Writing for Fun
August 2019
The Loser - Pete Norman
Over the fireplace was an old painting. Brian moved closer to get a better look.
‘That’s a lovely engine.’ He did not realise he was speaking out loud but from behind him he heard an irritated voice cut in, ‘She’s not an engine.’
Brian spun around to face the owner of the voice – a dour Scotsman who barely came up to his shoulder, his skin so tanned and wrinkled that any attempt at guessing his age would have been a virtual impossibility, although clearly the man had seen many a decade come and go in his time. He was dressed in quite smart casual clothing but gave the appearance of a man who only donned the ‘uniform’ when he made his daily pilgrimage to the King’s Head.
‘An engine is some modern abomination, runs on diesel or, even worse, electricity.’
Two intense blue eyes, almost hidden by the bushiest grey eyebrows Brian had ever seen, were boring into his and Brian realised that the man was a steam buff, an anorak, a Railway enthusiast who would defend his craft to the death. Wisely, he chose to remain silent.
‘This,’ a thick calloused finger stabbed at the faded picture. ‘This here is the Hardwicke –Precedent Class – a ‘2-4-0’ – the pride of the LNWR.’
The irritation left his voice and in its place there was a quiet humble reverence which drove Brian to take another look at the picture.
‘She was the finest locomotive that ever lived . . . until the day she died.’
Brian thought he saw a glistening in the man’s eye at the thought of tons of smoky steel ending it’s useful existence in a scrap yard but he kept the thought well hidden – this man looked as if he had spent his life fighting for some cause or other and that there was no cause more worthy of fighting for than this engine.
‘A locomotive is a living, breathing creature, she consumes coal and she breathes smoke. There is a character – a soul – hiding there under those burnished steel plates.’ The blue eyes pierced his once more. ‘So, you see, my friend, she is a ‘she’, not an ‘it’, not some abomination of an engine – she was a locomotive.’
Brian had a mind to make his excuses and flee but he had already booked a room at the Inn and flight might not take him far enough out of range of this strange man. He thought the line of least resistance would be to encourage further conversation and at least make what had threatened to be a dull evening pass more quickly.
‘Would you like a drink?’
The man smiled and his face wrinkled even more. ‘That I would, my friend and I thank you. A pint of McEwans would be splendid.’ As Brian turned to the bar the man added, ‘And a wee dram to chase it down, perhaps?’
Brian took a swallow of his lager and leant back in his chair. ‘So, tell a poor Sassenach, from the wrong side of the border, all about this locomotive that you are so passionate about – why exactly is she so special?
The man smiled. ‘Well now, we’re talking about the 1880’s here, you see, at the time that the line from London to Aberdeen was completed. But it was not one line, there were two lines – one went up the West coast through Carlisle and the other up the East through York. In those days there was no such thing as British Rail, every railway line and every railway locomotive was owned and run by private companies. On the whims and fancies of the public as to which line they preferred fortunes could be won or lost, so competition between the two different companies was fierce.’
He took a long draught of his ale and a small sip of the amber nectar. ‘To make their money they each had to prove they could get from London to Aberdeen the fastest. Now, on the West the LNWR had the Hardwicke, the fastest locomotive in the world in its time and the LNER had the Worsdell. She was not quite as fast but the Eastern route was a mite shorter so it evened things up a bit – so there wasn’t very much in it between them. ’
Brian nodded his interest but made no comment – the man was clearly in his element and there was to be no stopping him.
‘Both the companies, they played every trick in the book to squeeze a bit more speed out of their locomotives, to trim another five minutes off the journey. They even dropped off the third class carriages to cut the weight and all those passengers had to come along on a slower train that ran behind the Express.’ His eyes filled up and he took another swig from his glass while he regained his composure.
‘The biggest problem of all, though, was the two drivers, you see they were brothers – twin brothers. Robert Carlisle was the driver of the Hardwicke and Angus, the Worsdell. Before all the competition started they were closer than two brothers ever could be but the pressure, the stress of the competition drove a brick wall between them that neither of them could – nor would – climb over.’ He paused again and stared at the picture over the fireplace for a few moments as if for inspiration.
‘They used to have their lunch together at the Cock Tavern in Charlton Street and even in the darkest days they still carried on the tradition – because neither one of the stubborn buggers was prepared to show weakness by being the first to quit and go elsewhere. But on this one fateful day they had a fearsome row, which almost came to blows before Robert stormed off to Euston, shouting over his shoulder that the Hardwicke would be the first to Aberdeen even if hell froze over. Angus ran all the way to Kings Cross and the race was on.’
The man looked at his watch and a soft sigh escaped his lips. He sat in silent reflection for so long that Brian thought that he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. Eventually his patience ran out and he asked, ‘And what happened then? Who won?’
The man didn’t answer. He looked at his watch again and stood up, a little unsteadily. ‘You want to know? Do you really want to know? Then come with me and I’ll show you.’ He grimaced. ‘If you think you can handle it.’
Brian drained his glass and followed the man. He was a good story teller and if he wanted to hear the ending then he supposed he had little choice.
It was a warm evening and the light was fading fast. A cool breeze tickled the treetops but little more. Together they walked up the main road out of town and it was not until they had passed the last house and turned off along a narrow lane that the man spoke again. ‘This here town is Kinnaber, as you well know. Just up there – he pointed further up the main road – is Kinnaber Junction where the East Coast and the West Coast lines meet. From Kinnaber to Aberdeen it used to be just a single track line for the last 36 miles, so in fact, you see, the race was not to Aberdeen, it was the first one to Kinnaber because once you got onto that single track the other one couldn’t pass you.’
They walked along in silence for ten more minutes, further and further away from civilisation and, as the last of the light disappeared, Brian was becoming apprehensive. What if this strange man was a mass murderer? Where was he taking him and what was going to happen to him when they got there? He was just about to press the issue when the man put up his hand and stopped beside a large rock.
‘This is far enough. You won’t be wanting to get any closer, now.’
In the distance, Brian could see overhead electric wires silhouetted against the night sky.
The man held his watch up to his eyes but the face was invisible. ‘What time is it? Tell me the time, quickly.’
Brian tugged his mobile phone out of his pocket and fired up the screen. ‘Ten to eight.’
The man snapped, ‘Exactly, man, what time is it exactly?!’
‘7:48.’
The man said, quietly, ‘Three minutes.’
He pulled a half bottle of Johnny Walker from his pocket and offered it to Brian. ‘You’ll be needing this.’
As Brian took a respectable swig the man said, ‘Now, just up there in front of us it the track from Carlisle and . . .’ He turned around and pointed vaguely behind them. ‘Over there, only you can’t see it in the dark, is the track from York. And when they’re neck and neck and the drivers get to this point they can look across and see the other train coming and it’s a race to the junction just half a mile up the track.’
He snapped, ‘What’s the time now?’
‘7:50.’
The silence fell between them like a leaden blanket. The breeze through the bushes surrounding them was a gentle background white noise and Brian thought that he could almost hear his heart beating from the anticipation . . . but then in the distance he heard it.
It was difficult to make out the nature of the sound but it was a rapidly pulsating sound, rapidly growing louder. The bushes began to rustle in some form of sympathetic resonance.
Louder and louder came the sound until he could finally make it out to be the sound of a steam locomotive travelling at extreme speed. Louder and louder came the rustling of the bushes and the wind was tugging at his jacket and his hair; he put a leg out to steady himself against the wind which was growing relentlessly.
The sound reached a crescendo as the vague dark shape rushed past, barely twenty feet in front of him. The noise was deafening, the pulsating of the engine, the roaring of the wind, the drumming of the wheels on the track . . .
. . . and then the world collapsed around him with a horrendous explosion and the deafening sounds of rending metal and the screams of the innocents, cut short by the final disintegration . . . the sound of escaping steam and the clinking of superheated metal cooling.
As suddenly as it had started the world fell silent; the breeze through the bushes sang a soft eulogy and in the distance he heard the hoot of an owl.
Brian turned to the man to ask for another hit of whisky but there was no one there; he was alone.
Something grabbed hold of his arm. Brian screamed out in terror but a voice beneath him said, ‘Will you no give an old man a lift up?’
Brian laughed in relief as he saw the man seated on the large stone. He gladly pulled him to his feet and the bottle quickly followed.
‘What in hell’s name just happened?’ he asked.
The man grabbed the bottle back and took a deep swig. ‘Robert Carlisle was at top speed when across the meadow he saw the Worsdell coming up fast. It was neck and neck. He opened up everything, the fireman was shovelling coal like a madman and the Hardwicke was flying . . . but she couldn’t take the pressure and her boiler blew and . . . and . . .’ His voice collapsed with emotion.
‘And is it always the same time? The same as this? Every night?’
The man shook his head. ‘Not always the same. You have to think remember that it was 140 years ago and even a locomotive forgets. Some nights she powers through to Kinnaber Junction ahead of Angus and wins the race but on some nights . . .’
The man turned to walk back along the track. Brian completed the sentence for him, ‘And some nights she remembers and re-creates the tragedy exactly as it was. He thought for a moment and then asked, ‘How many . . .?’
‘Robert and the fireman were killed instantly. Two hundred and forty two perished and just a handful escaped . . . but those poor bastards probably wished they had not.’
He snorted in despair. ‘The winner receives the glory and the loser receives nothin’ but oblivion.’