Two Trains From Bastable by Phineas Redux

‘Two Trains From Bastable’

Phineas Redux

—OOO—

Summary:— A multifarious group of travelers assemble at an English country train station in late 1941 to travel to highly divergent destinations by slightly differing modes of transport.

Disclaimer:— There is some minor cursing in this story.

—O—

Halfordshire, comfortably placed just west of Lincolnshire, the North Sea washing its eastern border with The Wash doing similarly for what passed for part of its northern border, enjoyed a mostly rural atmosphere there only being two major towns within its borders—Halford itself and Tollingham rather more central to the shire’s rolling fields.

On the early afternoon of a day in June 1941 at the remote railway station of Bastable, serving a small village which preferred to hide itself so effectively it was entirely invisible from the station in question, and indeed generally needed a local guide for the first-time visitor to find, there were only a few staff members to be seen, at least out on the platform.

The single line which passed by was empty of all traffic, a small siding on the east side revealing only a dilapidated guards-van sitting by itself; whilst further along a Signal-box rose two white-painted wooden storeys on the same side as the station proper, a long line of windows serving to show the inmate the traffic along the line in both directions: the Box serving to divert trains passing over the points onto either of two lines—the main line or the secondary line heading towards the distant 100 yard long Bastable Tunnel eventually taking traffic away to the west of the county while the main-line continued eastwards to the coast and exotic destinations.

As usual even this quiet small example of a LNER Branch-line station had all the furnishings of even the most important stations elsewhere: two Waiting-rooms, one for First Class passengers, the other for the more general Third Class—and a small café serving beer, coffee, tea, and sandwiches—all, sadly, of the typically expected quality: all of which, this afternoon, were rather more than usually crowded with travelers awaiting the arrival of their transport. The First Class for the 3.15pm steam train to the coast; the Third Class mostly for the 3.45pm electric-multiple-unit train to the east via the tunnel, this latter powered from the live third rail installed for this purpose in 1915 just before the exigencies of ongoing War had halted such improvements shire-wide. Now the local station staff were more or less accustomed to the arrival, every now and then, of the flat-fronted electric locomotives which looked, and sounded, so different to the regular steam locomotives.

“Yes, great improvements!” Mister Albert Tomkins was holding forth in the First Class room to his rather unwilling audience sat round the small table beside him. “The new electric connection a vast step forward; didn’t realise it had reached as far as this backwater, though; only sorry I won’t be tasting the luxuries of the electric this trip—the old steamer for me, I’m afraid! First time I’ve used Bastable Station myself, actually: never been here before, for some reason. Dam’ crowd of uniforms in today, by-the-by! Seem t’be mostly RAF types by the looks o’them. Not that I’m complainin’, no! Boys in khaki or whatever got’ta job t’do, no doubt—just, there always seems so many jostling your elbow everywhere y’go. What I feel, anyway. Would’a thought you’d be on the electric, Mrs Graham? Goin’ t’Falscombe as you be?”

“Change in my schedule; decided t’go t’the shops in Tollingham instead.” Mrs Graham, in her late thirties but looking younger, smiling quietly at her interlocutor. “Quicker gettin’ there an’ back, because of the War, you know. Change at Tellard, I’m told.”

Mister Tomkins nodded solemnly, as if quite au fait with the rapid and numerous changes now affecting contemporary rail schedules countrywide.

“Always something being pulled from underneath your boots these days just as you think you’re safely placed! Can’t be helped, I suppose; but a dam’, pardon the expression, imposition all the same.”

Aileen Mitchell, a newly enlisted WAAF on her way back to base after a short leave, spoke up.

“We all have to do our bit. And those who’re just civilians must just push on as they can in these dangerous times under the circumstances, War being what it is.”

“Oh, quite so, certainly.” Tomkins quick to agree, though not looking much as if his heart was in the topic. “Myself, being somewhat over-aged, just have to carry on with my business matters; keep the flag flyin’, you know, come what may.”

The fact he nominally ran a tin can producing factory which, during wartime, had unexpectedly metamorphosed into a munitions producing works, entirely staffed by women and old men all on standard Government wage schemes much lower than he had previously paid his normal staff—thus allowing him to make astonishingly large turnovers and profits which swiftly went into his own personal capacious pockets— not in any way giving him sleepless nights as a result.

Aileen, who already knew a thing or two about munitions works and their propensity to attract unwelcome visitors from overseas in large flocks of aeroplanes, perked-up at this.

“Wasn’t the Porphyry Works bombed t’Hell an’ back just yesterday? Anything t’do with your investments? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

Tomkins grew grey in the face at this, blustering somewhat as he fiddled with a weather-beaten LNER fork by his plate.

“Oh, these things happen! As to the Por—well, that is, yes—fancy you shouldn’t ask. Giving away State secrets an’ all that. Stay Mum, an’ all that, like the posters say, eh?”

Henry Foulkes, a young clerk in an office in Tollingham, frowned at this; he having clear and sound ideas on the topic.

“Government keen to keep everything secret, sure. Especially where it affects the morale of the Public; but all the same, we shouldn’t be kept entirely in the dark, I feel. I mean, if something shocking bad happens, why shouldn’t we hear of it? We aren’t a bunch of kids, after all. Just my slant on the thing, is all, mind.”

“It ain’t so much the Public, the British Public,” Aileen giving her opinion. “as the enemy—the Germans. Can’t have them knowing all that’s happening, the lows as well as the highs. Gives them information they might well use against us in future—buck them up no end hearing of our losses and disasters, surely?”

“Well, there’s that, yes.” Henry pursing his lips, only half convinced.

“We’ve got at least another hour to wait for our train.” Aileen smiling sweetly at her companions. “Shall I order another pot of tea an’ sandwiches?”

“It’s that, or sittin’ in the Waitin’-room twiddling our thumbs, I suppose.” Tomkins digging in his pocket a trifle unwillingly—but necessity dictated. “Here, there’s half a crown t’wards it, thanks.”

Armed with this, and a florin from Henry, Aileen darted off towards the counter to apply for, dragoon if necessary, the comestibles in question leaving her companions to their own devices.

“Don’t mind me asking, I hope,” Tomkins taking a step Angels would have unwillingly considered and quickly rejected out of hand. “but you look in your twenties; should’a thought the Forces’d grabbed you by now, what!”

Having faced this question many times before Henry provided his standard answer, though unwillingly.

“Dicky lungs, spot of TB in my youth; left me Four-F, I’m afraid. Nobody wants me.”

“Oh!”

Providentially Aileen here returned bearing a loaded tray.

“Tea’s on, but the bacon sannies are all gone; only the ham left, I’m afraid; and I think they were made last week judging by the way they’re curlin’ up.”

“Gods!” Tomkins sighing wearily. “Just our luck! Will you pour? Yes, thanks.”

—O—

Meanwhile in the Third Class Waiting-room an equally mixed bag of travelers were sitting contemplating their fate. This was not as bad as it seemed, Third being a coverall term enfolding all passengers who weren’t First, Second Class being a non sequitur; an anomaly in titling surviving from the last century and not adjusted since. So the passengers here were more or less well-to-do middle class personages, not the working class destitutes one might imagine if unused to the British form of railway nomenclature for its customers; though today seemed to have produced a preponderance of uniforms, mostly blue as a crowd of miscellaneous RAF men sat about in groups, talking amongst themselves in low tones on, no doubt, arcane if not wholly secret aeronautical matters. They all, however, enjoyed the sybaritic delights of the same café as the First passengers; doors leading from the appropriate Waiting-rooms on either side of the café.

So, in the Third Waiting-room, a selection of sturdy stalwarts had chosen to await their train by sitting on the hard benches there, disregarding the delights of the café for one reason or another. A good point at least being the hearty fire burning in the fireplace at one end of the long room heating the interior to a nice toasty warmth. Sitting at the end of a bench as close to this fire as possible Neville Danvers, fortyish businessman of some note, shuffled inside his thick coat, mumbled incoherently to himself, then spoke up clearly for the benefit of those others in the room nearby.

“Never throw a pound away when you can save a penny instead. My sainted grandmother told me that when I was a nipper, and I’ve led my life benefitting from it since.”

Benny Andrews, twentyish general stall-holder in Tollingham market sitting further along the bench, snorted dismissively.

“Nonsense! You got’ta put-out t’rake-in; stands t’reason, don’t it; otherwise how’d ya ever hope t’make a profit? Done me well this last coupl’a year.”

“Yeah,” Sarah Baird, lady of leisure, sneering in her turn as she sat on another bench. “I don’t doubt it; there’s other markets, these days, than the ordinary one’s.”

“Fella’s got’ta make a profit, ain’t he? State the dam’ world’s in t’day got’ta take every opportunity, or ya goes under, see!”

Sarah was unconvinced of this necessarily immoral route to riches and the good things in Life.

“How come the Forces ain’t tapped on your door yet? You look aroun’ twenty-two or so; surely someone in uniform wants you?”

Benny went into defensive mode instantly.

“Huurth—huurth! Dodgy leg, y’know; broke it badly as a nipper, didn’t I! Still feel it, especially in rainy weather. Why, it takes me half an hour, sometimes, jus’ t’drag mysel’ out’ta bed of a mornin’, truth!”

“That I can certainly believe!” Danvers sniffing with disdain. “Live off others’ difficulties, I imagine! Stalwart of the Black Market, an’ dam’ the consequences as long’s you make a profit off others’ woes! Should be ashamed of yourself, young man! Good idea of reporting you to the police myself.”

Benny snorted contemptuously.

“Try it, an’ see how far ya gets, ol’ man! Coppers’re too busy with warwork t’bother about a low-level shyster like me; got the whole world t’myself, I have—an’ mean t’take full advantage too, see!”

“Dam’ ‘pertinence!”

“Cops do me over they’ll find nuthin, mister! Evidence! That’s what matters; if ya know how to juggle evidence the world’s yer oyster, an’ I knows it!”

This riled Danvers to an excess of wrath.

“At least, in these times, we can look forward to a Jerry bomb doin’—ah-ha—hmmph!”

Benny was up in arms instantly, never liking personal jibes against his line of admittedly very shady business.

“What about a bomb? Oh, that’s nice, in’t it! What, I sez, about your line o’work? You’re that Nigel, or is it Nicolas, Danvers, ain’t yer? Knows all about your line o’work, I does. If the cops want ter investigate anyone, you’d be first on the list, I’m certin!”

“Sarky little devil, ain’t yer sonny?” Danvers ready for a metaphorical fight. “Bet you’d soon enough change yer tune if the rozzers were present in person. Know your sort inside out, I does.”

“Wrrph!”

At another table, surrounded by a group of standing RAF members with their long kitbags chatting amongst themselves, sat a group who seemed to be associated with each other, as indeed was the case.

“Sir?”

“Yeah, Sarge?”

“What’re we all doin’ here? Thought, after last night’s fiasco over dam’ Hanover, crate riddled with flak, we’d get at least a day’s furlough, not sent on some expedition to God knows where instead. What is it? Another trainin’ exercise?”

“Won’t know till we get there.” Flying-officer Andrew Carter shaking his head, well used to the curious ways of the Royal Air Force bigwigs. “Could be anything; might be t’train for Sunderlands’, or re-train for ship-based catapult fighters. That’ll be fun, if so.”

Sergeant Younger quibbled at this.

“Nuthin—I say, nuthin’ will get me on a dam’ catapult in the middle o’the Pond in heavy seas lookin’ fer dam’med U-boats, wiv the extra jolly o’ditchin’ in the waves an’ hopin’ the ship’ll catch up wiv me a’fore I sinks t’the bottom o’the Atlantic!”

Sergeant-gunner Gerald Barclay, another of the same crew, spoke up here being apparerntly of the same mind as his companion.

“Here we all is, the crew o’B fer Bear, the loveliest Stirling in creation—only killed three groundcrew so far—goin’ God knows where fer God knows what! What a bloody War! By the way, sir, where’s sarges Kennedy an’ Sharpe? Wherever we’re stationed we can’t do wivout our rear gunner an’ radio operator cum front gunner.”

“Oh, they’ll probably show up when we reach our destination.” Carter shrugging his shoulders below his tightly buttoned sheepskin jacket. “All a bit of a rush t’get on this train, after all. Why, look at us all! All still in our flyin’ kit, ‘stead o’our Saville Row suits. I mean, how’re we supposed to impress the WAAF contingent wherever we end up dressed like a bunch o’cowboys at a market-stall tryin’ t’sell ol’ clothes?”

Sergeant Younger had other things to focus on.

“Don’t know about you lot but I ache all over; feel like at least three limbs are broken—think I’m comin’ down wiv something—the dreaded lurgy, probably.”

“Well, sit further back then, don’t want ya passin’ anythin on, bud.” Sergeant Barclay shifting his own chair slightly. “Not feelin’ quite tippity-poo myself, actually; think I’m allergic t’travellin’ on dam’ trains.”

Barclay could see the problem with this excuse.

“We ain’t on a train yet, we’re stuck in a crowded Waitin’-room somewhere in the sticks on a Branchline that ain’t been used fer passenger traffic since before the War started. Whether or not any train deigns t’actually turn up at this abandoned duggout is moot too—I’ll take bets on it; starters, six t’one, howzzat?”

“Settle down, ya bums,” Carter taking command of his unruly and unhappy crew. “Betting’s a court-martial offence in the RAF, as ya all well know. Here, keep my chair free while I hunt up another tankard o’coffee. Anyone want a sanny?”

“Bacon, fer me, thanks.” Barclay addressing the important points in Life.

“Ham, no mustard, thanks.” Younger admitting a certain level of appetite, even considering the present circumstances.

Meanwhile Sarah Baird was experiencing that trial connected with a Lady of the Night when meeting one of her customers in a normal social milieu.

“Hey, doll!”

Having been called things much less polite in her time Sarah turned with chin in air, ready to put her interlocutor in his place.

“What’s that, mate?”

The man, enveloped in a long brown wool coat and hat to match, including thick gloves and black boots, smirked quietly.

“Don’t be like that, Sally! After all the half-crowns I’ve given ye down back-alleys in Halford. What I was thinkin’ was, this den bein’ a dam’ borin’ congregation, how about slippin’ out round the back o’the equipment shed down the platform fer a quick one like? I got a pound note burnin’ a hole in my pocket, sis!”

Sarah, whatever she did for a living, had certain morals all the same.

“Buster, take a hike sure, but don’t look fer me turnin’ up any time this century, laddie. I’m off-duty at the moment, on my private time. On yer way!”

“Mrrph!” The man retreating, disgusted, back into his overcoat, like a tortoise in a huff.

Across the other side of the room, by the tall window giving a view out on the platform, sat a middle-aged woman of nondescript appearance though also looking as if she had seen most of the dramatic highlights of Life and not benefitted much by the experience. By her side on the long hard bench a similarly aged man with receding hair and a thin frame under his raincoat tried to appear engrossed in the Daily Sketch to no great effect.

“When’s this bloody train appearin’?” The lady asking this of no-one in particular, but staring at her companion with the eye of a hunting kestrel with a healthy appetite.

Feeling obliged, against his better nature, the anonymous man lowered his paper to regard his Nemesis.

“Three-Forty-five, the timetable sez, for the electric; Three-Fifteen fer the steam engine.”

“What’s it now?” The lady determined to get her pound of flesh.

The man raised his head to indicate with his chin the further wall.

“Clock there, ma’am.”

“Mmmrrph!” She clearly not satisfied, but looking at the dusty fly-spotted chronograph all the same. “Another hour nor more! Dam’mit!”

“Hot words, nor losing the rag, won’t bring it any quicker.”

“Huh, sez you. Thanks muchly!”

At the other end of the room, near the door to the café, a younger girl hardly out of her teens sat clutching a bulging dilapidated suitcase on her lap. Dressed in ratcatcher grey of no particular quality she seemed as one at the very extreme end of her short rations; her small hat obviously having seen many better days and probably better owners. Her thin pale features also addressed the fact she needed a good meal; this qualified by the appealing glances she could not stop from giving the door to Paradise, or the café, by her side as anyone entered or returned satisfied from this source of bliss and fulfillment. Near her on the bench a young blonde haired and square-jawed man of remarkably neutral style and manner regarded her from the corner of his eyes when not buried in a book with a lurid cover. Finally he was driven to action, speaking in a clipped and perhaps overly precise manner.

“Just thinkin’ of a pot o’tea an’ cake, Miss. Wonder if you’d like t’join me? My treat, o’course. Would help t’pass the time, an’ warm us both up, sure!”

The girl, startled by being addressed at all, firstly shook her head firmly, then thinking better of such an action nodded acquiescence.

“I’ve got a shilling—”

“Not at all—I’ll be glad to—ahem; come along then, or all the cakes’ll be taken!”

As they left another young woman, better dressed, shifted slightly along the now almost abandoned bench, sitting with her back to the window opening on the still empty platform. This passenger seemed to be around thirty years of age, blonde with a nice green woolen suit of jacket and skirt, a black handbag by her side. As she made herself comfortable a noise outside drew her attention, she turning to gaze out the window.

As she watched a porter walked past her viewpoint quickly followed by a train sliding into view as it came to a snorting steamy halt immediately outside. It was a small tank engine of no great merit pulling a single third-guards coach. Watching out of simple interest, as this being the most entertaining item happening so far that day, she saw one of the carriage doors open as a tall uniformed woman stepped out onto the platform to be immediately greeted by a man in an even more splendid uniform whom the female spectator supposed, rightly, to be the Station-master. After a handshake the two moved along the platform out of the woman’s view and all returned to the settled quiet that had reigned previously. After a couple of minutes the small train gave a series of steamy snorts and ran forward on its journey without, as far as the woman in the waiting-room observed, the passenger returning to her compartment. After a few seconds, the show apparently being over, she twisted back to stare listlessly once more into the interior of the room.

Meanwhile, in the Station-master’s office things were advancing dramatically.

“Miss Petersen, nice to see you once more. You seem to visit us much more regularly these days?”

“The play of World events, Mister Leyton.” She nodding in reply. “Gives everyone extra work, especially in our line.”

She was dressed in uniform, but not one that could quickly be recognised as particularly belonging to any of the major Forces. A line of silver round the wrists of her jacket revealed her to be an officer at some level, as did the cap on her head. The leather briefcase held in her left hand also seemed bulging with its contents as she looked around the obviously familiar room; her accent as she spoke hinting unmistakably at a Nordic ancestry

“Shall I take the desk, as usual?”

“By all means, Miss Freya.” The Station-master nodding agreement as he stepped to the door. “I’m sure as always you have a deal of paperwork before you; but there is certainly a tad more than an hour at least; and, indeed, more so for the later scheduled arrival. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you; if you could send in a pot of tea that would be nice.”

“By all means.”

—O—

The café was filling-up somewhat as a result of the Waiting-room fires dying down a little and the resulting chill driving the inmates to warmer climes. Benny Andrews, breaking away from his less than fruitful conversation with Danvers, was one of these going up to the counter with a jaunty attitude that had served him well in the various markets where he had striven to sell his less than kosher wares.

“Hi, doll, what’s on t’night? Got any caviar sannies, an’ whisky?”

The harassed assistant was up for this brashness, being an old hand at her trade.

“Ham, egg, bacon’s off, cheese—tea or coffee; no alcohol.”

“Wot? Not even a beer?”

“No alcohol—what’s yer choice, ducks?”

Struggling back through the crowd in search of a table, juggling a sparsely laden tray in front of him, Benny spotted a small table to one side and headed there like a shark on course towards a juicy swimming tourist. Sitting beside the as yet otherwise unoccupied table he spread his wares before him like an Eastern potentate surveying the first course of the usual evening banquet.

“Two ham sannies, a pot o’tea, an’ two iced cakes that look as if they kissed their oven g’bye some time early last week—mrrph!”

He had hardly finished the first of his dry virtually tasteless sandwiches, making sure though to collect every last crumb from the plate, when a shadow fell over his left shoulder and someone sat on the chair to that side.

“Hallo!” Delivered in a gruff rough tone, the man gazing at his companion with a cold grey eye; dressed in dark grey overcoat with dark brown trilby to match he had weather-beaten features reminiscent of a sailor fresh from rounding the Horn on a three-master.

“Yeah, sure.” Benny not in a talkative mood, eyeing his second sandwich with much more interest.

“Got’ta go up t’Halford, myself!” The man ignoring the fact his partner at table was focused on other matters. “Bit of a last minute decision, mind; rather caught me by surprise, t’tell the truth—not quite clear what’s goin’ on at the moment, too; or what precisely’s brought me t’this dead-end corner o’the county. But, the Devil drives these days, don’t he—ha-ha!”

The fact that a man was going on a lengthy rail journey without a clearly valid reason in these unsure times made Benny look closer at his fellow diner. Not the least because he, Benny, was himself rather foggy about his own reason for going on his present safari, to Halford too, he supposed: but why particularly presently escaped him.

“Oh, it’ll come back when we start.” He musing internally over the curious mental lapse—which others, apparently, were also suffering from; then, driven to some sort of open reply. “Yeah, all these dam’ air raid sirens goin’ off at all hours o’the day an’ night. Lack o’sleep makes yer start t’see an’ hear things, an’ imagine all sorts’a horrors.”

“Just so, my boy.” The man nodding his agreement with this cogent reading of the situation. “Never know where you are in bed at night these days; unless you happen t’be with a tasty young piece, o’course—ha-ha!”

Even Benny was forced to raise his eyebrows at this remark.

“Yes,” The man went on, unapologetically. “Nothing like a young lady t’take your mind off bombs an’ shrapnel, or bein’ called-up t’serve yer dam’ country at the wrong moment, eh? ‘Specially when in her nat’ral habitat, the gal, thet is—bed—ha-ha!”

Feeling the tone, if not content, of the conversation was escaping him Benny tried valiantly to equal if not surpass his companion’s line of thought.

“I may not be your age yet, ol’man—”

The man winced slightly.

“—but I’ve had my times, sure.” Benny launching out, now the springs of memory had been released, into recollections of his hot youth; not yet so very far behind him. “Knew a young gal over t’Liverpool some years ago, I did. Bernice was her moniker; hardly eighteen when we met at a Church social I was deliverin’ to. Fell fer me straight off, she did. Well, yer don’t pass up those kind’a chances do yer? Grand ol’ times we had, once I’d persuaded her t’do—well, yer know! Anyway, it all came eventual t’her fallin’ pregnant, didn’t it! Couldn’t be doin’ wiv that, could I; so I scarpered quick, even though she would insist on wantin’ me t’marry her! Had t’leave Liverpool in a hurry, but there ain’t bin no repercussions; changed my name twice since then, haven’t I! Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone on the game t’get by; none o’my concern now, anyway; got other more important things ter occupy me nowadays—not least avoidin’ bein’ bloody called-up!”

This latter confession seemed to catch the other man’s attention.

“Calling-up! Yeah, bit of a worry, that. I’m close t’the higher limit, agewise, sure; but not quite there yet. Could be asked politely to visit my local military HQ an’ be measured fer a khaki suit anytime, dam’mit.”

Benny snorted, having had much experience, and been told a lot by friends, on this matter.

“Ha! Take something! All sorts’a potions y’can swallow that make yer seem, temporary at least, at Death’s Door. These Army Doc’s are a bunch o’halfwits, I’m told; a child o’ten could get a good excuse past ‘em without any trouble.”

“Glad y’think so!” The man hardly convinced. “Wouldn’t want t’take the chance, though. No wish t’end up knee-deep in sand somewhere in Egypt fightin’ unseen Boche throwin’ hand grenades in my direction! No, keep my head down, is my way. Whenever a letter comes that looks suspicious I sends it back with a note—house bombed, or occupant recently moved—worked so far.”

Benny nodded complacently, this being a well-known dodge at large in the community.

“Yeah, that’ll work; at least as long as needed, anyhow.”

—O—

On the other side of the café three women of differing ages sat round a table, for mutual protection in dangerous times if for no other reason; though today the many loose Servicemen and women milling around seemed to be otherwise occupied than stalking single uninvolved parties.

Mavis Troubridge, middle-aged mother of three, was first to break the ice.

“All these young gals swannin’ aroun’ in uniforms like Princesses on parade—hurrumph! Gets my goat, it does.”

“Doin’ their bit, I suppose.” Grace Daniels, young free and easy lady, curling a disdainful lip. “Had a coupl’a letters from the Government myself orderin’ me t’show willin’ in that direction; but I’ve managed t’skive-off successfully so far. Pretend I has a growin’ family o’three, all under the ages o’ten; that sets ‘em back, the Government, easy enough.”

“Has yer, then?” Alice Coppard raising an interested eyebrow.

“Hell, nah—ha-ha!”

Mavis, as the most mature there, took command of the conversation.

“I’m goin’ t’Averton fer the market day—at least I think that’s the reason, anyway. Yeah-yeah, that’s why. Any o’you goin’ t’market anywhere?”

“Nah,” Grace shrugging under her dark blue wool jacket. “goin’ through t’Halford jes’ t’look at the shops, is all. Don’t yer find these dam’ ration stamps a dam’ nuisance these days? Even fer things like ladies’ underwear an’ suchlike; things you’d think the authorities would be too ashamed t’name never mind ration?”

Alice nodded her agreement over this diabolical liberty by those in authority over poor hard-working wives—which she boldly, even if wholly erroneously, categorized herself as.

“Went t’Blakes Chemists two days since, after a packet o’towels—an’ what did he say? I needed three stamps, is what! The insolence!”

“Seems everything’s rationed now.” Grace agreeing. “Can’t get sich a thing as a banana fer love nor any amount o’money, fact.”

Launched on a subject close to her heart Mavis grunted like a hog missing its eleven o’clock snack.

“My Bert went off on jes’ that the other day; he was sittin’ at breakfast an’ blew a gasket when I laid his toast in front o’him. What’s this, he said, dry as dam’ dust, where’s the dam’ butter? On it, sez I, that there, in the dish is the whole week’s ration. That, sez he, I’ve put more on a coupl’a sannies during the course o’one dam’ mornin’. Get yer togs on an’ go out an’ get more! Can’t, sez I, against the Law. Well, yer should’a heard how he went off on the Government—an eddy’cation it was, I assures you!”

Alice shook her head over this distressing news.

“Government seems t’want t’order an’ harass every move we makes these days, sure. I knows there’s a dam’ war on, certinly, but all the same there are limits ain’t there?”

Grace spoke up here, having something to pass on.

“Bloke I went out with, few weeks ago, had experience in that line. The cops came round one afternoon an’ insisted he join the ARP; said he hadn’t no choice, it was that or goin’ t’Clink fer six weeks. An’ how’d it pan out? He found hisself on a big store’s roof one dark night with a bucket of water, a bucket of sand, and a hand pump, told off to extinguish incendiaries if any fell near him! He came back early that mornin’, covered in dust an’ smellin’ like he’d bin badly singed, pale as a ghost an’ shiverin’. Ten minutes later he’d said g’bye, packed his suitcase an’ made off fer the Smoke t’lose hisself in the crowd, he said! What about that, ladies?”

Mavis sniffed somewhat censoriously.

“Sounds a bit like jumpin’ out the pan in’ta the fire t’me—but all t’their own, I sez.”

Alice gave her opinion here.

“All sorts of new rules, laws, an’ regulations—rationin’ jes’ one major part of it all. All these new military Forces that men an’ women are joinin’ head over heels—uniforms everywhere you look in the street these days; jes’ look round ‘ere in this Waitin’-room t’day, a whole mess o’them goin’ who knows where—this dam’ War’s got a lot t’answer for. Don’t know, too, how the hell we ever got in’ta this mess t’begin with.”

Mavis looked at her two companions.

“Another pot o’tea’ll be nice; only another forty minutes till our connection t’Halford’s due, or over an hour if yer decides ter wait on the ‘lectric connection via Baverly.”

—O—

The Station-master had deployed one of his porters to surreptitiously raid the behind-the-counter premises of the station café, ending with him now bringing a loaded tray to his office for his visitor. Juggling the tray expertly he tapped on the door, opening it with one deft hand.

“Here we are, Miss Freya. Bacon sandwiches newly cooked, an’ our best tea; milk an’ sugar, too. Can I get you anything else while I’m here?”

“Thank you, Mister Leyton, that’s fine.”

“Look as if you’re buried in files there, Miss? Quite a few passengers t’day t’process?”

“Yes, slightly more than usual; and the two differing trains make the distribution somewhat difficult especially, sadly, with so large numbers of the Military and fine moral borders to adjust to.”

“You’ll have all the relevant Rules at your fingertips, I’m sure.”

“Had enough experience over the years, yes.” Miss Petersen nodding a trifle wearily. “But at least you can rely on the fact I never make a mistaken decision. Everyone who goes on the individual trains takes their appropriate seat, rely on that; especially in these days of Wartime which give us all so much more to handle.”

“Oh, I do, Miss.”

—O—

The First Class Waiting-room was filling back up again as their departure time drew nearer. Albert Tomkins had retrieved his briefcase and thick wool blanket without which he never travelled anywhere, having a very well developed bump of sybaritic comfort. Mrs Helen Graham, having already decided to stand the extra expence of transferring from the later electric train to the earlier steam train, was fussing quietly over her own large handbag; while Aileen Mitchell sat on the cushioned bench with her military knapsack on her lap. Henry Foulkes simply sat in silence pondering on who knew what with a calm neutral expression that easily hid a multitude of possibilities. Mavis Troubridge sat comfortably by herself, redolent in her supposition that all was right with her world and the rest of the populace could go hang. Neville Danvers, businessman at large, puffed on a large cigar with practiced importance.

In the Third Class Waiting-room things were more active; curiously, seeing a good half of the travelers were ticketed for the ever-approaching arrival of the steam train, if all went well in these times of Wartime schedules. Benny Andrews, stallholder extraordinary and Black Market aficionado, stood by the platform window looking out somewhat anxiously as if afraid of missing his train though there was still a substantial amount of empty time to fill before its listed arrival. Grace Daniels and Alice Coppard together sat shoulder to shoulder wrapped in thick coats watching everyone and everything that happened within the purlieus of their view with eagle eyes but saying nothing. Several other passengers were fussily seeing to various pieces of luggage as if leaving them behind would at the least in some way alter the course of the present conflict.

In the Station-master’s Office Miss Freya Petersen had concluded her updating of her compendious files and schedules, having finally transferred the most important of the resulting data onto a number of sheets of paper which were now efficiently fastened to a clipboard in her hand. Looking round to see nothing had been missed she went to the door, stepping out on the platform just as a long whistle in the distance heralded the arrival of the 3.15pm steam train ultimately scheduled as heading to the coast. Also on the platform the erstwhile passengers had assembled with due aspirations for their appropriate seats thereon—but the Station-master, and Miss Freya Petersen had other ideas on this topic.

“Hallo-Hallo!” The Station-master bellowing like a liner’s horn on leaving harbor. “If you all can take note here, thank you. There is going to be a slight delay while certain adjustments to the passenger list for the Three-Fifteen take place. No-No, shouting an’ language of that sort won’t make things go any faster. This is all down to Wartime regulations, an’ one thing an’ another; nuthin any o’you can do but accept it as it is. Now, what happens is Miss Petersen here, Commander Petersen that is, a duly acknowledged representative of the necessary Government Department, has a schedule of all you passengers; but some of you will by necessity have to be changed from this train to the later electric train at Three-Forty-five, an’ vice-versa. No-No, like I said shouting again won’t help, it’s decided by Governmental Rule, an’ can’t be changed. It’s all t’do with passenger safety in these tryin’ times, y’see. So, just listen t’Commander Petersen, an’ if she reads your names off ter change t’the later train just go back in’ta the First Class waiting-room, thanks. That’s the First Class Waiting-room, even for those with Third Class tickets. Miss Petersen.”

The now revealed Commander stood at the edge of the platform beside the stationary steam engine, its valves steaming officiously as if eager to be on its way.

“If you all listen carefully we can have this done in a trice, thanks.” She using a tone of authority and depth which easily extended the length of the platform even though she hardly seemed to have raised her voice above ordinary conversational level. “First, if I do not name you then you are free to board this train here; if I do name you please retreat to the Waiting-room to await the arrival of the electric train in another half hour. Be sure that its schedule has been, ahem, officially changed so that it’s new route visits all the destinations you would otherwise be passing through if still on the earlier steam train.”

The truth of this latter statement hanging in the air, based simply on her word; whether she was telling the truth or lying through her teeth from long experience could not be affirmed either way; though by the frowns and suspicious looks amongst the crowd several had their doubts.

“Albert Tomkins, change to the electric train for you, thank you. Same for you. Henry Foulkes, electric. Mavis Troubridge, electric; yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so—no, there can be no exceptions. Yes, you will be transported to your appropriate destination, have no fear about that. Oh, by the way, did I make it clear that I will be transferring several passengers from the electric to the steam train, as well? Well, that will be the case, too. So, Aileen Mitchell, you will be on the steam train and not the electric; yes, take any one of the empty compartments, you will find there is ample room for all extra passengers. Neville Danvers, electric for you; sir, huumph, that kind of argument may serve you well in your place of business but here I am in command; it is quite simple, you go on the electric by choice or I have the porters throw you on against your will, with appropriate legal summons to follow! Thank you. Benny Andrews, you are on the electric; yes, if there is any recompense to be adjusted be assured you will be given your just rewards at the termination of your journey. Alice Coppard, you stay on the steam train; Grace Daniels, you transfer to the electric train; yes, I am told the electric train seating is of a high modern level and the ride smoother: and, yes, those on the latter will reach your appropriate destination, do not worry about that. Sarah Baird, steam train for you; yes, I know it’s causing unnecessary disturbance but there we are. You sir, in the heavy overcoat, brown hat, and black boots, electric train for you, I’m afraid. Sir, kindly mend your language if you please, it’s on the schedule and there’s no escaping it, whatever you say or think. What’s that, Flying-officer Carter? You and your crew can transfer from the steam to the electric if that helps? No, thank you; you and your crew are fine with the steam train at Three-fifteen. Now, let me see, ah, yes,—”

The redistribution of the many passengers went on for another half-hour, to a generally felt growing irritation, but finally everyone had been distributed according to Commander Petersen’s detailed notes; those going on the steam train having boarded, and those who had been relegated to await the electric train passing back into the luxurious confines of the First Class Waiting-room to await their fate on the 3.45pm.

—O—

The Station-master stood beside Commander Petersen on the platform watching the steam train, a sturdy well-kept and polished 4-4-0, chuffing away into the distance along the main Branch line.

“Well, they’re well on their way, thank goodness.”

Miss Petersen smiled for the first time on this visit to the station.

“Yes, always nice to see a good ending to a complicated situation; makes it all worthwhile, I feel.”

“And the electric train?” The Station-master studying his own timetable in his hand.

“Yes,” Miss Petersen reverting to a studied neutral stance. “the electric, just so!”

—O—

In the First Class Waiting-room, destitute of its official members and replaced by a hang-dog group of semi-pretenders, a few consisting of the ubiquitous uniformed military personnel so numerously apparent earlier around the Station, the general tone was one of disappointment and subdued anger.

“I’ll certainly write a snappy letter t’the Railway Board authorities.” Neville Danvers making his opposition to being robbed of his First Class seat on the steam train clear to all. “Electric a shabby uncomfortable hole, so I’ve been informed by those unhappy enough t’have experienced the thing. Shall certainly have something t’say t’those in charge when I reach my destination, dam’mit!”

Albert Tomkins was very much of the same mind.

“Dam’ impertinence, what right could they possibly have for such an imposition? No reason at all, even minding it’s dam’ Wartime! I mean, no excuse at all!”

Mavis Troubridge, having looked forward to her luxurious first Class compartment on the steam train and so lording it over her two companions one of whom at least had usurped her position and the other whom she was now going to accompany in her lesser sphere, was desolate.

“It’s all a Government plot to desecrate the God given rights of women across the country.” She sounding more like Emmeline Pankhurst than that estimable Lady had ever done herself in Life. “Soon we’ll, us women, be confined t’our houses an’ the wearin’ of awful cloaks like t’the heathen in those Eastern countries! Mark my words!”

Several others were similarly exercised to make their complaints public; even when the Station-master made an appearance he could only reiterate the earlier decisions made by Commander Petersen—there being no possible exceptions, to everyone’s disgust. Then 3.45pm finally arrived along with a whistling almost ethereal whine, unlike anything the passengers had ever heard before, seemingly approaching along the rail-line from the west; something by way of an angry Irish Banshee caressing a long-held personal score it was at last finally free to settle as it wanted!

“Three-Forty-five,” A porter shouted out on the platform. “Averley, Gatehead, Ledderley, an’ all points east!”

On arrival the passengers, crowding onto the platform, were surprised and somewhat taken aback by the appearance of their denoted transport. In opposition to the excellently kept earlier steam engine this electric engine was dirty beyond belief, the green paint being almost imperceptible under the oily residue covering its square box-like flanks; showers of sparks flickering from between the wheels, where the connections with the third electric rail transferred power, the sides of the engine and nearby platform bathed in lambent flashes like fireworks on Guy Fawkes’ Night. The coaches were in no better condition and, on opening the doors to the compartments, the passengers found the seats were in fact nothing more than bare wooden benches without cushion or padding of any kind.

Amidst a cacophony of distressed complaints, angry exchanges with whatever uniformed member of the Railway staff happened to be near to hand, and general grumbling between each other, those travelling on the train were all finally boarded, almost all against their better judgement, and the train ready to leave. A further shower of sparks, a growling snarl that recalled enraged Devils on holiday fresh from the very Portals of Hell, a grinding of gears, and the train set off; this time, curtesy of the Signal-box, taking the secondary line which quickly led to the dark opening of the Bastable Tunnel into which the train, observed by the watching Station-master and Miss Petersen on the platform, quickly disappeared leaving no trace behind.

—O—

“Well, there they go, once more.”

“Indeed.” Miss Petersen a lady of few words when few words were the order of the day.

“Makes me sad t’see the electric so full these days.” The Station-master, for some reason, waxing philosophical over the matter. “Even though it be Wartime, an’ all.”

Miss Petersen shook her head sadly as they both turned back to the waiting warmth of the Station-master’s Office.

“The World revolves, and Life carries on, regardless. Even Wars not affecting the general moral tone of people’s lives, so necessitating, well—this!”

“Time for another pot o’tea a’fore your train returns for you, ma’am?”

“I think so, Mister Leyton, certainly. Always a delight to visit you on these occasions.”

“Not at all, ma’am; not at all!”

—O—

An hour later, on a nearby road, Major Roberts was taking his niece Philippa Cairns to Keverton Railway Station some 5 miles off. The Riley two-seater was at its best, travelling smoothly along the country road till they came to a junction where it had to slow down to almost nothing in order to clear a tight ninety degree turn.

“What’s that bare gravelly space over the hedge there, and the line of flat overgrown grass, like a country lane?”

Major Roberts glanced in the direction Philippa was pointing.

“Oh, that; used t’be Bastable Railway Station—all long gone now. That’s the abandoned railway line from Baverton t’Amperley, and at last Halford itself; though I’m not quite sure it ever got that far. You can see the old boarded up Bastable Tunnel a quarter of a mile to the east, see?”

“Oh, yes. Looks dour an’ gloomy.”

“No trains’ve run along the line in, oh, must be near twenty years.” Major Roberts shrugging his shoulders. “Anyhow, must get on or you’ll miss your connection. Hope t’see you again on your next leave, dear.”

First Officer, WAAF, Philippa Cairns put a hand to her cap with a smile.

“It’s on my schedule, sir; War not interfering, hopefully.”

“We’ll certainly hope so, dear!”

The End.