Copyright Oggbashan July 2019
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.
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I was sitting at my dining room table counting the week's takings at Kilndown Road, the rural railway station, before bagging them up with the weekly summary to send it to Head Office on the next scheduled train at seven ten pm, the last of Saturday. A candle was burning in front of me to soften the sealing wax on the bag when I had finished.
It didn't take long. There were eighteen pennies from the toilets, twelve from the Ladies and six from the Gents, most of whom just used the free urinals. No. One wasn't a penny but a French Napoleon III ten cent piece that is the same size and shape of an English penny. Never mind, the company's bank would probably accept it. There were many in circulation still.
Six pennies had come from the platform ticket machine. That was more than usual. Most people didn't bother if they were just going to the toilets. Three shillings and six pence were from ticket sales, for singles to the junction at the end of the line at the big town. Most were from Youth Hostellers going home at the end of a weekend away. There was another three shillings and four pence for packages carried in the Guard's compartment on the two coach trains.
Eight shillings and ten pence did not cover my wages for the week in 1948 as the Station Clerk, nominally the Station Master. In 1939 I had retired as Station Master at the line's biggest and busiest city centre station and my pension was much more than my wages at this rarely used station. I had asked for the vacant Station Clerk post because I knew there was a good house and the company was having difficulty appointing someone. It was ideal for semi-retirement but not a post for a junior who wanted to be promoted to better things.
When the line was built it was going to be a route from London to the Kent Coast, double tracked with substantial station buildings. My station is now on a single track line, has a barely used passing loop and a siding for goods traffic that never really happened. Another company had built a line to the Kent Coast before this line was less than a third built. This line had been continued to the small market town that was now the terminus and provided almost all the traffic of passengers and goods. If my station had been built now it would have been an unstaffed halt, not the imposing buildings that exist. The double track had been reduced to a single line in the 1920s.
This railway had been independent until 1923 when it became part of Southern, one of the big four railway companies. On the first of January this year, 1948, it had become part of the nationalised British Railways. We hadn't really seen any change yet except on the stationery, and our new uniforms might arrive this year or next. But I was seriously worried that this line, or at least this station, would be closed as part of the cost cutting measures suggested by the government for the new British Railways. Eight shillings and sixpence as a week's takings wouldn't impress anyone.
I live in the four bedroomed Station Master's house at the end of the only platform and next to the level crossing. I have to close the crossing gates manually just before a train was due. It isn't that onerous. Apart from the morning and evening so-called rush hours there is only one train every three hours a day, returning from the market town half an hour later. On Sundays there are only two trains, one in each direction in the early morning and the evening with very few passengers in either service. Although the train stops at my station in both directions, few people get on and off because there was nothing around the station except a couple of houses and the Youth Hostel three miles away.
I had intended to move with my wife to the seaside bungalow I had bought many years ago. But she died four years before I retired and there didn't seem to be much point in moving to a place I didn't know. Now my son, his wife and their two pre-school aged children live in that bungalow. Sometimes they come to visit me in my large house but they come by car because that is easier with small children. My son also works for the railway but as a manager in London. They could travel by train for free but their car is much quicker and more convenient than a cross-country rail route with several changes of train.
During the war the station had seen more traffic than since the line was built. An Army camp for basic training of new recruits had been established in the woods close to the station. The recruits and their supplies had arrived by train. In 1943 it became a post-Atlantic crossing camp for American GIs from an Engineer Regiment. After the war the siding still had substantial coal stocks left by the army. I had won on the football pools in 1946 and after helping my son buy his car I had bought the coal and the site of the army camp. I was managing the forest for timber and hoped to make the area into a forest park. The coal had been a godsend during the winter of 1947/8 when the trains couldn't run because of heavy snowfall. It had kept me and my neighbours warm and Mr Rogers, the local market gardener with his own lorry, had been able to sell several tons of my stock to the coal merchant in the market town when the merchant's normal supplies couldn't get through by train.
I employed several local people part-time, not as railway employees, but working directly for me. Mr John Rogers and his two sons helped me to maintain the station and its flower beds, and to manage the woodland. Several times a week I sent bags of logs and kindling to the coal merchant. The Rogers also sent some of their vegetables to the town's shops as well. Between us we had accounted for this week's three shillings and four pence. The Rogers also supplied village shops with no rail access.
My other employee was Brenda Griffiths who lived beside the station. She was a widow whose husband had been killed in London during an air raid in 1940. Even before he died she was cleaning my house and cooking a meal for me every evening. Now, she was my assistant for everything, issuing tickets, cleaning the station buildings, particularly the toilets, and sometimes even opening and closing the level crossing gates. It was strictly against the company's rules for anyone not a direct employee to be involved in the operation of the railway, but as I had been a senior manager I had more discretion than most. They even listened to my suggestions, expressed directly or through my son.
The railway company's accounting system only counted monies actually taken at Kilndown Road. Most passengers arrived and departed on return tickets sold from another station so didn't count for this station. I thought it was wrong and short-sighted but even changing the system wouldn't really help. In summer the station might have fifty passengers a week arriving and departing. In spring and autumn that was reduced to about a dozen. In winter there were some weeks with no passengers at all but every train stopped here. The station was losing money and the financial future of the whole line was problematic.
I enclosed a letter with the accounts and monies, asking whether there had been any progress on my previous suggestion to site two camping coaches on the disused siding. The Rogers and I had been keeping the siding maintained and weed-free. We had assembled some timber from the demolished Army huts and my woodlands to build an access platform if my proposal was agreed. I could also supply water and sewage connections to the coaches. That would be unusual. Most visitors to current camping coaches had to use a station's toilets because there was no water supply or sewage. I knew that our carriage works could convert elderly passenger coaches to include kitchen and bathrooms as long as there was a suitable site with connections.
Apart from what I intended to be a forest park there was an extensive network of public footpaths leading from the station that were often used by walking groups in the summer. Anyone staying in the camping coaches could use the footpaths though some pleasant scenery of the Weald.
The only difficulty might be the lack of a shop or public house. Both existed but five hilly miles away. However I had spoken to a grocer in the market town. He could supply anyone staying in the camping coaches. I could send a list of requirements and the ration stamps with the guard, and the grocer would send the items on the next train, or at worst, the train afterwards. The visitors would pay me directly and I would settle the grocer's account at the end of every week -- if the proposal was agreed. The carriage of the grocer's items would be at the railway's standard rates which would add a small percentage to each purchase.
My suggestion was an attempt to increase the takings at the station. The current income was insufficient to justify keeping the station operational even with the increased usage in summer. Apart from my wages as the only employee at the station there were running costs and maintenance. The line itself might survive because of regular commuters from the market town, but this intermediate, rarely used, station could be closed without affecting the line's viability. Apart from the income from renting out the camping coaches, transport of the grocer's stores would add a little to freight revenue.
"Andrew?"
Brenda had come through from the stationmaster's office where she had been cleaning.
I raised my head.
"Yes, Brenda?"
"Malcolm, the Youth Hostel Warden, is on the station telephone."
"OK, Brenda, I'm coming."
It was a nuisance that there was no extension from the office to my house. I had asked for one but the official response had been maybe in two or three years -- perhaps, or never.
I put everything in the official railway pouch and sealed it with wax I had already softened in the candle flame. I blew the candle out. I took the sealed bag with me.
"Malcolm?"
