It was not our usual road; Ted and I being at a loose end in the shed were obvious choices for relief duties, and duly summoned for an extra working on the old S&L.J.R. line. "Number six road's yours!" growled a stern, business like voice through the sulphur and steam, and we hurried to comply. Two cleaners greeting us with baleful looks insinuated that the 8f had been a right so and so to prepare for duty, and these lads appeared like they'd polished the firegrate with their faces.
"Best off with you both for a rosy!" Ted chortled in his usual whimsical manner, while we set about oiling and readying the Stanier for duty. 220 lbs. on the clock, water and coal aplenty, sandboxes full, and all controls working nicely, with half an hour before the turn began. Gently easing out of the shed toward the coaling road, the old Stanier felt good - unusual, as the B.R. version was generally an easier drive, but welcome, compared to the 4f we'd nursed into the shed the previous day with a dropped brick arch and a big-end hammering.
Reaching the shed road, we were held in check for a semi to pass before being given a green for the down goods fiddle yard, where we were to collect our "special" train, with the guard waiting impatiently, stamping his feet against the bitter north-easterly that blew.
His impatience we could tolerate, we were out of the shed and away from the foreman. Now that was one guy you couldn't like - story had it he was related to a certain Austrian! After a brief exchange, we knew the weight and how many on we were in charge of, as we edged up and coupled. A glance at a watch showed departure time in 15 minutes, just enough time for a 'bit o' breakfast', and a quick round in the box; we were both happy to be off back to our home shed after the hell-hole that they called "The Lodgings".
Ted returned from his sprint for breakfast with about 2 minutes to go before the off with two packets of foil wrapped sandwiches, and placed them on the warming tray, just in time to see a green and hear the guard's right-away. A quick look around, and we were off, with a gentle clank of couplings taking up throughout the train.
We'd done this route before, and there was nothing unusual about it - except for that one short tunnel. The more times we ran that, the weirder it became, almost imperceptible at first, but as we used it more often, that tunnel filled us with a feeling you couldn't describe. I suppose you might call it superstition, but neither of us were given to that malarkey - besides, we didn't have time to dwell on it, not up a 1 in 100 with a heavy goods, but that day proved to be different.
The approach to this tunnel was through a cutting, which twisted around an outcrop of rock which formed the furthest reaches of the local farmer's land. We'd normally storm that at 40 to 45 mph in order to gain momentum for the climb as the tunnel's mouth was reached, but as we approached, we both noticed the goods brake being applied, released, and applied repeatedly. Hard! This is a recognised signal from a guard that all is not well, and we pulled the train to a stop just short of the tunnel, scanning the viewable portion of the train for fire or a hot-box. "Nothing untoward here !" Ted reported. "Or this end" I replied; "I'll go and check with Old Jolly back there !", to find the guard on his way up to us, face burning crimson in what was left of the day's light.
"What's to do?" we both enquired of him as he approached. His reply was mostly unprintable - ".....and what you pair picked this spot to stop for, I don't know. Now I'll miss me tea!" We exchanged glances - "But you signalled us to stop" we replied in unison. Now it was his turn to ponder - then walk to the first brake van which separated the loco from the rest of the train, and paused. "These brakes are hot; I'll just check it out!" he shouted as he climbed aboard the un-manned vehicle.
He re-appeared a few seconds later, his ashen face now deathly white and ran back to us. "Lads, I can't believe what I've just seen - one of you like to check this out?" So off goes Ted, to find out what all the fuss is about. "Look at this!", Old Jolly exclaimed as Ted mounted the brake. The inside looked as though it hadn't been cleaned for years, even though it had been immaculate back at the yard, and a message was visible in the dust on the table. In a neat, stylish writing, it said "Phone ahead - obstruction in tunnel - do not proceed. J.Sutton." There was a distinctive aroma of St. Bruno about the cabin; Old Jolly didn't smoke!
Ted required no further prompting, and rang the next box to inform the signalman of our dilema. He evidently thought that we were crazy, until Ted mentioned the name signed to the message. His evident mirth vapourised into an extremely nervous stutter - "And how was this written?" he asked. "Like as you'd find in an old book?"
Ted agreed with the description, and Old Jolly took a photo of the table-top, complete with the message - just as well, they'd have all thought we'd 'been on the sherbet' otherwise! Apart, that is, from the signalman. He was just like so many railwaymen in the fact that he'd become one because his father was, and his father, and J. Sutton! Old Jolly took a hand-lamp into the tunnel to see what might be the matter - it wasn't long before he returned.
"Just around the bend in the tunnel, the roof's fell in. We'd have all been jiggered if we'd hit that lot!" At that point, the lineside phone rang, and the signalman had us reverse down the gradient to join a branch that had been opened as a diversion, after the guard had reported his findings. It was a long time until tea - more like a late breakfast for us three, but a friendship grew from that close call.
A few weeks later, Ted and I worked that line again - no foreboding as we ran the tunnel at a restricted speed of 15 mph with a pilot assisting, but we got the chance to meet the signalman because of a signal check outside the 'box for engineering work, whose life was never quite the same again. We're all retired now, but still meet at the local for a brew - and a toast to a signalman we never knew, but who was still on duty after 90 odd years!
