a witch, but our exertions had made the fire a little thin in the middle, so I began patching, calling out: 'How's he doing now?'

'Picking up the pace again,' yelled Clive, who was still hanging out the side, 'only trouble is
. . .
the bugger's on fire!'

We went into a cutting - a quick up and down - and when we came out we were beginning to lose the road. I put down my shovel and leant out to see the motorist and his smoking car spinning away backwards. Clive gave a happy shout and two screams on the whistle. He knew about motorcars but did not like them. He thought they wrecked all the fruit gardens of Halifax with their fumes. I told him I'd never seen a fruit garden in Halifax, wrecked or not.

Clive was still peering backwards along the length of the rattlers. 'They're falling out the windows!'

Folk would do that on an excursion - lean right out, and their hats would go flying. But with excitement at fever heat they never minded. Green and gold light was flashing about in our cab as we rattled around the Padiham Loop. It was a great lark, but 1418 was wearing me out
-
not from the amount of coal wanted, but from the need to keep braced against its rolling.

Clive turned to me and gave a big grin. He was a dapper dog. Nice necktie just crossed over, so you could never work out how it kept in place; coat not new but perfectly built
. . .
and the poacher's pockets. 'It pays a man to dress smart,' he would say; 'shabbiness is a false economy.' He once told me the best thing you can do with a pair of boots was not wear them.

We came through Blackburn and down the old East Lanes line into Preston station, which was all newly painted green and red and gold, like a Christmas tree in summer. A splash on the brakes, and here we came to a stand while waiting for a local goods to leave.

I heard a door bang from somewhere behind, and Lowther
was climbing down to the platform, moving from one rattler
to another in search of those without tickets, for he wanted to
see those folk
most
particularly.

After checking the water level, I climbed down with the oil
feeder in my hands, and put a jot in each of the links and
glands, wiping away the tiniest little spillages, this being the
Highflyer.

When I climbed up again, Reuben was on the footplate
beside Clive. 'You two lads,' he said, in his shaky voice; 'You
do know what we have on here
...
Don't you?'

Your mind would race as Reuben spoke. I was thinking:
well, what do we have on at the end? A red lamp. That would
be the usual thing.

'There's one
First
on,' said Reuben.

'A First?' said Clive, 'on an excursion?'

Excursions were all Thirds as a rule.

'And there's only two in it,' said Reuben.

'Two in the whole carriage?' said Clive.

Reuben nodded.

'But they'd have about, what, thirty seats each?' said Clive.

There was a bit of delay here, while Reuben thought it out:
number of seats divided by number of passengers.

'That's what it tots up to,' he said, after a while.

'Who are these gentry?' I said.

'Owner of Hind's Mill,' said Reuben, 'and his old man.'

That was queer. Mill owners didn't go on mill excursions as a
rule. I climbed down and ran along the platform for a look. The
excursionists were leaning out of the six third-class rattlers, and
some gave a cheer when they saw me, but it was nothing to
what Clive would have got with his poacher's pockets and
high-class necktie. When the Thirds ran out, I naturally slowed,
for I had struck the luxury of space - four doors on the First, not
eight, and wider windows, and those windows had curtains,
not blinds, and every one of those curtains was closed, like four
little theatres at which the performances had finished.

As I looked back towards the engine, I saw, beyond it, the
starter signal go off. With many shouts of encouragement
from the excursionists, I ran back, passing a small old lady on
the platform whose black dress was out at the sides. I touched
my cap to her as I ran and she smiled and said, 'They'll all see
the sea today.'

But the old lady was wrong over that.

Two hundred and twenty tons we had on, as Reuben Booth
had said, and five hundred and twelve souls: Whit Sunday
Excursion to Blackpool, booked by a mill - Hind's Mill. It was
nothing out of the common as far as excursions went, except
that the mill owners were riding with us and our engine was
the Highflyer.

The boards went off at Preston, and we began to be in
motion again. I watched Clive standing with one hand lightly
on the regulator, thoughtful, like.

The mighty crunch of the exhaust beats filled the station
like something that, though not over-keen to be started, is
going to be the devil of a job to finish. Because of our delay in
Preston we had time to make up if our five hundred and
twelve souls were not to be late for the beach.

As we came out of Preston station we were running against
the County Hall, which was like a red-brick cliff face with
twelve flags on top: two crosses of St George and ten red roses
of Lancashire, although I knew it had been the other way
about when the King had come to open the new docks.
Beyond this we were put on the fast road, and Clive really
opened up the regulator, and I had to find my sea legs all over
again while firing. The engine was a beautiful steamer, but it
would
dance on the rails, and it seemed to me that sixty tons
of iron, flying along at sixty miles an hour, should
not
be set
dancing.

Clive was suddenly hanging across my bows, and the smell
of hair tonic was in my face as he looked out my side. 'The
bloody lunatic,' he said.

It was the motorcar again - going along the street that was
hard by the line for a short while.

'Well,' I said, 'he's only driving along the
road.'

'He should be locked up,' said Clive.