2. All Aboard!

Reg turned to Mr Waite, pleased to see that same excitement clearly visible on the younger man’s face.

“Tell you what, Tim,” he said, moved suddenly to be on first-name terms, “why don’t you climb aboard, take this first run?”

“Oh! Really?”

“Might not get a chance later. Go on. Archie will look after you.”

“Archie?”

“He’s the guard. Give you a chance to meet the rest of the crew. Rare treat to be pulled by a Seventy-Niner.”

He watched Tim absorb this — not moving.

“Chop-chop,” said Reg. “She’ll not wait for you!”

Tim grinned and came alive: he climbed aboard and slammed the carriage door shut with that satisfying double clunk.

Then he pulled down the window and peered out at Reg.

“Appreciate it, Mr Syms!”

Reg nodded, stepped back. He looked down the platform to the final carriage, where Archie stood waiting. A nod between them — ready to go.

He watched as one of the volunteers strode alongside the train, making a final check that the doors were all shut, then blew his whistle — so loud that a group of watching children covered their ears — and waved his flag.

With another great blast from the far end of the platform, and a whoosh of steam, the great engine began to move — slowly, inexorably.

Looking forward, Reg saw the great white puffs created by the locomotive billow up to the matching grey-white sky.

The train carriages started reluctantly moving, clunking and rattling.

If he had been in the front of the platform, Reg knew they could watch the locomotive’s wheels, churning, turning — the ancient but steady mechanism hauling the line of carriages.

Only half the seats taken, for this railway was — sad to say — largely a tourist attraction. A folly for fans. Fun for children and families and enthusiasts who wanted to experience something rare.

And for Reg — and all who worked here — a hobby; though sometimes Reg felt like his time here … well … it was his life.

As Reg watched Bernard’s carriage pull away — the dapper old man even giving him a small wave, adventure begun — he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Mandeville’s son, in jeans and a fleece pullover, standing back at the Mercedes, watching the train depart.

Never once had he seen Bernard’s family join him for the trip. Clearly, a trip on a steam train was not everyone’s cup of tea.

Time for my own cup of tea, he thought. Maybe see what the Old Tea House has in the line of cakes and biscuits today as well?

And he locked the ticket office, just as he did each and every weekend at this time, and walked down the platform to the station’s small tea room.

He would have some tea and see if he might anticipate any questions trainee Tim might have about the whole ritual he had just observed.

*

Tim leaned out of the window of the last carriage and took in the view of muddy fields and woods as the train rattled through the Cotswolds countryside.

Steam and smoke billowed around. On each slow curve — if he really leaned out — he could see the engine itself, ten carriages ahead, easily dealing with these shallow hills behind Cherringham.

His wife Helen had been pressing him to find a weekend hobby, now that the kids had left home. He spent all week at a computer terminal in the village, selling insurance. Barely saw daylight in the winter.

But Helen was right — this was going to be fun!

“Mind you don’t get a smut in your eye, young man,” came a voice from behind him.

Tim turned and recognised Archie from the station coming through the door from the guard’s van — he held out his hand for Archie to shake.

“Archie? I’m Tim Waite. New volunteer.”

“Ah, so you are! Pleased to meet you, Tim.”

“Reg said I could take the run this morning. Said you’d show me the ropes.”

“Hmm. Did he now?” said Archie, his face stern. Tim saw him raise one bushy eyebrow.

Oh gosh, he thought. First day and I’m in trouble already!

But then the other man winked and patted him on the shoulder.

“Course I will. Tell you what — you follow me while I do the ticket check. Half an hour to Cheltenham, plenty of time — if you’re lucky I might even let you punch a few tickets!”

Archie raised his antiquated ticket puncher and Tim laughed.

“The buffet car should have a head of steam by the time we reach her. We’ll pick up a cup of tea and a Kit-Kat, eh?” said Archie, as he pulled open the sliding door that led into the carriage proper.

“And when we reach Cheltenham I’ll get you onto the plate for the return leg — how about that?”

“Gosh,” said Tim. And he followed Archie into the first carriage.

*

Twenty minutes later, as promised, they stopped for tea and a chocolate biscuit in the antiquated buffet bar.

Although a lot of the passengers were tourists (and Tim noted that Archie had a little chat with everyone), Tim had also recognised a handful of Cherringham locals out for a family day on the train.

Most of the travellers sat in the open carriages — faded bench seats in pairs facing each other, string racks overhead for bags.

But some preferred the cloistered privacy of the first-class carriages — separate compartments with sliding doors that gave onto a corridor that ran the length of the carriage.

These, it seemed, tended to be the older travellers. Retired couples. Enthusiasts.

And, as Archie chatted, eventually Tim began to join in the conversations, warming to the friendly atmosphere that the steam train seemed to engender.

In one such carriage, Tim saw Mr Mandeville. The old man sat alone, blanket over his knees, staring out at the countryside. Archie tapped on the glass and slid open the door.

Tim expected a little conversation to ensue — Archie clearly never short of a gossip or a little joke.

But Mr Mandeville nodded and just handed over his ticket to be clipped then turned back to the window.

Not a word between them.

Funny, thought Tim. But then he remembered — Mr Mandeville wasn’t at all well. Perhaps the poor old chap was in pain?

And over their cups of tea, Archie confirmed that suspicion. “Mr Mandeville? The old boy in the tweed?” he said. “Never has been one for any idle chit-chat, to be honest, Tim. And I certainly don’t like to disturb him, poor chap.”

Tim asked how long Mr Mandeville had been coming on the train, but before Archie could answer, Tim heard a loud blast on the whistle and suddenly they were in a tunnel!

The chuff-chuff of the engine went up a notch and in the darkness outside the carriage, Tim could see billows of smoke and steam.

“Winsham Tunnel,” said Archie, closing one of the windows tight. “Second longest tunnel on a steam line in the country.”

Tim went to the window, thrilled at the rush of sound and the flickering reflections from all the carriage lights on the inside of the tunnel.

It seemed to go on forever. But then, at last, another whistle from the engine and they emerged into bright sunshine again, the train rattling from side to side with the speed.

“Four minutes exactly!” said Archie, checking his pocket watch. “Come on — two more carriages to check and then we’ll be at Cheltenham.”

Tim drained his tea and set it back on the rocking buffet counter.

“And when we get there,” said Archie, “it’ll be all hands on deck while we bring the locomotive round for the return trip. You just stay close to me, young Tim, and I’ll make sure you get a grandstand seat on the engine herself!”

Tim followed Archie down the train as it swayed and rocked, thinking — Helen’s never going to believe this. On my first day, too!

*

Reg had just finished his paperwork when he heard the great blast of the steam engine’s whistle on its return from Cheltenham.

“There she is,” he said to himself, checking his timepiece and nodding in satisfaction. “Bang on time.”

Reg always liked to be out on the platform when the train returned, with the office and till all neat and tidy, and everything in readiness for the next departure.

He stepped onto the platform and locked the door behind him.

Two more volunteers were out there, in their deep-blue uniforms, perfectly knotted grey- and red-striped neckties, and matching classic conductor hats.

Nods all around.

These platform volunteers tended to the passengers, with every day bringing a new lot, always with plenty of questions: about the rail line itself, the great steam engine, its history.

And that was all well and good, thought Reg.

But he still preferred his real job of selling actual tickets. Genuine travel commerce — just as it was done a hundred years ago.

Now they all looked west, as a great, bellowing whistle — a blast that Reg found to be one of the most beautiful sounds on the planet — signalled the train’s arrival. Puffy white shocks of steam shot up from the smokestack, billowing away as the train — even at its sluggish...