This story is entirely fictitious, though I've included elements of my own personality and appearance in the main character.
.....
Victoria meant nothing to me anymore. Once, I'd loved her, but now she sat there, dead and unmoving. There was no warmth in her heart, her soul gone. I bowed my head and watched the tears fall to the floor, each drop kicking up a puff of dust. I turned my back to her, switched off the lights and closed the heavy wooden doors. It would be two years before I'd open them again.
They all tried to help - my mother, Sara my sister, my friends - but nothing could lift me from the deep pit of depression, grief and hopelessness. Three times I'd contemplated bringing it all to a close but on each occasion couldn't take the leap, plunge the knife or swallow the pills. As sometimes happens, it was a tiny, unexpected incident that finally made a difference.
Mid October, with the leaves falling into the water and some lingering warmth still in the Autumn sun, I was sat on a bench looking at the River Ouse, imperceptibly moving as it meandered around the bends upstream from Barcombe Mill. I'd hoped to pick a handful of blackberries in the afternoon sun but an early night frost a few days ago had finished them off. Compensation came in a flash of brilliant blue as a Kingfisher skimmed low over the surface before disappearing around the bend towards Isfield. I wasn't in an end-it-all mood. Not that a strong swimmer can do it in two feet of water anyway.
From my left came a female shout, "That's far enough, Amber, wait there."
Uninvited, a girl in a pretty yellow dress with flaming red hair set in a ponytail sat on the bench next to me. She looked to be about seven. "You're very small, your hair's the same colour as mine," she said looking at me, "Ginger."
I nodded, "I prefer copper."
"I like that, copper. Do you like your freckles?"
"Of course."
"I don't. Rowan at school calls me freckle face. He says I'm ugly."
"He's just being a silly boy. You're very pretty. One day, all the boys will want to be your friend."
"That's what my Nana says. You look sad."
"Sorry."
"That's okay. My Nana says it's okay to be sad for a while but things will get better."
"I hope so."
"My hamster died last month. I cried a lot but she's in heaven now so I know that the angels will look after her and I'm getting a new puppy next week. See ya."
.....
Ted and I, James' uncle, stood in the early November drizzle and stared at the doors for a full minute. I think he was nervous. "I..., um..., been going in there, just to check her over like, every week. And once a month I pulls her out just to get everything turning over, keep everything oiled. She's been under tarps too, to keep the pigeons off. They always finds a way in. And the diesel furnace has been on each winter to dry the air. There's not much rust but she'll need some work and I'd recommend a boiler test. Are you gonna sell her? She'll fetch north of £120k easy."
"I'm going to show her."
"By yerself? You know I'd offer to help but I got the farm and me own engines."
"Uh huh. Sorry I've not been in touch much."
"That's okay. Don't know why the rest turned against you. It were a rum do."
"Life goes on."
"That's what well-meaning people says but it ain't that easy. I remember when I lost my Mary..., well..., y'know. When's the trial?"
"Never. They've pleaded guilty to corporate manslaughter. It'll just be a sentencing hearing."
"Ain't cheap this steam malarky, Kelly. She'll drain your bank balance."
"I've got the house and the insurance, plus compensation."
"A lot I hopes."
"We've agreed on four million out of court with no admission of liability, plus ten thousand shares."
"Shares in that mob? They must have taken a hit with all the bad publicity. Are they worth anything?"
"They will be. The price will bounce back. Anyway, being a shareholder means I can turn up at each AGM and tell them what I think of them."
"I suppose so. Anyway, I'd best be getting on. Give me a shout if you wants her pulling out. It's really good to see you back here."
I turned, hugged him and said, "Thanks for being a rock, Ted."
"Damn dust getting in me eyes again," he said, before wandering off.
After a deep breath, I pulled the heavy doors open, noting that Ted must have greased the hinges. There she was under half-a-dozen tarps. Three times my height - not that that's very big when you're 4'10" - and seventeen tons of cold steel, cast iron, brass and copper. Victoria, a steam plough, fathered by John Fowler & Co of Leeds in 1898.
"By yerself?" Ted had asked. I'd been confident outside but now, dwarfed by the 7ft diameter rear wheels and the engines 24ft length I was less certain. Could I have her ready by the Laughton Cuckoo Fair? Probably, but could I drive her on my own? Very doubtful. Anyway, that was in the future.
I didn't uncover her that day. I wanted it to be on a sunny day. First, a look around then a tidy up. Nothing much had changed but the familiar smell of oil, grease and soot hit me hard. The left wall was the work area - lathe, bench drill, bench grinder, brazing hearth, welding rig, power hacksaw and a heavy-duty bench with engineer's vice. Along the back wall was storage - lengths of metal, chain, shelves of tools plus cabinets for grease, oil, spare parts and the plethora of bolts, rivets and washers that hold a steam plough together. The right side was the wet area - hoses, two pressure washers, industrial sinks, a parts cleaning booth and other stuff.
James had been stickler for tidiness and cleanliness. He could always find the tool or part he needed. So for three days I cleaned every shelf, cabinet, tin can, tool, bottle and part until only the dusty concrete floor remained. On the Friday morning, I finally uncovered her. Yes, I shed some tears as I ran my hands over her curved front nameplate but Ted's arrival forced me to pull myself together.
"Heck," he grinned, "Ain't been this clean in here for years. Well since..., I mean..., wanna do my barn too?"
"No thanks," I smiled, "You still got three in there?"
"Aye, one working, one in bits, one that I'll get around to one day. Alice is fired up. We can pull Victoria out whenever you want."
"Vicky," I said, "James insisted on Victoria but she's always been Vicky to me."
Ted rubbed his chin and said, "I were chatting to old Charlie Wilkins the other day. We reckons you're the youngest engine owner around, maybe in the country."
I nodded, "Yeah, well, not many women are widowed at twenty-two."
James and I, living on adjacent farms, were childhood sweethearts. He was older than me by 2 years but that didn't matter to us. No-one was surprised when he proposed to me in the bar of the King's Head on my 18
th
birthday. My first legal drink in the village pub was champagne. He trained to be an agricultural welder but switched to oil rigs off the coast of West Africa for the money. His routine of four weeks on, four weeks off, plus free flights worked for us, plus of course the very high pay. None of that was worth his body being blown apart due to corporate cost cutting via fake parts.
James and his brother, Adam, inherited the engine from their grandfather when James was seventeen. His grandfather had inherited it from his grandfather. Since being built, it had always been in the Mountfield family. Adam had no interest in the engine, thought it worthless and signed his share over to James in exchange for his interest in their grandfather's Series One Landrover. Now, I was its owner and though I'd kept the Mountfield surname, most of his family no longer considered me one of the Mountfield family.
Adam was furious that Vicky was now mine and tried to launch a legal challenge which was thwarted by the Deed of Variation to his grandfather's will that he'd signed. His anger was the main reason that I'd distanced myself from James' family.
Steam ploughs always work in pairs, a left-handed engine and a right-handed engine. Vicky was left-handed meaning that the horizontal cable drum underneath fed out to the left as you looked forward. Steam ploughs don't actually plough; they are positioned at either end of a field, usually a large one, with the cable stretched between. Alternately, they pull a double-sided five-furrow bevel frame plough backwards and forwards, the engines moving forwards also alternately, as progress is made. At the end of each run, the plough's anti-balance gear is engaged by the plough operator to transfer more weight onto the working end of the plough, to help keep the blades down in the ground.
Also on the plough is a flagman, who signals to the engine drivers - Stop, Stop and put the clutch out, Go on, Slow down, and Slow down quickly. Thus, a team of four is needed to plough. Ploughing teams were itinerant, moving from farm to farm towing an accommodation trailer known as a hut. The fifth member was usually a lad who cooked, cleaned and ran errands.
It sounds slow, but a skilled team could plough twenty acres a day as opposed to one by a horse. The power of steam ploughs also meant that they could plough deeper and cultivate ground impossible by horses.
Lacking the manpower and a partner engine, James and I had never ploughed. Jessica, the right-hand engine, was destroyed in a fire in the 1950s. At that time there were hundreds of redundant engines so her remains were sold for scrap. Vicky's hut was safe in a tractor shed across Ted's farm.
Financially, I was well off, and the work on Vicky helped me emotionally. It gave me purpose and drive. By mid-April, the only issue remaining was her cable which I needed to examine and her missing whistle.
"Dunno," said Ted over mugs of tea in his kitchen, "Was the whistle there when she were last put away?"
I shrugged, "Don't know. When James was working on her on his last period of leave, I was working away in Manchester. I've searched everywhere."
"You can buy 'em new."
"I don't want a new one but can't have an engine without a whistle. And what about the cable?"
"Not planning on ploughing are you?"
"Well, no."
"I'd leave it then. A new one will set you back four thousand and the one you've got looks fine on the drum. The whistle is a different problem. Cheffins in Cambridge have a dispersal sale coming up; the Anderson collection. We could look online at the catalogue. I was planning on going up anyway."
Two weeks later, at dawn, we were circumnavigating London on the M25 motorway, me driving my new Isuzu D-max V-cross pick-up truck towing Ted's double-axle Ifor Williams trailer. Ted had been sceptical, wanting to use his old Series 3 Landrover. The heater, comfortable seats and cupholder for his triple-teabag tea had swayed him.
He had a whole list of things that he was interested in but only one item in the catalogue had caught my eye - "
Brass steam tri-note chime whistle as fitted to Traction Engines or Steam Rollers. Fitted with operating pull chain type valve. Stands 13.5in tall and a whistle valve diameter of 3in
."
My lot was number 322. By then, Ted had bought some steering chain, a part-used 25kg tub of general grease, a towing bar and a rack of fifty engineering parts bins. The auction was outside with the lots arranged in rows in a large field. The auctioneer in tweed jacket and flat cap was standing on a trailer attached to a quadbike which slowly towed him from lot to lot. I'd had a look at the whistle. It was in good condition and complete. Just needed a polish. At lot 320, I edged closer to the front, worried that the auctioneer wouldn't see me.
£350 was my limit. Holding my bidding card, I waited. Lot 320 went quickly then 321 was a long drawn out affair with multiple bidders fighting over a Lister stationary engine. Twenty minutes earlier, Ted had caught up with me saying, "First auction of the season and some of the prices are bloody silly." This didn't bode well.
The auctioneer announced, "Lot 322, brass steam whistle. Lots of interest, I can open the bidding at £260, 280 anywhere? 280 I have, 300 anywhere?"
Within seconds it was hovering at 380. Fuck. Searching Google the night before I found that steam train whistles were quite common but not traction engine whistles. It might be a year before another came available. I put my hand up and waved my card. He didn't see me. "All done at 380?" he called.
"Here!" I yelled.
From his lofty perch he looked down, nodded and called, "New bidder at £400... 420." I waved again. "440..., 460..., 480..., 500..., with the gentleman at 500."
Five fucking hundred? I'd have to go 520. I could feel my hand shaking as I raised it. "520 with the young lady. Are we all done? 540 if you want, sir. No? Selling at 520..." Bang! He rapped his pen on his clipboard.
Um... £520. Plus 10% buyer's premium, plus 20% VAT on the premium. Oops.
As the crowd moved on, I stared at the lump of brass on the grass. Then I grinned. It was going to polish up beautifully. "Congratulations," said a voice behind me. I turned. He was mid-twenties in a Barbour jacket, collar and tie, cavalry twill trousers, polished brown brogues and tweed cap. He also had light blue eyes. He looked like a sexy gamekeeper from Downton Abbey.
"Um, thanks," I said.
