Chapter 13

Leaving the Inn Abby turned right to stroll down towards the river bridge. To her left she could see the Church. It sat on a higher level to the road, and because of this appeared at first to be quite a large structure. However as her perspective changed she could see that it was really a very simple construction, a Chapel with grandiose ideas. The Nave was not long, and the tower squat, both sitting firmly on their mound, as grey as the rock which was the foundation. Scattered about the churchyard were numerous simple gravestones, some straight like soldiers, others tilting at varying angles. From the road Abby could not read names, but reckoned that even close up it would be difficult as almost every stone was decorated with the greens and browns of Lichen, the haphazard patterns creating a look somewhat similar to the photos of the world taken from a satellite. 'I bet there's a few Comberfords in there.' The thought sprang into her mind unbidden, and she mused upon this almost obsession of hers with the Comberford family. Was it just because of the slighting of her Grandfather, or because of their influence and shaping of the valley? It was ridiculous really, they had done nothing more than many others, looking after themselves and their interests. Or was it because she liked James Comberford, and somehow thought she should not. He had that light self-denigrating sense of humour that appealed to Abby, and she had to admit to herself that she wanted to meet him again. Putting these thoughts out of her mind she walked on.

Further down the road she noticed another lane leading around and up the hill behind the Church. Through the variegated greens of the foliage she caught an occasional glimpse of a much larger house. It had to be at the highest level of building in the village, and without thinking she knew instinctively who owned that house. She decided to ignore this, she wouldn't be seen to be peeking at the place, and determinedly she walked past the lane and continued round a bend towards the river. The road dropped away now, and to her left was the small estate of Council houses that could just be seen from the Inn. There were only half a dozen of them, and to her eye looked as if the tenants cared for them. The gardens were neat and tidy, and if there was a child's bike lying in the path of a couple what did it matter. That didn't compare at all with the conditions of some around London, whose gardens were to all intents and purposes a car-breakers yard. She wondered at Mary's attitude, and thought it was probably the same attitude that so many people would feel, agreeing that such places had to be built, but not in our village thank you.

The road went slightly downhill out of the village, and crossed the meadows slightly raised above the level, and then gently rising to the bridge spanning the river. She stopped on the bridge and as so many people do leaned over the parapet to gaze into the water. This was not a major river, it appeared to flow and ripple gently over the stones lining its bed, a quiet chuckling its only comment on life. The water was so clear that Abby could see the weeds clinging to the larger rocks and streaming out with the flow. As her eyes focussed better she realised that these were not all in fact weeds, but fish, dappled fresh water Trout, who rather than swim energetically all day, just did enough to stay in one place and let the river bring the food to them. How sensible. From the elevated position of the bridge, she could see both upstream and downstream for some distance. Downstream there was the railway bridge, a girder construction, supported by two stone abutments; both set well back from the river itself. The girders were dappled with rust, 'Grandfather would have had something to say about that' her thoughts murmured, and she laughed gently to herself, amazed at how the character of the man was becoming real in her own mind. Upstream the river vanished within a few hundred yards into a small gorge, overhung with trees, but its general course could be discovered by observing those same trees, which had grown stronger and more quickly, thriving on the moisture derived from the river.

Abby turned to stroll back, the thought of some breakfast raising hollow grumbles of hunger in her stomach. The toot of a horn startled her, as a Land Rover swept down the road from Paverton, and over the bridge. It passed her, but immediately braked. As she drew level she could see the driver leaning half around in his seat, and pushing the slide glass window open.

"Good Morning Miss Tregonney," said James Comberford, "out and about early, I see." Abby could not but help smile, as his grin was certainly infectious.

"Good Morning, James," she replied, consciously using his first name, "yes, I had to get up early, it's all these sheep and cockerels, who have no consideration for us Townies, and insist on making a racket as soon as the sun has got over the horizon," she paused, "and you, are you out early, or just returning late from the night's excesses?" James pulled a face.

"Night's excesses? In Paverton?" His tone was incredulous, "no, Abby," following her lead he used her Christian name, "it's what we country folk have to do, so we fit the preconceived ideas of you Townies." Abby laughed.

"You mean you got up early just to impress me, I'm flattered, but tell me, you don't seem surprised to see me, how did you know I was here again, I've only been in Combe Lyney for one night?" James did not answer her directly; instead he offered her a lift, which Abby accepted.

Once the Land Rover was underway, which it did with clouds of blue smoke from the exhaust and much missing and catching from under the bonnet, he answered her question.

"Well you saw Sam and Mavis last night, their Son, Roger, who farms the land now, has a daughter, Elizabeth, who comes up to the house, and mucks out the stables, in exchange for riding whenever she's at home. I saw Liz this morning and she told me that that posh Lady was back, so I knew it was you. Simple really. Nothing happens in a small village like this without everyone knowing the next day." Abby realised that it was as James said, news travelled fast.

"I don't know about being called that posh Lady, or that you should jump to the conclusion that it had to be me. I'm not posh. I'm the Granddaughter of the Stationmaster; you can't get much more downmarket than that." James chuckled.

"You drive a BMW; you have some important job in London, and live in Kensington, that's posh to us." They had arrived outside the Combe Inn, and James brought the Land Rover to a shuddering halt. Abby turned to him.

"I might drive a BMW, yes, I had a job in the City, no more, and the flat will be on the market shortly, so I'm going to be losing the posh. Thanks for the lift; this Land Rover's an experience after the BMW, when you drive it, you'll see. Shall I see you around?" James gave his grin.

"Oh yes, you'll see me around, I never go far from Combe Lyney now."

Abby went in to find Mary, and her breakfast, for which she was ready. The grapevine worked even more efficiently here, as Mary appeared almost immediately, and indicated the table laid for Abby. If Abby had known that Mary had noted her manner of arrival and with whom, and that after bringing Abby her breakfast would be on the phone to Mavis, she would have been quietly amused, as it was she gave no further thought other than to eat. One thing she did ponder was the last remark of James'. He had said 'I never go far from Combe Lyney now.' The emphasis she was sure had been on the 'Now' as if he had travelled away from the valley, and it had not been a pleasant experience. It was her intention to drive around and discover the area, but first she would have to get some petrol. Mary was polishing glasses at the Bar, eagerly awaiting Abby's departure so that she could phone Mavis.

"Mary, I need some petrol for the car. Do I have to go towards South Molton, or is there somewhere in Paverton?" Mary gave this some thought.

"I don't really know, I'll ask Jack." she called into the hinterland of the Pub, and Jack answered. He came into the Bar, and beamed at Abby. Mary explained the need for petrol.

"No problem, there's a garage in Paverton, just off to the right of the Market Place. It's closer than South Molton." Abby thanked him, and said for both their benefits that she would take a drive, to see the country, and not to expect her back before the evening.

Jack gave her a recommendation. "Go see Porlock, nice little place, and if you drive along the coast you'll get to Minehead, it's full of Beer-bellies and Tattoos at this time of year, but there's a preserved railway there, you might find that interesting." Abby thought that it would indeed be interesting, anything that would increase her knowledge of how the railways were run fifty years ago, could only be of help in understanding her Grandfather.

The road to Paverton she now knew quite well, and finding the garage was easily done. She filled up with unleaded fuel, noting the price per litre. The parking may be cheap around here, but the cost of petrol was way above that which she was used to paying in London. With a full tank she consulted her map, and decided to drive over Exmoor towards the Brendon Hills. Rather than using road numbers she listed mentally the names of the towns and villages she would drive through; Exford, Luckwells Bridge, Wheddon Cross, Dunster, and then to Minehead.

The Moor was not as she expected, anticipating the wild, gorse covered, and windswept moors of Northern England. Whilst some parts did indeed resemble those moors, Stone and earth embankments enclosed for the most part Exmoor, the fields they created populated with sheep and even cattle. The road that she drove was lined with Beech, the trees bent by the prevailing winds. From time to time she would pass old buildings, some derelict, others showing signs of continued habitation. The road itself was well maintained, and wide, not like the lane which ran up to Combe Lyney, and although it avoided the steepest gradients, by threading its way round outcrops and hills, did manifest some quite extensive earthworks, to ease its path. Where the road ran across what she would call true moorland the most stupendous views were obtained, otherwise the Beech lining the road restricted her line of sight. Exford came almost as a shock, the road descending steeply into another verdant valley, to the bridge over the infant River Exe. A Hotel close by the bridge, and numerous houses, all in good state proclaimed this as a much-visited place. The references to Lorna Doone, confirmed the tourist status, although she felt doubtful if the many visitors would be familiar with the book. She laughed to herself, 'shame on you Abby, you haven't even read the book yourself.

' The 'B' road enabled her to drive faster, the road having more gentle curves, although the hills and dips were still quite severe. She was still not able to see much of the Moor though, as the stone and earth banks had become covered with vegetation, Hawthorn, Gorse, Grasses, and of course the inevitable Beech. It was only when going downhill on a fairly straight stretch that she was able to see the Moor and its vistas. She came to Luckwell Bridge, diving down one side of a valley, over the bridge itself, and almost immediately ascending. The road curved to the right, and too late to make the turn she noticed a signpost for Dunster. In two minds whether to carry on or turn back, she came to Wheddon Cross, and realised that the turn before was simply an avoiding road for the difficult left turn at the cross roads here. The A396 ran gently through a wooded valley, following the river Avill, which she imagined ran all the way down to Dunster, and then onto the Sea. Dunster itself was an experience, the road becoming so narrow through the village; that traffic lights had been installed to regulate the flow of traffic, even so, the Lorries and Buses coming the other way seemed to have little clearance. When the lights allowed her into the town it was as if a time warp had transported her back to the Middle Ages, cobbled pavements, old houses, and right in the centre a beautiful Wool market. All supervised by the Lordly Castle, sitting high on its mound. She would have slowed down better to appreciate the sights, but for the traffic which had followed her, a large Van breathing heavily down at the back of her car, its body language telling her she was holding it up. She drove on through, resisting the urge to see everything at once, mentally cautioning herself that she would have plenty of time, outside the main tourist season to explore.

The road to Minehead turned left outside the village, and Abby could once again drive a little faster. Not as fast as the white van would like, however. In what seemed like a suicidal move it passed her cutting in abruptly as a car came the other way. The driver of the other car was obviously making pertinent comments on the ancestry of the van driver as he and Abby passed. An island loomed, with the signs showing straight on for the Town centre, and one of those Brown tourist signs telling her right for the West Somerset Railway, which she presumed would be the preserved railway that Jack had mentioned. She turned right along a relatively new road, passed the inevitable Tesco, and Macdonalds, and was brought to a stop by the flashing red lights of a level crossing. A shrill whistle caught her attention, and a Steam Engine, gleaming in polished green, copper and brass shining drew a train of chocolate and cream coaches across in front of her. She let down her window, and the evocative smell of steam, hot oil, and sulphur wafted into the car. As soon as the barriers lifted she moved off, and following the signs drove along the front, past Victorian buildings which could have started life as hotels or perhaps family homes but were now converted into shops and arcades, and found the station tucked away on the left, the buffers right up against the pavement. Abby was lucky enough to find a parking space in the small car park adjacent to the station, and wandered onto the platform. The station offices were to her right, a booking hall first, then a shop, then other offices. She walked past them, dodging to the left and the right to avoid the passengers streaming down the platform towards her. There were two lines, one at the platform and the other running parallel, past a building that she would recognise anywhere as a goods shed, it was similar to the one at Combe Lyney, but this one was obviously now being used as an engine shed. At the road end of the second line stood a hulk only just recognisable as an engine, standing on just six wheels. What could they possibly do with that she wondered; it didn't look as if it would ever again run? In the opposite direction the second line ran alongside a water tower, a huge tank standing on a slim post. From the base of the tank a jib extended, and offered at its end a large flexible tube, from which dripped water.

The train she had seen crossing the road was now standing at the platform and the engine having left its coaches coasted with soft hissing and pants slowly down the line towards where she stood. It was a medium sized locomotive, with sloping water tanks on each side. It passed her and stopped with a groan of the brakes, the chimney right up against the buffers. The driver was hanging out the other side to her looking back. Abby followed his line of sight, and heard the clunk as the points changed. A man dressed in blue overalls stood by two levers just at the end of the engine shed, and raised his left arm towards the driver. The whistle sounded, and the engine moved backwards, crossing over to the outside rail, and slowly approached the water tower, there it stopped and one of the crew she presumed would be the fireman climbed on top of the engine tanks, and lifted the fill covers. His mate on the ground grabbed a chain and with it swung the jib until the man on top caught the chain and pulled the jib over the locomotive tanks, now the purpose of the flexible tube (later Abby would learn they called it the bag), was revealed as the fireman dragged it up and dropped it into the engine's water tank. She was amazed at how casually the men clambered over the locomotive, or walked around it at ground level, touching the wheel bosses with the backs of their hands, and even leaning in between the wheels, ministering to some unseen, but nonetheless vital oiling point. All the time this was going on the engine stood there steaming gently, hot water dripping from pipes, hissing softly like a powerful but docile animal, awaiting the attentions of its driver.

Abby watched fascinated, and a sudden thought entered her head. This was a scene that her Grandfather would recognise instantly, the timeless rituals and routines of the steam railway. Fifty years ago, no a hundred years ago, it was done in exactly the same way. The overalls would be a little different, the demeanour of the men would be a little different, but the activity would be unchanged. Her attention was more defined now, as if what she was seeing could bring her closer to Thomas Tregonney.

The water pipe was swung away, the fireman closing the water tank cover with a clang, and scrambled down via the steps at the buffer beam. The driver climbed to the footplate, soon to be joined by the fireman, who turned his attention to the firebox, shovelling in eight rounds of coal. Then both men manning either side of the footplate, checked around, and the whistle sounded. A great roar of steam issued from pipes at the front, and the locomotive slowly moved again. Whilst all this had been going on, intending passengers had been walking up the platform towards the coaches, but few seemed in a hurry to take their seats. Many had walked to the head of the train, and Abby realised that they would be waiting for the locomotive to couple on. Regretting that she had left her camera in the car, she debated whether to fetch it, but realised that she may not get back in time, so she too walked hurriedly to the head of the train, just in time to see the locomotive backing down.

The attitudes of the crowd were various, from the Dad's and older men, who remembered the days of their youth, and looked upon the engine with fondness, and perhaps a little pride that they knew (or imagined that they did), all about steam engines. Mum's who knelt down next to their children, exhorting them to look at the Puff Puff, much to the disgust of the enthusiasts. The children reacted either in sheer wonder at this snorting machine, or clamped hands over ears, and cried to be taken away. Cries, which fell on the deaf ears of their fathers, who embarrassed, could not, or would not give in to such cowering. The cameras clicked as treasured scenes were committed to Kodak, or Fuji, followed by the darting run of the cameraman to find another angle, much to the annoyance of those who used Camcorders, whose shoots were despoiled by yet another head popping up in the viewfinder. In the midst of all this the engine crew went insouciantly about their job, coupling up, bringing the Oil Lamp from the front, which was now the rear, to the rear which was now the front, and hanging it on its bracket, the fireman once more attending to his fire, then turning a lever under the driver's seat, and leaning over the side looking down, appearing satisfied when another sound, a hum with a slight ringing tone on a higher note, joined all the others.

At last all seemed ready, the intending passengers retreating to claim their seats, and the fireman now concentrating his attention towards the rear of the train. Doors slammed, then opened to receive a late arrival, and slammed again. The platform cleared to leave just two men. The Guard who stood about the middle of the train looked both ways, and then turned to the other man, a porter, who stood near the rear of the train, who raised his arm. The guard, looked back to the station entrance and satisfied that there were no more late passengers, raised his green flag and blew his whistle. The fireman called across to his mate, 'right away.' The engine whistle sounded one short 'whoop', which Abby was delighted to know she could describe authentically as a 'pop', and with steam boiling out at the front of the engine, it gently eased the train into motion, followed by the sudden and sharply defined blasts from the chimney, as the regulator was opened wider. There had always been a certain ceremony about a departing train, Abby thought, particularly from a Terminus, but the spectacle of a modern diesel or electric train departing could not compare in any way to that of a steam train. The steam engine announces itself in a magnificent and spectacular way, demanding that the spectator pay it attention as it went about its work.

Abby watched the train as it drew ever further into the distance, down a long straight track. Even when the coaches could not be seen clearly through the heat haze, and the tracks wavered and danced, there was still a plume of steam and smoke rising into the blue sky to draw the attention. At long last just as she thought she had seen the last of the train, there came faintly to her ears another whistle, a last reminder. She turned to walk down the platform, and for the first time noticed another locomotive, previously hidden by the coaches of the departed train. This was a larger engine, still resplendent in shining green paint, with a copper trim to its chimney, and perched on top of its boiler what looked like an upturned coalscuttle, brass brightly reflecting the sun's rays. This had a tender, with the initials G.W.R. picked out in gold paint. Upon the cab side its number 7820, and curved over the middle wheel a name "Dinmore Manor". Whiffs of steam curled away from the chimney, and from a copper pipe under the cab, an occasional drip of hot water. There was no one in attendance on Dinmore Manor, excepting the last of the photographers on the platform, who stood, crouched, scrambled on a few paces then crouched again in their pursuit of the perfect picture. Abby walked on, careful to move behind the photographer, and came to a bench of the type long associated with railway platforms. The weather was so good that she sat, just to enjoy the ambience. Gulls cried overhead, wheeling in the bright blue sky, the sun was warm, in fact could have been too warm, but for the temperature being held in check by the constant light breeze. From the engine shed came the hum of some machinery, Dinmore Manor sizzled quietly, Abby felt really content. She had been sitting there for perhaps fifteen minutes or so, when an older man came down the platform. He was wearing blue overalls, and jacket, with an engineman's cap upon his head. Without wishing to stare Abby could not help but notice that the trouser legs of his overalls were held with bicycle clips.