but he'd stopped the Highflyer in time, after all. Well, nearly.
'There'll be a nice big hole in your fire now,' Clive told me, in low tones.
I saw that he was right, so I took up my shovel. We ran crashing through the little station at Haxby, and as we did so that tranquil spot was filled with the voice of Billington, roaring: 'What have we got on?'
'Excursion,' I said.
'You two blokes work spare, do you?'
We were rushing through the village of Strensall now, at
such a rate that I caught sight of a porter on the platform pushing half a dozen people back from the edge.
'We work excursions,' said Clive, as we shot out once more into countryside. 'We're the Sowerby Bridge excursion gang,' he added.
I thought how much I used to like the sound of that.
'At York,' said Billington, 'you'd be called the spare gang. Do you have a spare gang at Sowerby Bridge?'
'No,' said Clive.
'That's because you're it,' said Billington.
Clive was giving me the eye, smiling but frowning at the same time.
'What do you do when there's no excursion on?' Billington was shouting.
'Relief,' I shouted.
'Relief, spare ... Comes to the same thing!' yelled Billington.
Clive showed me by hand signs that he wanted the footplate given a spray with the slasher pipe. I was glad of any distraction, and as I set to he hung out of the side with his blue jacket fluttering, looking along the line ahead. Very noble, he looked, with his grey hair lashed back. Was this the thing between him and Knowles the stationmaster? Clive was a handsome sort but just a little bald; Knowles was a well set up fellow, but not so fetching to the fillies (I guessed). They both dressed up to the knocker, so there it was: deadlock.
I hosed down the footplate with the boiling water, calling out to Billington to mind himself, but he was too busy squinting through the spectacle glass and talking thirteen to the dozen about how we had Kirkham Abbey coming up, and how the signals all about there were a mare's nest.
'The only blokes who might be called "spare" at Sowerby Bridge', Clive was saying when he swung himself back onto the footplate, 'would be the pilots.'
Well that hit home, shut Billington up for at least two minutes.
But then he bellowed out: 'Now you've got distant, outer home, and home signals to look out for!'
'How far short of Malton are we?' I asked him.
No answer.
'It was shortly before Malton that a smash nearly happened,' I went on. 'I read of it in the paper.'
'Kirkham Abbey's five mile short of Malton,' Billington yelled back, presently. 'But don't bother thissen about that, you've the fucking signal to look out for.'
So we were in the danger zone. And I wasn't over-keen on the name Kirkham Abbey either - too like Kirkham in the rival county of Lancashire where Margaret Dyson had come to grief at my hands. I would not give it up yet.
'But where was the tree on the line?' I shouted.
However, Clive was at Billington's shoulder now. 'You can shut her off for a bit now, can't you?' Clive asked him; 'let her cruise through.'
'What do you think this is?' said Billington. 'A bloody yacht?'
Clive shook his head and sat down on the sandbox to read Pearson's Book of Fun. I carried on with the shovel, trying to fix the fire. With the sun right overhead it was very hot work.
'Natty dresser, your mate!' roared Billington.
I was trying not to look along the line, for I had no control over what might be placed there.
'Shabbiness', I shouted back at Billington, 'is a false economy.'
'Is it buggery,' said Billington. He had views on everything.
We were now running up to Kirkham Abbey station, and we would have been touching seventy when I spied the distant signal through the scratchy spectacle glass. It was off.
'Did you spot that?' shouted Billington.
'Aye,' I said, and he seemed put out. I wished he would slow down. A distant signal, even when off, meant proceed with caution.
'Now the "home" is the hardest spot on the whole bloody line,'
'There'll be a nice big hole in your fire now,' Clive told me, in low tones.
I saw that he was right, so I took up my shovel. We ran crashing through the little station at Haxby, and as we did so that tranquil spot was filled with the voice of Billington, roaring: 'What have we got on?'
'Excursion,' I said.
'You two blokes work spare, do you?'
We were rushing through the village of Strensall now, at
such a rate that I caught sight of a porter on the platform pushing half a dozen people back from the edge.
'We work excursions,' said Clive, as we shot out once more into countryside. 'We're the Sowerby Bridge excursion gang,' he added.
I thought how much I used to like the sound of that.
'At York,' said Billington, 'you'd be called the spare gang. Do you have a spare gang at Sowerby Bridge?'
'No,' said Clive.
'That's because you're it,' said Billington.
Clive was giving me the eye, smiling but frowning at the same time.
'What do you do when there's no excursion on?' Billington was shouting.
'Relief,' I shouted.
'Relief, spare ... Comes to the same thing!' yelled Billington.
Clive showed me by hand signs that he wanted the footplate given a spray with the slasher pipe. I was glad of any distraction, and as I set to he hung out of the side with his blue jacket fluttering, looking along the line ahead. Very noble, he looked, with his grey hair lashed back. Was this the thing between him and Knowles the stationmaster? Clive was a handsome sort but just a little bald; Knowles was a well set up fellow, but not so fetching to the fillies (I guessed). They both dressed up to the knocker, so there it was: deadlock.
I hosed down the footplate with the boiling water, calling out to Billington to mind himself, but he was too busy squinting through the spectacle glass and talking thirteen to the dozen about how we had Kirkham Abbey coming up, and how the signals all about there were a mare's nest.
'The only blokes who might be called "spare" at Sowerby Bridge', Clive was saying when he swung himself back onto the footplate, 'would be the pilots.'
Well that hit home, shut Billington up for at least two minutes.
But then he bellowed out: 'Now you've got distant, outer home, and home signals to look out for!'
'How far short of Malton are we?' I asked him.
No answer.
'It was shortly before Malton that a smash nearly happened,' I went on. 'I read of it in the paper.'
'Kirkham Abbey's five mile short of Malton,' Billington yelled back, presently. 'But don't bother thissen about that, you've the fucking signal to look out for.'
So we were in the danger zone. And I wasn't over-keen on the name Kirkham Abbey either - too like Kirkham in the rival county of Lancashire where Margaret Dyson had come to grief at my hands. I would not give it up yet.
'But where was the tree on the line?' I shouted.
However, Clive was at Billington's shoulder now. 'You can shut her off for a bit now, can't you?' Clive asked him; 'let her cruise through.'
'What do you think this is?' said Billington. 'A bloody yacht?'
Clive shook his head and sat down on the sandbox to read Pearson's Book of Fun. I carried on with the shovel, trying to fix the fire. With the sun right overhead it was very hot work.
'Natty dresser, your mate!' roared Billington.
I was trying not to look along the line, for I had no control over what might be placed there.
'Shabbiness', I shouted back at Billington, 'is a false economy.'
'Is it buggery,' said Billington. He had views on everything.
We were now running up to Kirkham Abbey station, and we would have been touching seventy when I spied the distant signal through the scratchy spectacle glass. It was off.
'Did you spot that?' shouted Billington.
'Aye,' I said, and he seemed put out. I wished he would slow down. A distant signal, even when off, meant proceed with caution.
'Now the "home" is the hardest spot on the whole bloody line,'
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