Constable Around the Village (18 page)

“It was Bill’s,” she said simply.

I didn’t answer. Perhaps she didn’t want to talk about it any more, and that last brief sentence told me everything. Because it was Bill’s, she wouldn’t want to give it away or sell it, and yet for the same reason she wouldn’t want it in this room where it would constantly remind her of his absence, especially when others tried to sit in it.

But she was talking again.

“I always wanted to cover it for him,” she was saying. “I did it years ago and he liked it so much that he didn’t want any other pattern on it.”

“It was nice,” I said briefly.

She was in full flow now. “It became very shabby, you know. He would sit in it after work, often in his working clothes and it got awfully dirty. I washed the covers time and time again to try and keep them fresh-looking.”

“It was always nice when I came,” I added.

“Yes, but it was so worn, wasn’t it? Faded and
threadbare
.”

“And he didn’t want another cover! Was that why you moved it, because it was getting shabby?”

She shook her head. “No, not really. It was my Bill’s chair, you see. He didn’t want me to touch it—he loved it just as it was, you understand. Well, if I’d had it in this room, I’d be itching to re-cover it. And Bill wouldn’t want that.”

“So you put it out of temptation’s way?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t part with it, not for the world, so the spare bedroom was the best place. I use it sometimes
myself
, when I’m dusting upstairs. I use it to have a sit down, you understand, and it gets dusted regularly.”

“Why didn’t he want it re-covering?” I asked, feeling that we could talk freely.

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Can’t you guess?”

“I think I can,” she answered slowly. “I covered that chair specially for him. He found the material in a shop years and years ago, and it was just what he wanted. He grew attached to it—he wasn’t a fellow for changing things without good reason.”

“I know,” I sympathised, “men get like that. But you could cover it now, couldn’t you?”

“Do you really think so?” Her eyes sparkled with new interest and I knew she’d been wanting someone to say that.

“With this new material,” I continued. “It’s exactly the same as Bill’s chair—he would love that, wouldn’t he?”

“It’s just what he always wanted,” she whispered. “We looked in all the shops for this colour but never found it. Not in all our years. All the shops said it was too
old-fashioned
and out of stock.”

“That was a few years ago,” I reminded her. “And now that same pattern is right in fashion again. That often happens—I know Bill would agree now, wouldn’t he?”

“Thank you,” for her only reply, and I rose to leave, then she said, “Would you like to see the finished covers?”

Puzzled, I followed her into the workroom and there I saw a fourth cover, shaped differently from the rest, and admired the style and loving workmanship it contained. When I called the next time, Old Bill’s chair was back in its place before the fire, looking regal and splendid in its new cover.

It was a perfect complement to this room.

“I’ll make the tea now,” she said. “You sit there.”

And she pointed to Old Bill’s chair.

One of my favourite characters was Simon Rawlings, a gentleman of 87 who lived with his daughter in a tiny cottage at Elsinby. Tall and erect, he had a guardsman’s figure and even though his broad back was stooped with his great age he always tried to walk upright. It was a display of his deep personal pride.

Awd Simon, as the village knew him, was a retired
railwayman
. He had retired 22 years ago, long before the
railways
were nationalised, and lived quietly, his wife having been dead nine or ten years. Awd Simon passed his time by
gardening and enjoying a pipe of tobacco, plus the occasional pint in the Hopbind Inn. For his age, he was impressive to behold. A good six feet tall, he must have weighed seventeen stone and was built like an ox. The village was full of stories of his young strength, but he was a gentle giant with a lovely touch of humour and a kind word for everyone and everything, man and animal alike.

I got to know him because he spent some sunny
afternoons
on the seat near the War Memorial and I made myself known to him very early in my period at Aidensfield. I quickly discovered he still lived for the railways, but not the modern diesel engines with their rows of anonymous coaches and hooting horns. Awd Simon worshipped the lovely polished green of the LNER and the maroon livery of the LMS, the romantic days of steam and high-quality service.

As I got acquainted with him, I found it easy to get him reminiscing about his time with the London and North Eastern Railway Company, where he’d worked his way up from track maintenance to fireman, and he’d even been a guard. He told me of the beautiful engines with their own names and distinctive personalities; coaches with splendid first-class compartments and brass fittings. There were pictures of landscapes to interest the passengers and it was essential that the timetables be maintained at all costs. Fear of competition from the maroon giants of the London
Midland
and Scottish Railway was always present and the
company
served its customers as a faithful servant would obey his master. Everything had to be right. Second-best would not be tolerated.

He told me about the coal fires in the waiting-rooms, the huge watering-tanks for engines to take on supplies, and the gorgeous floral gardens of the rural stations as they competed for the annual Best-Kept Station prize. Awd Simon would talk for hours about his days with steam-trains and he clearly exuded pride at his part in the history of the railways of this region. He had once seen the Flying
Scotsman
in Elsinby Station and had actually been on the
footplate
, the purpose of its visit being a publicity venture in the region. The Mallard too with its distinctive shape had
come this way, and he’d seen the King aboard the Royal Train parked overnight in one of the sidings near Elsinby Station.

I often wish I’d written down everything he told me; he was a fund of historic knowledge while his anecdotes and love of the LNER were nothing short of phenomenal.

He had no time for the nationalised British Railways; the stations had become seedy and grimy and no one bothered to light the fires any more. The trains were grubby too, and it was soon after nationalisation that they turned to diesel engines which weren’t any better than buses and couldn’t cope with the deep snows of the moorland lines. The
contrast
for Best-Kept Station had ended and all the stations became areas of weeds and overgrown rubbish. Paintwork was allowed to deteriorate and then they began to close the stations. One by one, the rural lines ended….

During my conversations with Awd Simon, the process of rural closure was underway. Many branch lines in the north had closed and stations lay derelict in many areas. The newspapers were full of the story, with cries about rural communities being deprived of their lifelines. Some of the villages were so hilly and isolated that no bus company would risk its vehicles on the steep hills or narrow twisting roads. The public joined the general outcry, but the wheels of a determined government were not to be halted. More lines would close; more jobs would be lost and more rural districts would suffer.

No one ever thought this could happen to Elsinby. The busy little station must have paid its way because the locals used the rail service to commute to York or to go shopping to Leeds. They went off to Scarborough or Whitby for the day while the truly adventurous travelled to London and other distant cities. Even though the trains were now drawn by diesel locomotives and bore the British Rail insignia, they were used frequently by the public of Elsinby and district. With its coal business too, the station surely paid its way.

The tiny station, with its signal-box, level-crossing and two platforms was beautiful to behold, for the
station-master
, a Mr Benjamin Page, made sure it was maintained
in an immaculate condition. He boasted white-washed
platform
front edges, clean oil-lamps, painted seats and offices, a glowing fire in the waiting-room and flowers to adorn the brickwork. For Awd Simon, this was a haven of comfort and he spent many happy hours helping about the station. Mr Page welcomed his presence—he left the responsibility for the appearance of the station in the hands of Awd Simon who weeded between the lines, watered the potted plants, cleaned windows and kept the place at its traditional peak of cleanliness and beauty. Mr Page made good use of Awd Simon.

And then the axe fell. Elsinby Station and the entire branch line through here via Maddleskirk to Thirsk was to be closed. Every possible avenue of reprieve had been examined, and every attempt made to keep the line, but the decision had been made by Parliament. Elsinby Station would close.

Awd Simon blamed the inefficiency of the nationalised system, saying no one had had any heart in the job right from the start. No one cared. For a long time, he looked pale and drawn and, during my regular chats with him on the seat, he was a picture of misery. He could not visualise life without his beloved railway line and the one bright spot was Mr Page’s thoughtfulness towards the old man.

He gave him souvenirs, objects which would disappear once the line closed for ever. I know that Simon treasured his square-based oil-lamp from one of the platform lights, the seat with “Elsinby” written across the back and several small items from the booking-office, like a ticket, a pass, a book of rules and so forth.

With his little collection of railway souvenirs, Awd Simon looked rejuvenated. His colour returned, his zest for life reappeared and his general outlook seemed infinitely more hopeful. Even though the line was not reprieved he appeared to have accepted the inevitable. He spent less time around the station although he continued to regale me with the tales of his beloved green engines and the LNER. I was no longer bothered about his health. Awd Simon had accepted that life must go on, and that changes must occur.

I thought no more about his love for the vanishing
railway
until firm news came of the closure date. It was to be one Friday morning in September.

On that day, the last train would run along our branch line. It would call at all the stations
en
route
as it travelled from York via Scarborough, and then through Ryedale via Eltering, Brantsford, Ashfordly, Crampton, Ploatby Junction, Elsinby, Maddleskirk, and eventually into Thirsk where it would join the main London-Edinburgh line for its return journey to York. Passengers would be carried and souvenir tickets would be issued. There would be a restaurant car on the train, with other entertainment, and the sad occasion would be made memorable.

Not wishing to miss any chance of a celebratory occasion, the regulars of the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby formed a
committee
to arrange suitable festivities in the village. The railway station was to be the focal point and Mr Page agreed. I was duly informed and assured the committee I would attend in my official capacity to control crowds and direct traffic.

What would normally have been a sad occasion for Elsinby became a festive one and I admired the stalwarts of this place for their ability to turn any affair, however sad, into something exciting and enjoyable. For the next few weeks, the place was alive with industry and ideas. I was pleased to see that Awd Simon had been drawn into the arrangements and he was given the special task of
informing
the new generation about the merits of LNER, LMS, GWR and all the other great rail names of bygone times. He identified engines on postcards and in books, he told historians how they operated and how much coal and water they used … notes were made, publicity brochures were printed and, in all, Elsinby was going to lose its station and trains in a blaze of local glory.

When the day came, I motor-cycled into Elsinby and parked my Francis Barnett behind the pub, where I left my crash-helmet and motor-cycle gear. I donned my
regulation-issue
flat cap and walked towards the station. Although the last train was not due to pass through until 12.35 p.m., the place was alive with colour and gaiety at 11 o’clock. It seemed that half the village population was already present,
few of whom were to travel on the last train. True Elsiners preferred to attend their own celebrations rather than
joyride
with strangers.

I remember that I was suddenly very busy. Somehow I was inveigled into the last-minute organising and it seemed that everyone had a job of some kind. Then quite suddenly it was 12 noon. There were thirty-five minutes to go, if the train was on time.

Everyone was now on the platform; cars were neatly parked, the pub had shut for the occasion, although George did manage to arrange a makeshift bar in the waiting-room, and everyone queued on the twin platforms. I looked around the gathering, smiling at the young faces, the middle-aged ones and the elderly, all with memories and personal
impressions
. For the children, it was the start of a new era; for the old, the end of a bygone style of life.

Then I realised I hadn’t seen Awd Simon. I thought about it—I’d been here since 11 o’clock and had not once set eyes on the old fellow. I wondered how he was feeling—maybe he’d gone to another station to secure the final ride into Elsinby? Or maybe he was at home, sad and moist-eyed at the thought of this final chapter of his life? Perhaps the emotion was too great, too overpowering, for him to face among crowds?

I was not unduly worried, but when I saw his daughter, Jane, on the up-platform I asked.

“Your dad’s not here then?”

“He’s somewhere about, Mr Rhea,” she smiled. “He said he was working, helping out, and got dressed up in his old clothes.”

“Old clothes?” I asked.

“Yes, his railway clothes. You know, his flat cap with a peak, his railway coat and boots. He wore them years ago and never got rid of them. And he took his bait bag with his sandwiches and flask. He got done up in those and said it was something special.”