Prologue: Thomas Tregonney

The winds last night had blown themselves out; all that was left was an occasional gust. The accompanying rain was now little more than moisture dragged from the foliage, yet still with the ability to soak the unwary. The gusts that blew the autumn leaves around like dervishes would suddenly evaporate, leaving the leaves to settle in clusters of red, gold and brown, until another gust picked them up to swirl and then settle in another corner, the eddy's vanishing as swiftly as they arrived. Thomas Tregonney knew all about these conditions, having seen them for the past twenty-eight years ever since he came here to assume the position of Stationmaster. He had seen all the weather that this tiny valley in the South West of England could experience. Hot dry Summers, when the rails shimmered like light dancing on water, cold winters when rain and snow would make the long haul up the bank from the junction almost impossible for the tiny locomotives. Almost impossible except that they had made it, the loco drivers had pride in their job, and would employ all the tricks in their repertoire to keep the train moving, but then they; like Thomas; were GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY men.

He closed the door of the house and locked it, the first time ever in all those years that he had done so. He wore his uniform, not the plain double breasted jacket and trousers provided by British Railways; until recently they had been hanging in his cupboard where they had always hung; but his first uniform, that of the GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY; he had always thought of his erstwhile employer in capitals giving that Company the importance and respect he felt its due; this was the only uniform he would ever wear, scorning any other. The wing collar was threadbare in places, and the black tie shone with continual use. He settled the pillbox cap on his head the red embroidered initials of the GWR entwined over the peak the only colour in the uniform, pulled the front of the Frock Coat tightly together, and strode down the gravel path and up the slope of the platform.

As he walked this short distance it had been his habit to count the wagons in the Goods sidings, always a reliable indicator of how well the local economy was performing. For years he could rely on at least a dozen trucks and vans awaiting the pick-up goods train. On Market days there would be more and even at this early hour of the morning the cattle pens would be filling with lowing and bleating beasts destined for South Molton. Now they were empty, as were the sidings themselves.

His station was a single platform affair, with waiting room and offices seemingly too large for just that single platform. Even though he realised that he had no need he still worked in the habit that those years had engendered. The platform was inspected thoroughly for signs of weed growth, or cracked paving slabs which could trip the unwary passenger. Little point as no passenger would ever wait here again, little point as no train would ever again pull in to discharge travellers or pick up. Little point as there were no longer Porters who could be detailed to pick the weeds, sweep the paving, or renew the white line painted on the very edge of the platform. Instead there was just Thomas and his lonely station.

It had been this way for two months since the last train had run, British Railways having decided to close the line, an act of vandalism according to Thomas, preceded by months, when trains would run at times when experience indicated that no trains need run, yet did not run when that same experience indicated that there were passengers in need of trains. Thomas was in no doubt that this was a deliberate policy designed to make the case for closure. He had made his protests, bombarding his superiors with complaints; telling them that this was not the way to run a railway; his letters had been acknowledged, but no action was forthcoming. Decisions had been made far away, and the actions of an insignificant Stationmaster at an insignificant station in an insignificant valley would have no influence on that decision.

For the last five months after the remaining Porter had been transferred elsewhere Thomas had done what he could to keep the Station tidy. He did this despite the fact that in the April that year he was sixty-five and officially retired, although no notice had been issued for him to quit the Station House. The waiting rooms had been swept every day, metal and wood work polished; often with polish and dusters purchased from his own pocket. Even when the Track gangs were withdrawn, and the rails became crowned with rust, and the ballast choked with weeds, Thomas still cared, going down on the track running through the station to painstakingly pull every weed that showed its head; determined that HIS station would not show the air of neglect which others might and that it could still fulfil its function if required.

Occasionally one of the villagers would make the mile and a half walk to share a moment with him, to reminisce on how it used to be, or discuss the weather; and he would from time to time make that same walk in the reverse direction to drink a Pint at the Combe Inn and eat a sandwich for Lunch. His was a constant dream that one day the bureaucracy would see its errors and the service would be restored. That dream ended when a Poster miraculously appeared on the notice board at the front of the station announcing that the track would be lifted in January the next year. In all his years here no poster was displayed unless Thomas gave his approval, yet all of a sudden the poster was there. No-one had thought to enlighten him, nor consult. They had taken his trains away, now they had taken his station away. Thomas was now superfluous.

Thomas was and remained a diligent Railwayman; duty was paramount and took precedence over everything even his family. He was allowed one day off every week, yet rarely took advantage of it. Trains ran seven days a week and as Stationmaster Thomas would meet every one of them. Many branch lines would not have a Sunday service, nor did this branch, the Combe Lyney branch, until the First World War. The Military authorities had insisted on Sunday services, much against the opposition of the Presbyterian Fathers in Paverton the terminus of the line. Troops under canvas on Exmoor needed to be moved at any time, even Sundays, so the Sunday service was set in place. Those same troops also needed some entertainment when Sunday passes were granted. The Presbyterians had succeeded in ensuring that the Magistrates allowed no Sunday opening of the local Pubs, so the Tommies crowded on to the trains bound for Combe Lyney and South Molton, where the Pubs were open. The returning trains were met by the Stationmaster at Paverton, an Elder of the Methodist Church who declined to work on Sunday but nonetheless met the trains and with Bible in hand harangued the well-lubricated Soldiers with promises of Damnation for desecrating the Lord's Day. To men destined for the bloodbath of the trenches in France, his words had little impact; many knew they were heading for Hell in any case. The Sunday trains remained, even after the War had ended. Thomas knew all this because the Railway was a family, and like a family there was always an older Aunt or Uncle, or in this case a retired railwayman who would visit to sit in the Sun on the platform, and could be easily persuaded to relate the tales of yesteryear.