Chapter 52

The Inn that evening was buzzing with all of the co-op members, except of course Abe Stone, discussing the terms of the agreement. Sam who had declared early that as he was no longer the tenant of Gallow farm, and would therefore have no interest, nonetheless found himself in the position of mediator, helping to explain clauses, and soothing tempers when arguments broke out over the meaning of the clauses. Abby watched from the Bar, chatting with Mary, but keeping an ear on the conversation to see which way the wind was blowing. Harry detached from the group and approached her. Abby was expecting complaint, and was surprised when he held out to her some rolls of cine film.

"I don't know if these will be of any interest to you, Miss Abby. But they were taken in nineteen sixty four. We used to have a Fete every year, and these were taken then. To be honest I reckon they will have perished by now, and for the life of me I can't find the projector, so I've no idea if they are any good. You may be able to get one though. They are Super Eight." Sam joined them. Abby looked closely at the rolls.

"I doubt that I could get hold of a projector, that's if they still make them? But any good photographic shop will be able to transfer them onto a DVD. I'll have to go to Taunton I think though. Is there anything on them of interest to you Harry?" Harry shook his head.

"No, not to Harry." Sam remarked. "But I think there will something of interest to you, Abby." Abby looked up in surprise as Sam went on. "If my memory is correct your Mum will be in some of the shots, and even possibly your grandfather." Abby was definitely interested.

"I thought I had got rid of them years ago," said Harry apologetically, "I was turning out some cupboards yesterday and found them. Meant to give them to you this afternoon." Abby's smile was all the thanks he needed. Harry turned the conversation then to the co-op.

"Miss Abby, I feel really bad about getting you involved, especially as it is going to be you who actually funds the thing. It doesn't seem right to me." Abby put her hand on his arm.

"Harry. I meant what I said this morning. Just think of all the things you and Sam have done for me. All that work putting a fence in, and getting the Goods shed cleared out. I can't let that go by without giving something back. Sam said to me once that that is how it is here. A job needs to be done and everyone will help. Well this is a job that needs to be done, and I am determined that I will help. Anyway I will get the capital back once it is up and running, so don't give it anymore thought." She waited for argument but none came, Sam and Harry both nodding heads slowly as they thought about that. Abby diverted away from what was obviously an embarrassing topic for Harry.

"How is it going over there? Is the Agreement satisfactory? It can be modified as time goes on, if it doesn't suit the changing circumstances." Sam answered.

"I think that is alright. The problem is that Farmers are not used to co-operating, and they are loathe to give up their independence. I have explained that they are still their own men, but the more they support the co-op, the more they will make out of it."

A little later Abby made herself scarce, as the discussion between Harry, Roger, Nat, and Geoff Corliss was obviously going on far into the night. She retired to her room and picked up one of the books she had bought; it concerned the run-down and closure of many of the branch lines.

Thomas Tregonney

The Station that Thomas had joined all those years ago was now reduced to a simple, single line through the platform. The Signal box had been closed last year, with Reg Purvess transferred away to another Box near Exeter. The points, sidings, and signals that it had controlled had been lifted, leaving a desert of piled ballast and weed, marooning the Goods shed in the process. Gone too were the Steam engines, that had left a reminder of themselves every time they called at the station with a heady smell of Steam, Hot oil and Sulphur. Now a green, two coach Diesel unit growled its way up and down the line, the service calling at inconvenient times so that even the last few regular passengers had given up and got their own transport. The driver a young man; who years ago would still be cleaning Locos, not driving one; slouched casually, Cap-less in his cab, not concerned at all if the train was running empty or early or late. The guards were still Metcalfe and Bird, their job hadn't changed, but their demeanour had. They were aware, as Thomas that time was running out. The Railway that they knew and took pride in was vanishing.

Thomas had officially retired in the April of this year, and had received notice to quit his house. No replacement was appointed, so he stayed on, in the house and at the station apparently rent free, but also wage free, apart from the measly pension that his years of service had brought. It was odd though, that British Railways never followed up on the notice to quit the house. He presented himself just as always, Frock coat, wing collar with neatly knotted black tie, and the cap. The service was so sparse that he had plenty of time on his hands to do the jobs he would once have delegated to Porters. He weeded the flower beds, polished the windows, doors and furniture, and kept the platform edge white as always. At the back of his mind was the horrifying thought that perhaps someday someone in authority would enquire into the situation, and give him his marching orders. Until that happened Thomas would maintain the standards, even though others appeared to have little time for them.

The train approached the crossing. The gates were never closed against the railway these days, yet still the horns sounded, the two tones jarring unpleasantly on his ears as he waited to meet the service. A dirty, blue-grey miasma hovered over the coaches, vanishing as the motors were shut down to coast into the platform. Thomas stepped forward to stand where the Guards compartment should stop, but the driver overran, so he had to walk to meet Mr. Metcalf the guard. As ever their greeting was correct.

"Good Morning, Mr. Metcalf."

"Good Morning, Mr. Tregonney." They stood together on the platform awaiting any sign of movement that could indicate a passenger. There was none. Thomas consulted his watch.

"You are early. I shall have to hold you for three minutes." Metcalf shrugged his shoulders.

"It's that young idiot who's driving. Had the throttle wide open all the way up from the Junction. Thank heaven I had something to cling onto. It's good to stand here on something that isn't rocking and rolling all over the place. It's easy for him. He just sits there and pulls the lever a bit more." There was a hint of disgust in his voice Thomas was nodding and Metcalfe carried on. "No wonder the old steam drivers thought of themselves as something special." He stopped and thought for a moment. Then looked enquiringly at Thomas

"Aren't you supposed to be retired now?" In all the years he had called at Combe Lyney, he had never dared to ask a personal question of Thomas. He was therefore surprised when Thomas answered him.

"Well they wrote and told me so, but as there doesn't seem to be any intention of sending a new Stationmaster I am keeping things going until someone does arrive." Metcalf shook his head.

"They don't have Stationmasters now. They are called Station Managers, and there is one who is supposed to look after all the stations from Tiverton to Barnstaple. I've never seen him, so I am not surprised you haven't. Anyway the word is that they are going to close this line and the Devon and Somerset." Railwaymen were if nothing else locked in the past, and Metcalf used the name of the line from Taunton to Barnstaple as it was described when originally planned and built. Thomas didn't need to ask, as habitually he used the same description. He looked at his watch again.

"Time to be away." The guard consulted his watch, and placed his whistle between his lips at the same time unfurling his green flag. He blew one short blast and displayed the green. The driver did nothing, just leaned out of his window and looked back. Metcalf shrugged his shoulders.

"I forgot, they don't show the flag now, I have to use the buzzer." He stepped back into his compartment, and pressed the button situated just over his door twice. The driver acknowledged the signal by repeating it. The engines surged and clouds of blue smoke hurled up from the exhausts, as the train got under way. The acrid exhaust smoke curling and billowing in its wake. It also got into Thomas's eyes and throat, and he coughed once or twice. No wonder people didn't like to travel in those things, he thought, that stuff would poison them.

As he turned away, he noticed the dishevelled figure standing by the goods shed. Thomas walked towards the end of the platform and called across to the figure.

"Good morning, Woody." Woody walked over the jungle of ballast and weeds towards the platform.

"Good morning Mr. Tregonney. I trust you are well." The well modulated tones had no surprise for Thomas. Over the years the two had exchanged the time of day on many occasions, and respect had built between them. Whilst strange on the surface it sprang from the isolation that each experienced, albeit that one had chosen isolation, and the other had it imposed upon him.

"I am quite well thank you, Woody. I am glad to see you today. Please don't take offence but I have a uniform that does not suit me. It's good quality worsted. Would you accept it?" Woody smiled wryly.

"In my position, Mr. Tregonney, taking offence is an emotion wasted. I would be grateful. As you see, my present ensemble has lost the ability to keep the chill wind at bay."

"Come down to the house, if you will. I shall fetch it for you." They made their respective journeys to the house. Thomas went immediately to the back room where the British Railways uniform hung on a hanger, it had never been worn, and although by now over twenty years old was pristine although it bore, generously, the scent of mothballs. Woody had not entered the house, so Thomas took the suit out to him.

"I am sorry that it smells so much of mothballs." He apologised. Woody demurred.

"A very sensible precaution, and out in the woods there is no-one to complain, mind you, the Deer and Rabbits will smell me coming, at least until it has aired through. I am most exceedingly grateful, thank you." He examined the cloth. "This is a fine suit, it will last well. It looks unworn though, are you sure you can let it go?"

"It has never been worn. I have always been much happier with these." He indicated the frock coat he wore. "It reminds me of the better times, when we ran a proper railway." He paused. "I was just going to make myself a cup of tea. Would you join me?"

"I am not keeping you from your duties?" Thomas, sadly, shook his head.

"There are so few trains now that I have little to do. I am in fact officially retired, but as they haven't appointed a new stationmaster, I carry on for the while." Woody had suspected that this upright man would be retired. Thomas went to put the kettle on the hob. Whilst he waited Woody looked around.

"Do you take sugar?" Woody laughed.

"No thank you, Mr. Tregonney. Sugar is one of life's toothsome pleasures I have learned to live without." He didn't add that tea was also one of those pleasures. Thomas brought out the steaming cups.

"Perhaps you would like to sit inside?"

"It's a fine day. Having Tea is an occasion for me, it wouldn't do to take too much enjoyment all at the same time." He sipped carefully at the hot liquid.

"I do miss your trains. It was delightful to see those pretty green engines and the chocolate and cream coaches passing through the valley. They somehow completed this picture of sylvan content."

Thomas had joined the Great Western Railway when he was fourteen, so his education had been limited to just reading, writing and arithmetic, at which he achieved competently. He had never heard the word sylvan before, but agreed with Woody nonetheless. "Yes. The railway never seemed out of place then. We offered services to our customers, and fitted in."