The Empty Cab

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British fashion model Wenda Parkinson wearing a coat by Aquascutum, photographed by Norman Parkinson for Vogue magazine, November 1947.

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Running gear.

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Talyllyn Railway  |  by Welsh photographys

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FV 4005 Stage I tank destroyer with an autoloader for its main gun. 

Not accepted into service because the autoloader took up the space the brewing vessel would have. Designers could not compromise one or the other, so ultimately designs for this vehicle were redrawn for the later Stage II. 

A total meme vehicle that is almost on par with some of the German concept designs during late WWII, or some Soviet prototypes, it eventually would serve as the basis for the Stage II, armed with the same 183mm main gun, just without the autoloader, and an enclosed fighting compartment.

The Bovington Tank Museum has the remaining FV 4005 Stage II as a static exhibit on their museum grounds.

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A stroll down the Nantlle Tramway…

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Invisible Wings

@writing-prompt-s: You can see people’s wings. As far as you know, you’re the only one that sees them. But you don’t mind, as they allow you to gather more insight to everyone you see. They vary in size and color, and you can tell a lot about people from those two aspects alone. They move as well, stretching out to hold a loved one, or flaring when someone not so cherished comes by. You’ve never seen anything physical be able to interact with them, but today, you see someone with two charred stumps where their wings should be.

*Warning: Long Story*

I had always seen people’s wings. When I was little my mom thought I was just an avid pretender. She even bought me fake ones once but I refused to wear them. They were nothing like my beautifully soft pale pink ones.

        It became my super power. I could see something no one else could. The height, color, and width told me so much. Thin, tall ones indicated anger and vindicator behavior. Wide ones, curved beautifully showed creativity. Short, fat ones showed poor motivation. Soft yellows showed kindness and bright greens were overeager and deep reds were bitter. The way they curved showed relationships. The way people pulled their wings around their friends or flared around threats. Sometimes I could even see if one person was interested in someone if their wings reached out towards them.

        This was how I chose my job, my friends, my wife. I was good at hiring because I could detect who would be lazy or a liar versus someone who was productive.

        I was sipping coffee outside my favorite shop, watching people walk by. I like to see the colors, the way they reflected a person. I lived in a richer neighborhood, always had, held a well paid job. The wings I saw were often bright and soft. I had occasionally experienced those who were going through hardships or sadness. Once I went to a funeral, where all the colors were dimmed. The people most effected had feathers falling off their wings. They seemed to be oozing black. But their wings always recovered. I had not, however, see anyone who did not have wings.

        I took a sip of coffee, watching as another regular walked in. Her wings had been slowly shifting from a vibrant green to a softer color as the weeks when by. Her friend’s wings had be increasing from a deep to a powder blue even slower. My eyes scanned the coffee shop as I lifted the cup to my lips, but then it slipped out of my hands. Standing a few tables over was a man nearly my age, his wings nonexistent. Instead there were two black stumps where they should’ve connected to his back.

His head twisted in my direction when the cup shattered, but I was already half out of my seat, moving towards him. He paused in front of me, and only then did I realize how bizarre this must seem.

        “Sir, if you’ll take a seat, I’ll come clean up the mess.” He forced a fake smile. I could feel the sadness, that blackness radiating off of him.

“No, it’s okay.” I peered at his name tag. Eric. “I’m Jacob.” I stuck out my hand, and he hesitantly took it. “Could I possibly speak with you after your shift?” He opened his mouth, eyes darting around him.

        “I’m sorry, sir. I’m just not-“

        “I’m not hitting on you. I’m married. I’m more interested in a job opportunity.”

        He opened his mouth. I could see him calculating and finally, “I’ll be done in fifteen minutes.”

        I headed back to my table, cleaning up the mess and ordering tea. I watched his broken wings as he worked. He must have lost something dear to him. Something that made him, well, him. I had seen the loss of a person, or a part of who you are, cause feathers to fall out. I was curious if he had been even more lost after that, if your wings could continue to disintegrate.

        He claimed the seat across from me when his last table left. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

        “So what kind of job opportunity?”

        “Well, I’ll get to that. But you have a story; I can tell. I can sense things like that about people.”

        He rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time for-“

        “Where do you have to be otherwise? All I’m saying is I can read people. Like,” I looked towards a barista with bright yellow wings, “she’s overly excited today, has news to share. And, “I noticed a busboy near by with short, fat wings, a dull orange, “he is lazy and often has a bad attitude.”

        “Okay,” Eric sat back in his chair.

        “So what is your story?”

        He cleared his throat. “What story?”

        “You’ve suffered something, some tragic loss. Amuse me. Take a few minutes to complain to a stranger. What do you have to lose?”

        It seems I won him over because he settled back. “I used to have a good life. Well established. I was a manager in this factory, had a beautiful wife, a sweet daughter, a great house in a nice neighborhood. All of it.

        “One day I was taking my daughter, Sam, to her friends house, and she was calling my name, trying to show me something. So I turned around and I ran this red light. Well, I don’t know if they didn’t see me or they thought was going to stop, I don’t know. But this car hit us on the passenger side, and I was still going pretty fast. It sent us spinning. She died on impact.”

        His lips twitched as he spoke, tugging his mouth down. Shadows swirled where his wings should’ve been. “It was my fault. If I had been more careful, she would’ve been fine. My wife kept telling me it wasn’t my fault, but we both knew it was. She left me eventually.

        “Then, I stopped paying attention at work. My job was to uphold safety procedures, oversee their work. But I couldn’t pull myself out of this spiral I was in. So they fired me.

        “No my daughter was dead, my wife had left me, and I was jobless. The problem was I didn’t care. My ex wife had the house. I gave her my car. It’s not like I could afford gas to put in it. I was evicted from my apartment, and I started sleeping on a park bench.” It was clear he had not only lost someone, but everything that gave him motivation and characteristics. I could imagine he had feathers falling out, merely just membranes left.

        “Those next few months, I wasn’t even sure I was still alive. I hardly moved. And finally, I decided that if I was, I didn’t want to be anymore. So I went to this area nearby where I had been cliff diving before and I climbed as high as I could. And then I jumped.

        “I wasn’t breathing when these people found me floating down the river. There was no pulse. But they started CPR anyway, and they got me breathing before the paramedics arrived.” That must have been what broke them off. He died, he was barely living. With no motivation, no ties, and a technical death, there was nothing for his wings. They couldn’t show anything.

        “They called my parents,” he was saying. “So my mom flew me out here, and I’m living with them. 45 and on their couch with a job in a café.”

        “That is a tragic story.”

        Eric shrugged. “I’m not one for sympathy.”

        “Good. Neither am I. I’m a businessman, and it sounds like you have managerial experience.”

        His mouth fell open. “What?”

        “Jacob Strant. I own Seyón.”

        “Seyón? Like the tech company.” I nodded. “Your company is huge.”

        “One of the leading ones in the country, yes. But I do have a manager who is quite overworked, and I could use to split his branch into two if only i had someone to help him.”

        I could see it then. A glimmer of a membrane. “You would give that to a random guy you met at a coffee shop?

        “Well,” I folded my napkin, looking at the table, “we’d do an interview first, but you have experience so yes. It is quite possible I would give it to a random guy I just met who needs a second chance.”

        There was the faintest gleam of a pale pale blue outlining where his wings should be. This was a man who had faced death and came back, ready to find himself and that motivation again without knowing it. He just needed that push.

        I pulled out a business card, handing it to him. “Monday at 9:30? Are you free then?”

        He nodded. “Yes, sir. I am.”

        “Great.” I smiled gently, rising out of my chair. “I look forward to seeing you.”

        He shook my hand, and I left the café, walking towards my office. I saw Eric still standing at my table, staring at the card in his hand. And on his back we’re a glimmer of pale blue wings, still the membrane but completely formed, no sign of those charred stumps.

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RIP Steam winches

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Deterioration of a Wooden Wagon at Clearwell caves

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Old Air compressor tank in the mines at clearwell

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‘Cameron’ bio and History

Origins

Built around 1920 by Hawthorn Leslie for ‘Andrew j. Jones &Co., Contractors’, to a very simple and rugged design similar to that of a Black Hawthorne, for a contract to repair a bridge on a great western branch line (a photo survives showing this), during this time he gained the name ‘Hamish’ chalked on the left of his square saddle tank. The contract was finished in 1924 and the engine sold as surplus to ‘Percy Alan Clay & Company’.

Clay Company and new name

The engine was sent to Hunslet for assessment of condition and repairs where necessary. Despite the tank, boiler and steamways being filled with gunk and slime due to use of dirty water on the contract and brake blocks being worn, very little work was needed. However the original works plate was removed and replaced with one reading ‘Rebuilt by Hunslet – 1924’, this along with a spillage of tea on the log sheet at Hawthorn Leslie’s works meant the locomotive can no longer be dated accurately. It was during this repair, Hamish lost his name as the chalk was rubbed off, leaving the works a nameless engine once more.

The engine finally arrived in Dorset Later that year; by well wagon to Wareham, then by his own steam to the clay works on the Isle of Purbeck. The clay works was located just off of the Wareham to Swanage branch down a spur that lasted about a mile and a half, at the works there was a Shed and few sidings. The works had a narrow gauge railway running to and though it, with a siding next to the branch slightly higher than the standard gauge one.

This narrower line was operated by a fleet of smaller Tank engines built by Kerr Stuart to their standard ‘Skylark’ type, their names were ‘Stour’, ‘Frome’ and ‘Allen’, after Rivers in Dorset, and carried number respectively. They were rather pleasant engines and had been working on the line before.

The engine’s new job was to take empty Trucks from the sidings on the Swanage branch to the works to be loaded, and then taken back up the branch to taken away. He was to do this 3 times a day. But not before he had a new name. It was decided that this engine should share the old naming scheme and therefore, in December, The engine got his new name, ‘Asker’ displayed on his saddle tank in a cast brass plate.

Many people at the works though this name was rather cumbersome so opted to Re-name it after the workshop foreman jones’ late son, who had died to polio earlier that year; ‘Cameron’. Over a couple of weeks, a new nameplate was made up of off-cuts of mahogany and the re-dedication took place, the original name-plates being buried In the back of the black-smiths scrap box, where they remained for many years, quite forgotten. In 1935 Cameron was rebuilt by Hunslet with a new saddle tank and repaired brasses.

During the War

The war had seemed to last forever and, Cameron was assured, took a heavier toll than the last one; over half the work force went to fight and serve.

This left the clay pits and the works heavily under staffed. What’s more, a seemingly lost and desperate German bomber decided to drop its bombs, 2 of which hit the works, though not direct hits, they were close enough to shatter the windows in the Foreman’s house (now occupied by Mrs Jones, their son and daughter who were unhurt) and weigh-house as well blow a hole in the narrow gauge engine shed damaging Allen.

The main line to most of the pits, however, was still usable and with enough engines still usable, work continued, though at a lower capacity which continued though the war.

Post War and Preservation

Austerity continued though the forties into the fifties. Few workmen that went to the war returned, including Foreman Jones. And though other companies like Pikes and Fayles continued and adapted to the post-war environment, ‘Percy Alan Clay & Company’ failed to do so and in 1957, the company and its assets were put up for sale.

Allen, Stour and Frome found homes quickly, they along with a few wagons. Cameron, however, struggled to find a buyer and stayed in his shed for many years. If it wasn’t for the efforts of the Jones family keeping him well and looking to find a buyer, he may well have been scrapped.

Thankfully, in 1963 they did in the way of the Rector of Cadeby, known commonly as Teddy Boston. Cameron was moved (along with his old nameplates) to the Cadeby rectory where he was plonked unceremoniously outside. He had his name-plates removed, though not left nameless; he had all three of his names pained on his saddle tank! Over the years he was joined by various pieces of stock, mostly narrow but he was rather thankful of a tiny (equally if not more so!) Peckett Saddle tank with the number 2012 and named Herbert.

Cameron remained there for many years, letting children climb in his cab and talking about his experiences to ‘enthusiasts’, rather funny people with coats and note pads and pencils noting down anything they could about the railway engines.

Restoration

In 2005, after many years outside, Mrs Boston finally had to sell the collection (Teddy had passed away some years previous). Cameron fully expected himself to be one of the last to go but to his surprise, he was one of the first!

He (and his nameplates which had been displayed inside the Bostons house) was purchased by a group and taken back to the Swanage branch, now as heritage railway, and restored over the course of 6 years, where he received a new saddle tank, in the style of his original one, a repaired boiler and new bearings.

The result was he felt like a new engine! Though he isn’t able to pull trains (he doesn’t have vacuum equipment) he has pulled ‘brake van specials’ and visited many railways and museums, even meeting up with Herbert (now called ‘Teddy’) and his old Kerr Stuart friends at their railway (Though he didn’t Steam).

Personality

Cameron is an engine of habit and doesn’t like being taken out of his comfort zone though despite this, he will do so for the sake of others. He likes talking about his past experiences and listening to others. Unlike other engines; he has, and has never had, prejudice to internal combustion engines as the first ones he met were at Cadeby.

He’s also quite an entertaining character; making puns and silly jokes, he especially enjoys confusing enthusiasts with his various different names.

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Side profile sketch of ‘Cameron’, a creation of mine built c.1920 by  Hawthorn Leslie for contracting work

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James Jones, engine fireman

James Jones Lived on number 7 Station approach, Dodmouth. Every day he would get out of bed, dress win his uniform and kiss his still sleeping wife good bye. Quietly creeping past his children’s bedroom into the down stairs room and picking up Lunch his wife had made him the day before and head off to work. About half way down the road, he heard a voice call out.

“Hello Mr Jones!”

Before James could turn to see who it was, Tom the newspapers sales boy had already skipped past on his way to his spot just outside the station. As James walked past the boy chirped “Say hello to Boxer for me!”

James smiled and continued past the station, up to the big brick shed just past the station mouth. Opening one of the large wooden doors and hooking it back to let the early morning light into the engine inside.

The engine was not a usual one, Boxy and small. It was clearly quite old with its once proud Scarlet paintwork protected behind a thin layer of oil. The tall stove-pipe chimney like a top hat upon this old Gentleman. James walked past, making note again of the name ‘Boxer’ written in gold paint on one side of the engines square saddle tank.

“Good morning” James said as he was climbing into the open cab. The engine seemed lifeless as James made up the fire and lit it

“Tom says hello too”

James patted the side if the engines cab affectionately as he sat down hanging his legs out the cab side, opened his lunch bag, and took out a smaller brown paper bag containing an egg and two pieces of bread. Cracking the egg on a cleaned shovel and flanking it with the bread, he held it over the fire until the egg was fried and bread toasted.

Making a sandwich, James sat back on the side of the cab and ate it happily as Boxer gained steam.

Once he had finished, James grabbed an old oily rag and went around the engine cleaning the polished metal motion and brass drain-cocks.

Some time passed…

The next thing James noticed was a shrieking ‘Peep Pee-Pip Pip Peeeep!’

“Good morning!” called a voice,

James looked up standing on the footplate was Ed bridges; Boxers driver, James’ co-worker and friend, hand resting on the whistle valve.

“Polish those rods anymore and we won’t have any! Come on; let’s get some water”

“R-right,” fumbled James and he got up and walked to the cab

He climbed onto the footplate as Ed shook his head smiling and with a further ‘Peep Peep’ the trio were moving slowly out of the shed in a mist of steam and water from the drain cocks, edging over the points and onto the main line and then backing slowly to the station’s Loop.

Without a word, James climbed down from the cab and over to the water column, collecting the rubber pipe and leading it back over to Ed, now standing on top of the tank equipped with a pair of thread-bare asbestos gloves, waiting open armed for the delivery.

“Say when!” James called as he passed it over and returned to the valve, opening it fully, looking down the line to the old dock branch. This branch only extended a couple of hundred yards, had not been used in many years and was still laid in what gangers called ‘fish belly rails’ rail which were far more brittle than the rail in use on the line.

‘Some days, you can see the sea shimmering in the morning sun’ thought James.

“WHEN” Called the driver, snapping the wandering Stoker out of a daze and bringing him back to earth.  He promptly shut the valve and walked back to collect the pipe, a little water trickled over the tank as it was passed and returned to its place.

James and returned to the footplate at Ed placed his hand on the regulator and eased it open. The engine seemed to linger, unresponsive for a moment, as if yearning to pull the coaches waiting in the station.

James patted the engine sympathetically as the regulator was opened further and the engine started forward with a jolt.

The first stop for the day was the next station on the line; the town of Dodton. Here they were to pick up a short train of goods from the brewery’s siding as well as a break van.

They pulled into the station loop and stopped at the signal. Ed sounded the whistle to let the signalman know to switch them onto the goods siding and let the passenger engine, waiting in the station, continue past to the coaches waiting at Dodmouth.

‘Toot toot’ went the passenger engine as the James exchanged line tokens with the other engine’s fireman.

As the tender engine had passed out the loop, the signal changed to ‘clear’ and points set so that they may go and collect their train. Just past the station there is a junction which skirts the town and connects to the station’s sidings. James has never been down this line, he sometimes wondered what it would be like, trundling along the track at no more than walking pace.

The engine that worked the line was an odd thing with a tiny boiler with a massive firebox and pistons on the running board. It was constantly covered in a mix of what James thought to be aged grease and steam oil. Every morning this engine and it’s driver, Jake would take the two or three wagons to the yard and couple it up to the break van left there the previous evening.

“Bloomin’ heck” grumbled Ed, leaning just out of the cab so he could see the train “we’ve got old reliable again!”

At first, James thought he was referring to the portly guard heading over towards the train until he noticed the van break van which was of substantial vintage. Opening the fire box hatch he added a few shovels of coal to the fire whilst the guard, who also misunderstood Ed, gave him a piece of his mind!

After pacifying the guard with a cigarette; Ed opened the injector to top up the water in the boiler. James disembarked and went to the front of the engine.

Holding his arms up, he beckoned Boxer and Ed closer by moving his right forearm to his chest and as the engine grew near, he moved his hands together as if he were clashing two symbols together.

Boxer gently buffered up to the truck and once Ed stuck both his arms out the cab, James hooked over the chain from the truck onto the engine’s coupling hook.

James boarded and the guard whistled, with signals clear and track set, the first train of the day maneuvered out of the yard and towards a station bridge whistling to the school boys looking at them on the bridge, charging under the bridge and into the tunnel ahead.

Steaming out of the tunnel and wiping the soot from their eyes, James and Ed looked around to adjust their eyes to suns morning light. The fields either side were covered in small green buds, James recognised them as potatoes; he had a few similar ones sprouting in his garden.

After a few more uneventful miles of clear skies and fields gave way to the urban town of Mead, the final station on the short line before the junction with the great western. The station itself was similar to the other stations; with the added benefit of a depot the other two engines as well as a coach shed (where the coaches are usually kept) and an old shed the James had never really looked in.

“’ey up” said Ed, confused “what’s that then?”

Ahead the track was set to the yard instead of the main line, which was where they needed to go

“That signal man seems to have a vendetta against us” said James, this was the umpteenth time this had happened to them they were getting quite fed up.

“I’ll go” said Ed “it’ll give you a chance to look in that old shed”