Linesman's Hut
Copyright Oggbashan April/December 2020
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
My great-grandfather sold some of his farm to a railway company to build a double-track line. The sale included a provision to sell any unwanted land back to my great-grandfather or his heirs at the original price per square yard.
It was on the highest one of a series of three terraces that were left by historic flood plains as the river shrunk. The land had been used by him as a farm track, well above any possible flooding.
The railway company had sited two old railway carriages to be a base for the linesmen who maintained the track. The carriages had been the line's largest, eight wheelers with the middle axles given sideways play so they could go around curves. But they weren't successful. They would derail frequently and when bogie coaches were introduced, they were retired. They were placed end to end on a disused siding. A lean-to was built alongside to link them since they were not corridor coaches,
In the 1930s the railway company had been absorbed into Southern Railway who reduced the track to a single line. Between the old railway carriages and the single track they had put one of their pre-cast linesman's huts. The linesman had linked that with more lean-tos to the carriages to prove an extensive dwelling for him and his family.
My great-grandfather had rebuilt his farm track on the lowest of the three terraces, still above flooding. Between that track and the river were water meadows used for pasture in summer and usually partly flooded each winter.
The other side of the railway line the land rose into chalk downland. During the Second World War the farm track had been upgraded to a military road linking to an army base close to the coast. After the war the road had become a B-class road linking the coastal road to a major route inland.
In the 1960s the railway line was closed as part of the Beeching reforms. The land was sold back to my father but the then linesman retired. My father let him and his wife stay for a nominal annual rent. The local council asked to lease the railway line for use as a cycle track linking a country park with the seaside town that had been the terminus of the now defunct railway. My father agreed a 99 year lease for the cycle track but the linesman's hut wasn't included.
The linesman died in the early 1990s and his widow at the end of the 1990s. My father offered the hut to me as a home. I accepted and started maintenance that had been neglected since the 1960s. Because it had been continuously occupied by the linesman and his wife there were no restrictions such as use for farm workers only. This year, now I had built up enough capital, I intended to demolish it and build a modern four-bedroom bungalow on the site. The views over the unspoilt river valley were great and it was well above any possible flooding. The land around it was large enough to build a double garage and still have a very large garden, almost a smallholding that could be used to grow produce for market.
I had to spend money straight away before moving in. The old carriages had canvas roofs waterproofed with tar and they were leaking. I employed a specialist contractor to erect a fibreglass roof above them but not touching. When I eventually demolished the buildings at least two heritage railways wanted the old coaches which dated back to the 1860s and still sat on their original wheels on a short section of railway line.
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The winter and spring had been unusually wet. I had a collection of buckets to catch water coming through the connections between the concrete hut and the carriages. Sometimes I had to empty them more than twice a day.
The water meadows had been flooded continuously since November. In May there were a few days of intermittent sunshine and the cycle track had been used. The council had built a car park on the other side of the river, next to a country pub, where the terraces were much wider than on my side. There was an ancient narrow bridge that took the slightly more major road across the river before the cycle track and the B-road forked south.
Many of the cyclists came by car, parked, unloaded their bikes and used the old railway track because it was level all the way to the coast unlike the roads which climbed over the downland.
One Sunday morning it had started with brighter sunshine than normal. I took advantage of it to do some gardening before a sudden heavy shower forced me indoors. As I came back in I could see that the hills to the north had heavy low-lying cloud and much heavier rain. By lunchtime the river was flowing faster and the flooded area lapped the lowest terrace on which the road was built. Unless the water rose another six feet, which had never happened yet, the road would remain passable.
I was sitting looking out of one of the old railway carriages at the heavy rain which had now moved down stream and watching the floodwaters rise. I wasn't worried. The road would have to flood first and I was another fifteen feet above that.
My front door bell rang loudly. It was an ancient ship's bell sounded by pulling a rope outside. I opened the door. Two women cyclists were there.
"Hello," I said, "What can I do for you?"
"Could we shelter with you for a while, please?" One of them asked. "the bridge approaches are flooded and we can't get back to our car."
"We're also soaking wet," The other added.
I could see they were. They had been wearing lightweight shower-resistant jackets that were not enough for continuous heavy rain.
"OK. Put your bikes over there," I pointed to a lean to where I kept my wheelbarrow. They both had folding Brompton bicycles.
We went into the concrete Southern Region linesman's hut that I use almost as a porch. I keep my wellingtons, outdoor coats and garden tools there but the wood burner ensures it is the warmest part of my house. I added some more wood and opened the air vent to make it burn hotter.
"Welcome to my ramshackle house." I said. "I'm Jim Taylor."
""I'm Anne Sanders," one of them said. "At least I think I am. I'm so cold and wet I'm not sure."
"And I'm her sister Emma."
"I think you need to get out of those wet things," I said. "I've got a couple of track suits that might fit you along with warm towels."
"Warm towels sound great," Anne said.
I put up two clothes drying rails near the wood burner. They were shedding their coats as I went to the airing cupboard for warm towels and the track suits.
When I came back I hung the towels and track suits on the airers. They had shed their coats but Anne was struggling with the zip on her soaking wet fleece. She was almost crying.
"My fingers don't work," she wailed.
"I'm not surprised. You're very cold."
I undid the zip for her and helped her out of the fleece. Her top was also wet and her bra showed through.
"Have you got any dry clothes?" I asked. I thought the answer would be no because they were not carrying anything on themselves or their bikes. Anne was shivering too much to reply.
"No," Emma said. "We were stupid. The sun was shining. We could see the rain on the hills but the weather forecast said it was moving north. We left everything in the car -- our spare clothes, our purses, even our mobile phones. Once we starting cycling the track was so flat and easy that we went further than we had intended. We had thought ten minutes each way but we didn't stop until after half an hour. When we turned back the rain came and the bridge approach was flooded."
"OK. I'll have to strip everything off, Anne. Is that OK?"
Anne nodded feebly.
"Yes," Emma said, "then me. Like her I can't undress myself." She had got her fleece off but her fingers weren't working.
I stripped Anne completely before wrapping her in warm towels. I did the same for Emma and then dressed Anne in a warmed track suit. I towelled her hair dry before dressing Emma and drying her hair too. I wrapped the towels back around them. Their discarded clothes were steaming on the airers beside the wood burner.
"Can we move to somewhere more comfortable?" Emma asked. "With our clothes drying this is like a steam room."
"Yes, if you wait a couple of minutes while I open up the other wood burner. It's running on low now."
"OK, Jim. Thank you." Emma said.
I went through to one of the old railway carriages that had a lounge at one end and a kitchen at the other. I opened the air vent on the wood burner before picking up my binoculars. I looked at the bridge and its approaches. On the west side I could see a police car with a flashing blue light. On the east side there were about three cars turning around.
The approach was about four feet deep and flowing fast.
I went back to get the women. Emma could walk by herself but I had to carry Anne. I put her down on the settee before wrapping both of them in blankets.
"Stay there while I make some soup," I said.
I put some vegetables in a blender before heating it in the microwave. I poured it into two mugs. Emma could just about hold her mug. I had to hold Anne's.
"I had hoped I could borrow one of my father's tractors and take you across the flood," I said. "But it's too deep and fast running. It will have to drop considerably before that is possible, maybe a couple of hours after high tide."
"When's high tide?" Emma asked.
I looked at the kitchen clock.
"About an hour and a half from now, so I couldn't try for about three and a half to four hours -- if it stops raining."
"If the rain doesn't stop,Jim?"
The rain was still beating against the windows.
"The next time the tide would be right is in the early hours. I'd rather not try in the dark. I would suggest waiting until the next daylight time."
The rain was still beating against the windows.
"Stay there for a while. I've got to empty the buckets," I said.
