The Pre-Grouper's Literary Corner

[Penlan]

Well if 'Pipes in Arcady' is amongst all those dots & dashs, as the link in post #85 seems to loop round to this page, then for those of you who are not a Morse detective, like me....

 pipes in arcady - by arthur thomas quiller-couch [?]

I hardly can bring myself to part with this story, it has been such a private joy to me. Moreover, that I have lain awake in the night to laugh over it is no guarantee of your being passably amused. Yourselves, I dare say, have known what it is to awake in irrepressible mirth from a dream which next morning proved to be flat and unconvincing. Well, this my pet story has some of the qualities of a dream; being absurd, for instance, and almost incredible, and even a trifle inhuman. After all, I had better change my mind, and tell you another–

But no; I will risk it, and you shall have it, just as it befel.

I had taken an afternoon’s holiday to make a pilgrimage: my goal being a small parish church that lies remote from the railway, five good miles from the tiniest of country stations; my purpose to inspect–or say, rather, to contemplate–a Norman porch, for which it ought to be widely famous. (Here let me say that I have an unlearned passion for Norman architecture–to enjoy it merely, not to write about it.)

To carry me on my first stage I had taken a crawling local train that dodged its way somehow between the regular expresses and the “excursions” that invade our Delectable Duchy from June to October. The season was high midsummer, the afternoon hot and drowsy with scents of mown hay; and between the rattle of the fast trains it seemed that we, native denizens of the Duchy, careless of observation or applause, were executing a tour de force in that fine indolence which has been charged as a fault against us. That we halted at every station goes without saying. Few sidings–however inconsiderable or, as it might seem, fortuitous–escaped the flattery of our prolonged sojourn. We ambled, we paused, almost we dallied with the butterflies lazily afloat over the meadow-sweet and cow-parsley beside the line; we exchanged gossip with station-masters, and received the congratulations of signalmen on the extraordinary spell of fine weather. It did not matter. Three market-women, a pedlar, and a local policeman made up with me the train’s complement of passengers. I gathered that their business could wait; and as for mine–well, a Norman porch is by this time accustomed to waiting.

I will not deny that in the end I dozed at intervals in my empty smoking compartment; but wish to make it clear that I came on the Vision (as I will call it) with eyes open, and that it left me staring, wide-awake as Macbeth.

Let me describe the scene. To the left of the line as you travel westward there lies a long grassy meadow on a gentle acclivity, set with three or four umbrageous oaks and backed by a steep plantation of oak saplings. At the foot of the meadow, close alongside the line, runs a brook, which is met at the meadow’s end by a second brook which crosses under the permanent way through a culvert. The united waters continue the course of the first brook, beside the line, and maybe for half a mile farther; but, a few yards below their junction, are partly dammed by the masonry of a bridge over which a country lane crosses the railway; and this obstacle spreads them into a pool some fifteen or twenty feet wide, overgrown with the leaves of the arrow-head, and fringed with water-flags and the flowering rush.

Now I seldom pass this spot without sparing a glance for it; first because of the pool’s still beauty, and secondly because many rabbits infest the meadow below the coppice, and among them for two or three years was a black fellow whom I took an idle delight in recognising. (He is gone now, and his place knows him no more; yet I continue to hope for sight of a black rabbit just there.) But this afternoon I looked out with special interest because, happening to pass down the line two days before, I had noted a gang of navvies at work on the culvert; and among them, as they stood aside to let the train pass, I had recognised my friend Joby Tucker, their ganger, and an excellent fellow to boot.

[RedGemAlchemist]

 

Another short snippet of life on the KLR for you, and again it's beyond the pre-grouping timeframe. Issue with doing pre-grouping KLR stuff is that up until 1919 when Peter arrived the KLR only had 2 locomotives. This one is kind of a follow-on from "Newcomer", and is literally what Bulldog and Peter were discussing. So let's cast our minds back to the time between the wars, to the glorious days of 1935. Three of the engines featured in this story are no longer with the KLR: No.2 Pointer which was destroyed in 1940 when Elmtree Heath's original station was hit by a German bomb intended for Elmtree airfield; No.5 Denholme in my mind was sold in 1938 and the remainder of its story I shall leave for sem or Edwardian to sort out; and No.7 Goblin was scrapped in 1962.

So, here is the introduction of a KLR stalwart.

 

 

The Suffolker

 

It is a bright mid-July afternoon at Berkham Yard on the Kelsby Light Railway in 1935. Bulldog is sat in the front of the workshops mid-overhaul, along with a near-identical 0-4-0 tank engine (Pointer). Sat in a siding a little way away is a small Alexander Chaplin & Co. vertical-boiler 0-4-0 tank engine owned by the works painted in matt black (Goblin). Peter is slowly making his way into the yard with a small track repair train.

 

Peter: Comes to a slow stop in a siding near Goblin. Track crew, on site!

Goblin: Mid-laugh. Ye dinnae need tae tell us that, laddie, we cae see that!

Peter: Nowt wrong wi' bein' farmal, Gobbo.

Goblin: Bein' "proper"'s one thin' but talken lahk some'n stuck a stick down yer stack is sum'n else entirely.

Workman: Play nice, Goblin.

Goblin: I wisnae say'n nuttin' that a'body else weren't a'ready thinkin'.

Bulldog, Pointer and Peter in unison: Shut up, Gobbo!

Goblin: Ye nae fun nae moor.

Pointer: No, jes yer a -

Workman: Language, Pointer.

Goblin: Laughs. Best ye cool ye'self lassie, 'fer ye break summat!

Pointer: What? Think I can't give'a good s'I get jas becoss I'm a woman?

Bulldog: Pointer, hold yew hard. Yew shoul'nt let that sorft Scottish prat get to yew like that.

Goblin: Who ye call'n soft ye stupid -

 

Goblin is cut off by a blast of a very loud whistle as a colossal modified LNER Q4 0-8-0 heavy goods engine arrives on the edge of the yard.

 

Denholme: Gangway!

Bulldog: Hello Den!

Denholme: Ey up!

Pointer: 'Nother dumper, Den?

Denholme: As allas, sadly. Rilly narking me now. We'll be running aht room this rate.

Peter: Roll 'em in Den. Shud Four's empty.

Denholme: O'right. Got warn you though, bit of bad job here. Fill rilly sorry for'm. Wou'nt gawp t'much when tarp's orf. In't pretty. He bit sens'tive baht it. Needless say it'll take them while fettle this one.

 

The massive engine rolls into one of the several empty bays in the workshops. He is pushing another works van and a flatbed with two tarpaulin-covered lumps on it.

 

Goblin: Well, it cannae be that bad.

 

The workmen pull the tarpaulin off. Underneath it is a rather mangled looking LNER B12.

A pause.

 

Goblin: Or mebbe it can.

B12: Hello? Any'n there? B*gger'd if Oi ken see...

Pointer: Aw, Gawd, it's a damn Sarffalker...

Goblin: 'sif havin' a Yoorkshireman weren't bad 'nuff... Still, more stuff for the railway t'sell once they fence Den.

Denholme: Shet yer hoaming ye addled prat. Just bout stalled with tha. To the B12. Don't tha listen Gobbo's blether. They been trying sell me for years, still ain't got there yet. Denholme uncouples and starts to roll away. Anyway, got get back work. Ballast wagons ain't moving selves. See tha back Kelsby Pete.

Peter: See yew this evening, Den.

 

Denholme leaves. Peter turns his attention to the B12.

 

Peter: So, dumper. Welcome t'Narfalk.

Goblin: Thought this's Cambridgeshire?

Peter: If or. What's yer name, bor?

B12: Ain't got one yet. Oi'm just 1571 at t'moment. Think they migh' be callin' me Wild Rover though, so that'll hatter dew.

Bulldog: Rover t'is then.

 

 

I'm sorry for the sort of non-ending to the story. These are less self-contained stories really and more just snippets from the "lives" of these engines. I apologise for this terrible abuse of storytelling convention. Although I also just didn't know how to end the story anyway.

Also I apologise again for the abuse of various accents, particularly Bulldog, Pointer and Peter's Norfolk accents and especially Denholme's Yorkshire accent.

Edited April 10, 2018 by RedGemAlchemist

[sem34090]

I am most afraid to point 'hout, good sir, that it appears that some grave historical inaccuracy has been made hair!

 

This point es quite simpley thet the 'W end S R' did nort h'eggsist by the time h'ov your storee! H'it was h'absorbed hinto the Souvern Reelway h'in nine-teen twentee threeeee.

 

As such, mey I surgist thet you altur your story.

 

Kindeest Reegards,

 

Brigadier Arthur Gormanstrop (Mrs)

 

This was an attempt to write in a particular type of posh Southern accent... I apologise...

[RedGemAlchemist]

I am most afraid to point 'hout, good sir, that it appears that some grave historical inaccuracy has been made hair!

 

This point es quite simpley thet the 'W end S R' did nort h'eggsist by the time h'ov your storee! H'it was h'absorbed hinto the Souvern Reelway h'in nine-teen twentee threeeee.

 

As such, mey I surgist thet you altur your story.

 

Kindeest Reegards,

 

Brigadier Arthur Gormanstrop (Mrs)

 

This was an attempt to write in a particular type of posh Southern accent... I apologise...

Thanks for the heads up. This has since been corrected.

Also, is that another Monty Python reference I see...?

Edited April 9, 2018 by RedGemAlchemist

[sem34090]

Thank you...

 

WELL DONE!!!

[sem34090]

Another piece dug out from the archives of my laptop: a rather dodgy piece in which most of the main characters were set to have their names nicked from Locomotive Superintendents and the chase, as yet unrevealed was to involve all four of the SR's Belles. I don't think this was feasible pre-WWII at any rate. The plot was also set to link the Belles with other things... quite what I can't remember!

THE FOUR BELLES

CHAPTER 1

Victoria Station, London, October 1938

The early morning sunlight burst through the smoky glass panes of the train-shed roof as the ‘Night Ferry’ from Paris eased into platform 7. The occupants alighted, slowly at first, as many had only recently awoken. Although a warm, sunny, day the steam from various locomotives presented a form of eternal fog underneath the station roof. The rays streaming through the roof didn’t lighten the station as much as they only caught the steam as it curled up to the roof.

The last passenger alighted, dressed in a reasonably long over-coat, a hat of the fashion of a few years previously, all over a fresh black suit. He stood on the platform for a while until the train departed, before making his way round to platform 13. He waited as the Umber and Cream electric Pullman clattered in from Battersea, then boarded the car named ‘Audrey’.

-

Mr Wainwright settled himself down for breakfast at a four-berth table, and awaited an attendant. He could be relied upon to always be on board the 9 o’clock Brighton Belle. One of ‘Audrey’s’ attendants slid forward and offered Mr Wainwright the ornate menu listing breakfast. Having no need for such a thing (for he had travelled the service since 1919) he merely requested, in a rather presumptuous tone, ‘The usual’.

A little before ‘the Belle’ glided out of Victoria, his breakfast arrived (His ‘usual’ being a Full English, ‘but without the eggs please’.) and satisfied his hunger soon after Purley. By the time the train had passed Redhill, he had settled down to his work, and was deep in thought by Haywards Heath.

-

Brighton, October 1938

Mr Wilson leant against the railings. He had been here for over an hour, and still: nothing. He waited for a while longer before heading back into the murky underworld of Trafalgar Street, pausing to light a cigarette, before casually wandering back.

He barely had opportunity to lean again before the phone rang, and in an instant he was inside the box and had picked up the receiver. Wainwright had left London 15 minutes ago, and was on the 9.00 departure.

Wilson replaced the receiver, and strode into the booking office and purchased a platform ticket.

-

As the train coasted through Preston Park, Mr Wainwright placed the documents and the parcel back into his briefcase, adjusted his attire, put on his overcoat and applied his hat.

The train drew smoothly into platform 4 at Brighton, Wainwright alighted promptly and headed for the booking office. He requested the clerk for a through ticket to Portsmouth Harbour, before heading back out: this time for platform 2, where he boarded a Bognor Regis train, and took his seat (first class, of course.) and awaited departure time. Soon after, the unit drifted effortlessly out of Brighton, and swung west onto the coast line.

-

Wilson observed Mr Wainwright’s departure from the ‘down Belle’, and monitored him as he purchased his ticket. He watched as he boarded the outbound train, before leaving the station and returned to the telephone box. He put a penny in the slot, pressed the ‘A’ button, picked up the receiver, and called the operator. He waited a few seconds, then requested “Worthing 114 please, Miss. Thank You.”.

Wilson made his way back into the station once more, purchased a ticket for Worthing Central, and boarded the next train out along the coast.

-

Worthing (Central) Railway Station, 1938

Hodge replaced the receiver and strolled into the musty booking hall. He loitered for a while, before purchasing a Bognor ticket and heading onto platform 3. He had been told to wait for the 10:40 arrival from Brighton, before joining the front carriage, second compartment. There, there would be a man opposite holding a briefcase. He knew no more than that, other than that a man had offered to pay him ten pounds in hard cash for the ‘job’.

-

Mr Wainwright merely clasped his briefcase and looked out of the window as the train crossed the river Adur, glistening in the mid-autumn sun. The train slowed for the stop at Shoreham Airport Halt, stopped for all of 10 seconds, before continuing its journey. Having not much to do he picked up a bedraggled newspaper on the seat beside him.

“Mr Chamberlain Declares “It Is Peace In Our Time”” the Daily Herald proclaimed.

[sem34090]

This was before I got interested in Southern Electrics!

[choo1choo]

Viz a viz the Belle and rough riding. As a regular patron in the years leading up to it's sad withdrawal I can assure you that the ride was akin to a cross channel ferry in a Force 10!  Nearly enough to throw you and your G&T across the carriage. Happy days!

 

Apologies about mentioning the E word.

[sem34090]

     Southern electrics?

 

     Southern... electrics?!

 

     Wash your mouth out young man, and to bed with you with no coal or water!

That's why I wrote it like this!

 

Sorry Miss, Never again Miss!

 

Are these allowed though, Miss?

[Compound2632]

Have you seen Frankland?

[Compound2632]

     Sadly all of the photos were hosted on Photobucket and so they can't be seen, though I'll look and see if there's anything of interest.

 

     Alex

 

Look for the newsreel-style video clips - works of art in themselves.

[Regularity]

The Brighton electrics have a charm all of their own, yet seem to be a forgotten subject for modelling, which is a shame.

(Not my particular interest, although I would happily spend several hours at an exhibition ogling a decent model of this scheme.)

[sem34090]

I plan, one day, to build a layout somehow showing Brighton Overheads and LNWR/District/Met 4th Rail. Probably in 3mm... for various reasons...

[Stubby47]

With apologies to Sir John Betjeman & 2Manyspams...

 

When melancholy April comes to Staplegrove
And pasties and pies are heated on the stove
The poplars near the hall are a dancing sunlight grove,
With their swish and swish they form a treasure trove,
Where the sound of little breakers
Spreading out along the surf-line
When the estuary's filling
In the cove.

 

 

Then Pencarrow-on-the-Hill's a rocky island
And Pencarrow churchyard full of sailor's graves
And the constant chuff and grunting of the pannier as it's shunting
Is the level of the Camel turned to waves
And the rumble of the railway
Is the thunder of the rollers
As they gather for the plunging
Into caves

 

There's a storm cloud to the westward over Newquay,
There's a line of harbour lights at Perivale,
Is it rounding rough Pentire in a flood of sunset fire
The little fleet of trawlers under sail?
Can those boats be only roof tops
As they stream along the skyline
In a race for port and Padstow
With the gale?

 

On the platform of the station, Bodmin North
Is a ring of ancient mystery and lore
Was it put there by the Beast as it travelled from the east
Heading for the lee of the grain store?
Who will ever know the truth ?
Will the circle ever fade?
But maybe it will last for
Evermore.

  

[Tom Burnham]

Oh well, if it's a question of Betjeman pastiche, 20-odd years ago I came across a reference in his collected Letters (21 April 1944) to a journey on the K&ESR to visit George Barnes at Prawls, near Wittersham.  JB wrote "The Kent and East Sussex was rather cold but very beautiful.  They did not take my ticket at Headcorn."  As the scenery of the Headcorn Extension didn't seem to have inspired JB's muse, I ventured to fill the gap:

 

Shivering in a first-class carriage

Of the eleven twenty train

Sits JB on faded moquette,

On his way to town again.

 

Church bells ring from great St Mildred's

(Rebuilt in eighteen sixty-four),

Then the ancient engine whistles,

The green flag's waved and shut the door.

 

Faded signs pass by the window,

Suttons Seeds and Eiffel Tower.

As the train sets off for Headcorn

He hears the clock strike the half hour,

And to him the church bell calls.

"Come back again to us at Prawls."

[sem34090]

Not railway related, but set within the world of Castle Aching. A rather poor description of a lighthouse. Probably technically incorrect on many details!

 

Small segments of glass, each exactly formed, subtly and silently spin upon a bed of mercury throughout day and night – each throwing a powerful beam through the battered and stained windows. Their cast iron frame embracing and protecting that vital lamp, quietly hissing to itself as it burns its way through its tank of paraffin, sending a yellow glow and a pungent odour in all directions. The tiny panes of glass, marvels of engineering in their day, collectively, spread the light to the world to warn of potential peril. Though the waves come charging into shore like a hunt to a fox, or a pair of jockeys towards the finish of a race, the lamp remains stable: a constant presence across the seascape.

They are attended to by the keeper, who shuffles up the spiral to refill the lamp each day, to maintain that constant, and to rewind the clockwork that keeps the lenses turning sedately. A flash three times a minute, four down at Birchoverham and five up at Wilson’s Point, a row of blinking lights along the coastline, fighting against the raging sea armed only with light, and battling the fog with sound alone. Having refilled the tank, the keeper moves over to the windows and gazes seawards. Though the waves are angry and the rocks deadly to any mariner, there is a certain beauty as the hunt comes charging after its rocky fox and the horses rise up against the shore to disappear into the air. The keeper sees these waves night after night as they gallop out of the Atlantic and meet their end, but the beauty of the sight is never twice the same; the images forming in his mind constantly unique. One night the waves will become a big cat pouncing onto its prey, or hundreds of watery volcanoes erupting consecutively.

[tomparryharry]

With apologies to Sir John Betjeman & 2Manyspams...

 

When melancholy April comes to Staplegrove

And pasties and pies are heated on the stove

The poplars near the hall are a dancing sunlight grove,

With their swish and swish they form a treasure trove,

Where the sound of little breakers

Spreading out along the surf-line

When the estuary's filling

In the cove.

 

pencarrow_ring.png

 

Then Pencarrow-on-the-Hill's a rocky island

And Pencarrow churchyard full of sailor's graves

And the constant chuff and grunting of the pannier as it's shunting

Is the level of the Camel turned to waves

And the rumble of the railway

Is the thunder of the rollers

As they gather for the plunging

Into caves

 

There's a storm cloud to the westward over Newquay,

There's a line of harbour lights at Perivale,

Is it rounding rough Pentire in a flood of sunset fire

The little fleet of trawlers under sail?

Can those boats be only roof tops

As they stream along the skyline

In a race for port and Padstow

With the gale?

 

On the platform of the station, Bodmin North

Is a ring of ancient mystery and lore

Was it put there by the Beast as it travelled from the east

Heading for the lee of the grain store?

Who will ever know the truth ?

Will the circle ever fade?

But maybe it will last for

Evermore.

 

There be giants in Pencarrow,

with visions far away from sea,

where giants meet, and tell tall tales,

and leave a giant ring of tea.

Edited May 2, 2018 by tomparryharry

[Ravenser]

Oh well, if it's a question of Betjeman pastiche, 20-odd years ago I came across a reference in his collected Letters (21 April 1944) to a journey on the K&ESR to visit George Barnes at Prawls, near Wittersham.  JB wrote "The Kent and East Sussex was rather cold but very beautiful.  They did not take my ticket at Headcorn."  As the scenery of the Headcorn Extension didn't seem to have inspired JB's muse, I ventured to fill the gap:

 

 

 

 

A slight tweak (I'm a chronic reviser, sorry ....)

 

Safe in fading first-class carriage

Of the ancient local train

Sits a man 'mid faded moquette,

Travelling up to town again.

 

Church bells ring from Great St Mildred's

(Restored in eighteen sixty-four),

Then the wheezing engine whistles:

Wave the flag and shut the door.

 

Faded signs pass by the windows,

Suttons Seeds and Eiffel Tower.

As the train puffs off to Headcorn

Hear the church clock strike the hour,

And to him the tolling bell calls:

"Meet again beside St Pauls."

Edited May 2, 2018 by Ravenser

[sem34090]

I decided to actually try writing a story set around the thing which developed over on CA and was reposted here:

 

“This was going to be a terrible day, one of those days when it’s best to stay in bed because everything is going to turn out bad.”

“Yes, we gathered as such – your being here exemplifies that point perfectly!”

“I think we all know that I did not intend to be here, Sir.”

 

The room was unusually warm for winter, with thin beads of sweat resting gently on the foreheads of each of the men sat around the small mahogany table, and condensation forming upon the small windows that were situated towards the ceiling. The walls were tiled, in the by-now familiar institutional style, and besides the table, four chairs and a desk in the corner the room was empty and somewhat oversized for the function it was generally used for. At the desk, on one of the rudimentary wooden chairs, sat a WPC who had been taking notes of the proceedings. On her side of the table sat the local chief inspector and the deputy chief constable, who had been called down to Norwich due to the profile of the case. The undoubted suspect of the case was sat opposite them: seventy one year-old Arthur O’doolight, arrested two days previously for a series of crimes and mis-deeds going back half a century.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Paltry Circus, South East London, 1905

 

“O’doolight!”

Mr Nearholmer exclaimed as he entered the chairman’s office at the works of the Metropolitan pyramid company to meet with his friend of many years.

“Take a seat, Nearholmer. Perhaps the one to the right of the hearth?”

The visitor took his place as indicated by the businessman…

[St Enodoc]

     Here's an idea for some of you to ponder on:

 

     Is the B.F.G. an allegory for Cold War Superpower relations?

 

     The B.F.G himself could well be the Soviet Union, specifically Gorbachev, with the Queen representing the Commonwealth, Sophie is Western Europe and the other Giants are anthropomorphous members of the Soviet Union who give the USSR a bad image. Our title character teaches himself to read and seemingly is reaching out for companionship and to be of use to people, especially children; he is providing them with good dreams, a bright future, just as Gorbachev did with introducing the Glasnost policies in the '80s. Banned literature was allowed once more in libraries and schools, more courses were made available, as well as the ability to experience cultures and countries that weren't Soviet; Moscow received Russia's first McDonald's in 1990, for example.

 

     The military representatives could be said to be Reagan, who strongly disliked Gorbachev and was investing heavily in the military industrial complex, the pinnacle of which was possibly the Star Wars project; the USSR couldn't compete with that level of militancy and thus has been portrayed in the B.F.G. as largely being stupid, barbaric and man-eating Giants. The B.F.G. himself is the 'new' Soviet image, one of civility and becoming educated, being social and wanting to fight against the image of the past.

 

    Just a thought- Alex.  

Nice thoughts Alex but Professor Google tells me that The B.F.G. was published in 1982 whereas Gorbachev didn't come to power until 1988.

[Nearholmer]

SEM

 

Given that the first WPC wasn't sworn in until sometime during WW1, 1915 I think, and that Mr O'Doolite was born c1830 (possible a year or two earlier), your dates don't work out correctly. He must be at least 85.

 

And, unless this is someone different, his given name was Theophillus. At the date of his birth, the name Arthur was associated with The Duke of Wellington, who, despite the catholic emancipation acts, Mr O'Doolite Senior regarded very dimly.

 

K

Edited May 3, 2018 by Nearholmer

[sem34090]

Ah, you see the WPC is in 1955, so she is permitted.

 

His age and given name will be sorted! As his closest companion I am sure you will be able to find any flaws with his characterisation...

[Nearholmer]

So, this Arthur is the son for Theophillus? Or, Theophillus has survived for well over a century?

[sem34090]

It would have to be his son then, who is rarely mentioned but did much work for his Father's criminal arrangements...

[RedGemAlchemist]

     Ah I should've remembered that from my A Levels! Never mind, I'm sure I could still make the idea work if I left Gorby out.

 

 - Alex

I actually still have all of my old GCSE and A-Level English Lit essays. Most of them still really hold up. My analysis of Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby particularly.