The Pre-Grouper's Literary Corner

[sem34090]

There was a young driver from Worthing,

Who had moved from the GWR: Farthing,

Where he met a Danishman: Mikkel,

Who gave him an awful tickle,

When he said "I'm modelling Farthing".

 

Why not include RMweb members?

 

There was a lawyer named James,

Who really did like to play games,

But now he's back,

Building copper-clad track,

After everyone cried 'Go on James!'.

[Andy Kirkham]

My translation of Theodor Fontane's Die Brücke am Tay http://www.literaturwelt.com/werke/fontane/tay.html

 

“When shall we three meet again?”

“On the central pier in the driven rain.”

“At the seventh hour “

“I’ll quench the flame.”

“I too”.

“I’ll come from the north”, said she.

“And I from the south.”

“And I from the sea.”

 

“We’ll make a ring o’roses round

And bridge shall be smashed and dashed and drowned.”

“And the train, that ventures into view

At the seventh hour?”

“That too.”

“That too.”

Trinkets, trash!

Man’s handiwork is dust and ash.”

 

From the watchman’s lodge on the northern side,

Where the outlook is southerly, over the tide,

They keep their vigil and vainly explore

With restless eyes the southern shore.

Waiting and watching, straining to spy

The light that signals: “Here come I!”

The storm may rage; it shall rage in vain!

“Here come I, the Edinburgh train.”

 

Says the watchman: Look! I can see a light

On the yonder shore. It will be all right!

Don’t fear now! Our Johnnie is longing to see

The candles on the Christmas tree.

So Mother, let’s light up the ones that remain

And celebrate Christmas all over again!

We’ll all be together twice this year

And in just ten minutes he’ll be here.

 

And it was the train, on the seventh hour

Thundering on by the southern tower.

Says Johnnie: “Now the bridge is near,

But whatever the weather, we’ve nothing to fear.

A sturdy boiler, a good head of steam.

Together we’ll make an unbeatable team.

Let it wrestle and rage and rant – we won’t stop.

We’ll battle the weather and come out on top.

 

Our bridge is the pride of these modern days

And I laugh to think back on our old-fashioned ways

On the perils and pains of being afloat

On that miserable old ferry boat.

How many a precious Christmas Eve

I spent in the ferry-house, longing to leave,

And gazed at the lights of home in despair,

And counted, and yearned to be over there.

 

From the watchman’s lodge on the northern side,

Where the outlook is southerly, over the tide,

They keep their vigil and vainly explore

With restless eyes the southern shore.

Then the wind redoubled its furious cry,

And a fireball suddenly burst from the sky

With an awful glow that seemed to ignite

The waters beneath… Then only the night.

 

“When shall we three meet again?”

“At midnight, in the driven rain.

By the alder stump on the blasted plain.”

“I’ll come.”

“I too”

“I’ll number the souls, said she”.

“I’ll name them.”

“I’ll tell of the agony.”

“Hei!

How it shattered and fell from the sky!”

Trinkets! trash!

Man’s handiwork is dust and ash.”

[sem34090]

Interesting find there!

 

Are you tempted to enter?! You'd probably get further than many of us. I may enter, we'll see.

[sem34090]

Hmmm... I remember reading an online piece about that, and how (although interpreted by many as 'the engines were all male, and they're in charge') it could be interpreted that the male characters often made mistkes and were generally helped/saved by the Female ones! And that the Female characters (often coaches) demanded respect and the Male characters (the engines) paid for it later if they didn't!

 

As for it being racist, I can understand where people get that from, but the engines are all shown to be British designs, and the face colours vary from each illustration to the next! I suppose it's one of those things that, looking back, could be seen as racist, but in all actuality the matter probably didn't even enter the R. W. Awdry's thoughts when he penned the series, not out of distinct hatred for anyone, but out of the time in which they were penned. The first books came about in the 1940's, before the first wave of immigration, primairily from the Carribbean.

 

Class is a bit more obvious, with the 'mainline' engines looking down upon industrial ones, but seemingly having respect for narrow gauge ones! 

 

Political Subtext... that'll be an interesting one! See how many TTTE (TV Series) fans you can upset whilst you're at it...  some of them (from youtube experience!) seem incapable of growing up, to put it simply!

 

I've just rambled about a children's series that I'm not even writing about. Oh dear.

[Regularity]

I have a 1967 reprint of the book about Henry. In the story about Henry’s “sneeze”, current versions say the boys ran home as black as soot.

Not so in the original, nor in the reprint. They ran home “as black as n1ggers”.

 

Now, I am in no way claiming that the late reverend was intentionally racist, as in the 1940s/early 50s, this was a term in general use within large parts of white culture, but surely an educated man of the cloth would (or should?) have been aware that the term was offensive to those it described? Or maybe the Church of England really was the religion of Empire?

 

That said, my mother has an old “Tiger Tim” annual from the late 1940s, which includes a cartoon strip called “Policeman Pete”. So far, so ok, but the subtitle is “de Calypso Copper”, and there follows a series of drawings of what can only be described as upright chimpanzees with thick lips, saying things like, “Dat am kind”! I have never seen any evidence that this had a detrimental effect on my mother, who is just about the least judgemental person I have ever known, but it is hardly a surprise that her generation and those soon after grew up to make “monkey chants” and throw bananas on the pitch at football matches, something I first encountered in my pre-teen years in the 1970s. I didn’t get it: we had a black winger who was the star of the team, yet a phalanx of our fans would do this whenever a visiting team’s black player got the ball. That must have been a real strain on Derrick Christie, but they carried on.

 

I think that any racism, classism, etc, in children’s books reflects the standards of the era, much as many x-rated films of the time would now attract a PG rating, and are shown on daytime TV.

 

In the case of the Rev. Awdry, I am slightly disappointed, though. There is a moralistic tone in many of the stories - my children find them patronising - which is perhaps not surprising from a churchman, but he did not at the same time extend this preachiness to treating all people with equal respect, which as far as I can see, if you remove the references to God, is what Jesus was all about.

 

Edit: Alex, if you would like copies of these pages in support of your essay, let me know. Feel free to pinch anything above, too.

Edited January 20, 2018 by Regularity

[Poggy1165]

Rev. Awdry certainly believed in a natural hierarchy. If you were a good boy and did as you were told, rewards would follow. If you were a bad boy and rebelled or were stubborn, you would be punished. Deeply political and not even subtle.

 

The odd thing is, Jesus was not a good boy who did as he was told. At least, not in relation to the authorities on earth.

[Edwardian]

It is clearly more nuanced than a basic sexist dichotomy - locomotives are boys and the coaches they pull around are girls - Annie and Clarabelle are essentially satirical caricatures of the sort of genteel 'maiden aunts' that still abounded at the time and no doubt in Awdry's social milieu, and theirs was a type that featured often in popular culture.

 

See Hinge and Bracket.

[Regularity]

It is clearly more nuanced than a basic sexist dichotomy - locomotives are boys and the coaches they pull around are girls - Annie and Clarabelle are essentially satirical caricatures of the sort of genteel 'maiden aunts' that still abounded at the time and no doubt in Awdry's social milieu, and theirs was a type that featured often in popular culture.

 

A description more appropriate for the narrow gauge coaches pulled by Skarloey and Rheneas, I think - the former even called them “dears”.

I always felt that Annie and Clarabel were a bit more schoolgirlish, and main line coaches in their twenties.

See Hinge and Bracket.

Possibly popular. But not I think in the sense of good.

[Regularity]

I hadn't realised I'd spark up a discussion regarding the possible subliminal messaging within the Railway Series!

 

I don’t think it was very subliminal, Alex!

But as for sparking up a discussion, in this part of the forum distractions are normal, tolerated and even encouraged!

Blimey, I don't think I'd like to share the other idea I have in mind for my dissertation...

Please do: we might enjoy the diversion.

[Ian Simpson]

This might be a useful source of inspiration for writers trying to capture the wordy flourishes of pre-Grouping fiction:

 

Putnam's Phrase Book (1921)

 

Whether you are scribbling SteamenginePunk, writing William Stroudley fan fiction or just finishing off The Mystery of Edwin Drood, I can confidently asseverate (q.v. Affirmation) that the struggling wordsmith will find food for abundant thought (q.v. Admonition) in this handy tome.

 

Originally designed to help interwar letter writers become more appropriately verbose, it will add a touch of class to any email message or work report.

May not be fully compatible with Twitter.  

Edited June 17, 2018 by Ian Simpson

[Ian Simpson]

The Railway Defective

 

Chapter 1 - In Which our Hero Attempts to Purchase Something to Read on the Train

 

It was the 1^st of November, 1848, when I arrived at the London and North Western Railway’s Euston terminus to discover that the well-known stationer Mr Smith had opened the first-ever newspaper kiosk at a railway station. A long line of my fellow-passengers was already waiting for cabs to travel onwards across London, and the boat train would not leave the London Bridge station for another two hours. So I sauntered over to the new stall and requested a copy of the latest Railway Magazine so that I could calculate how much I had lost on my railroad shares this week.

 

Bill Smith was most apologetic, but he could not assist me.

 

- I’m sorry, Mr S, but the Luddites have smashed up Mr Herapath’s printing press again. Can I offer you a copy of the Newcastle and South Shields Weekly Advertiser, incorporating the Mineowner’s Gazette instead? It has just arrived on the express mail from Crewe, so it is but three days past its publication date …

 

Browsing idly through what Mr Smith referred to as the Chick Lit section of his stall, I picked up Miss Brontë’s latest book. Now I have a terrible habit when I read fine literature; I always turn to the back first, to find out who committed the murder. So you can imagine my surprise when I turned to the final chapter in this tome and read: “Reader, I married him.” I was so astounded that I barely registered the over-familiarity of the authoress’s tone towards me.

 

- Look here, Smith, I protested, what's this nonsense about Miss Brontë having married this Rochester fellow? After all, Miss Brontë, dontcha know …

 

- Ah, I understand your confusion, Mr S, said Smith smoothly. You see, this is what we in the book trade call “fiction”. It describes events that never actually took place. I have another version under the counter that employs an alternative verb at this point, aimed at the more sophisticated adult reader, if you get my drift …

 

- Dash it, I spluttered (for I can be a bit foul-mouthed when I am confused), you mean to say this is all … fake news?

 

- I assure you, the Novel is all the rage among the Bon Ton this year, Sir. Why, even poor Mr Disraeli is churning out his little potboilers like there’s no tomorrow.   

 

- Well, if our social betters are so keen on it, I’ll better take a copy, I conceded, because in the far-off days of my youth you could not go wrong by copying the aristocracy (unless of course you were in one of the many European countries holding a Revolution that year). I’ve got to get the boat to Calais tonight, Smith, so the journey will give me plenty of time to get my head around all this made-up malarky,

 

A look of consternation settled on Bill’s rotund, bewhiskered face.

 

- I beg your pardon, Sir, but do you mean that you will be travelling on the South-Eastern Railway?

 

He snatched the book back from my hands with every evidence of agitation.

 

- Forgive me, Sir, but I am afraid this novel will be most unsuitable for your travelling requirements. For customers undertaking a journey on the South-Eastern line, we always recommend a Three Volume novel !

Edited May 25, 2018 by Ian Simpson

[Ian Simpson]

I’m not saying Ch-rl-s D-ck-ns was a creepy old man, but in his railway journalism he did report striking up conversations with charming young French women sitting opposite him with alarming regularity. Surely, I thought, not everyone would have had such pleasant companions on the Dover train, especially in a year of revolutionary turmoil…

 

Chapter 2 – On The Boat Train

 

At London Bridge I selected a First Class compartment near the front of the boat train. After all, I thought, the South-Eastern never checks your ticket in the rush hour.

 

 - So I’ll just tip all these heavy books in here next to you, Sir, said the porter, mopping his brow theatrically and pointing towards a trolley laden with the Collected Works of Mr Dickens. Even in 1848 this was a depressingly large pile of literature, but Mr Smith had been most insistent that I travel fully prepared for any mishaps including inappropriate leaves on the line.

 

- ‘Course, this kind of vurk vould be a lot easier with a box for carryin' all of them books, Sir, he continued with a meaningful cough.

 

The thought of having to read Barnaby Rudge probably made my response a bit more acerbic than usual.

 

- A box?! I roared. You’re lucky I don’t box your ears, you rogue!  Mr Bradshaw was most insistent that the South-Eastern Company strictly prohibits its servants from accepting gratuities from its passengers.

 

The fellow gave me a grotesque wink.

 

- Dun’t you go a-vurryin’ yorself about yor kindness landin’ me in no trouble, cully, he volunteered. I can alluys put it through the books as hexpenses.   

 

Minutes later we were hurtling through the outermost suburbs of the great metropolis (New Cross, to be exact). I glanced at the Frenchman sitting opposite me, engrossed in his own enviably slim tome. It was called “The Communist Manifesto”.

 

He saw me looking at the cover, and smiled.

 

- Are you Woke, mon ami? he enquired.

 

- Actually my eyelids are drooping a bit, I admitted, pointing to the pile of Dickens novels. This fiction is dashed fatiguing, don’t you find?

 

- No, I mean do you believe in the inherent dignity and value of all persons as rational beings, regardless of such accidents of naissance as nationality, race, sex, pedigree and wealth? Do you agree the imperative need for the oppressed masses to overthrow this corrupt ancient regime with all its manifest cruelties and injustices? Do you yearn for that progressive march of society that will end the tyranny of privilege and private property and sweep the current evils of poverty, ignorance, and misery from the face of the earth?

 

- Well, I replied hesitantly, fearing he was about to ask me to pledge regular donations to some philanthropic organisation, I suppose I’ve always believed in being nice to people …

 

- Nice to peeple?  Pah, Chartism! he scowled. That is zo 1830s! I refer of course to Revolution!

 

- You’re a d-----d Radical? I screamed in horror. Guard! GUARD!!

 

He grinned unpleasantly.

 

- There is no guard on this train, you fool! This line is One Person Operation – the pauvre driver he must also do the firing and walk along the platform at every station unlocking and re-locking the carriage doors. Non, bricon, it is just me, the revolutionary Avenger of the Masses  ... and you, the lickspittle agent of the exploitative bourgeoise. And of course there is currently no method of summonsing assistance from other parts of the train by, oh, I don’t know, pulling a length of string or something. Hah, observe, we are about to enter a long tunnel! Oh, how I have prayed (to a rational, impersonal and dispassionate Deity) for this hour of revolutionary vengeance!

 

He rose menacingly from his seat.

 

- I noted how you ill-used that poor porter, villain …

 

- Hold on a minute, I said with a rare flash of insight. If you’re such a levelling sort of chap, what are you doing travelling in First Class? Don’t care much for the miasma of the labouring poor in the Stanhopes, I’ll be bound.            

 

- Eh? he replied. Ahh yes, well, umm – yes, it is all veery simple and quite in line with modern progressive thought. As Comrade Marx himself points out, in any revolutionary struggle between competing class interests Nothing is Too Good for the Workers!

 

(I later found out this wasn’t true. What Marx actually wrote was “Man is born free and is everywhere in trains”.)    

 

- Nonsense, I snapped, you’re as middling class as I am! You French hypocrite! Lecturing me about your extortionate bolognaise when all the time you’re one of them yourself. You’re reading a book for God’s sake! What’s working class about that?

 

He slumped back in his seat.

 

-  It is as you say, he sobbed. I see I am unmasked. My name, Sir, is Louis Blanqui, my father was a subprefect in Provence, in my youth I studied both medicine and law, and I am a journalist by trade. God, how I loathe myself and my privileged background! Even Engels calls me "posh boy" - and he hunts foxes!

 

- Pull yourself together, man, I said with some impatience, even if you are Gallic. Such relentless self-hatred and embittered resentment of the successful in society must surely inhibit your spiritual augmentation. To speak plainly, Sir, you need to lighten up and give yourself a bit more unconditional love. I know this stuff because the Morning Chronicle published a most excellent article on ten ways to cherish your inner hero last month. Here, have this copy of The Pickwick Papers. Apparently it should cheer you up, although Heaven knows why. Perhaps it’s something to do with the pictures.  

Edited January 1, 2019 by Ian Simpson

[Compound2632]

He's gone to make the Midland Great!

 

Humm, well. It already was. Perhaps he should have moved to Ireland earlier in his career for the Midland Great Western...

[sem34090]

There was Simon, who gave to charity,

And did so with great regularity,

To the Castle Aching Post,

Who did make the most,

Of his funds to improve their Clarity!

 

With my apologies to both Simon and James... I couldn't resist!

Edited January 30, 2018 by sem34090

[Stubby47]

Something penned this afternoon:

 

 Sat on the platform, on a cold, metal seat.
 Looking forwards to warmth, and something to eat.
 'Harry Patch' is in, soon to depart,
 Still serving his country, still playing his part.

 

  Brunel sits alone, surveying the scene.
 Hearing the whistles, watching them clean.
 The birds fly around, looking for food,
 The passengers bustle, trying not to be rude.

 

 Bicycles sit, row upon row,
 Tied to the racks with nowhere to go.
 A garbled voice forms the public address,
 A blue train glides in, the Heathrow Express.

 

 More trains come and go, it's busy, then hush,
 As people flock past, all in a rush.
 Above all of this, majestic and tall
 The Paddington arches, protecting us all.

[Edwardian]

Something penned this afternoon:

 

 Sat on the platform, on a cold, metal seat.

 Looking forwards to warmth, and something to eat.

 'Harry Patch' is in, soon to depart,

 Still serving his country, still playing his part.

 

  Brunel sits alone, surveying the scene.

 Hearing the whistles, watching them clean.

 The birds fly around, looking for food,

 The passengers bustle, trying not to be rude.

 

 Bicycles sit, row upon row,

 Tied to the racks with nowhere to go.

 A garbled voice forms the public address,

 A blue train glides in, the Heathrow Express.

 

 More trains come and go, it's busy, then hush,

 As people flock past, all in a rush.

 Above all of this, majestic and tall

 The Paddington arches, protecting us all.

 

Hat off to you for that one, Stubby.

[sem34090]

Indeed! Very nice work there.

 

James, also known as Edwardian,

Ran a thread that was quite antiquarian,

Known as Castle Aching to some,

And to many who'd come,

To marvel at the modelling, both modern and Victorian!

 

Another poor attempt at basic poetry from me...

[sem34090]

Like that a lot!

[sem34090]

I may need to do some writing soon...

[sem34090]

I posted this in the Hattons thread:

 

Stepney - Act 1, Scene 1

 

Steam and Whistles. enter three WAINWRIGHT P's.

 

Bluebell: When shall we P's meet again?

                 At Grinstead, Horsted or in Tenterden?

 

Primrose: When the Branch Line Gala's done - when 813 'as gone an' done one.

 

178: That will be 'ere the set of sun.

 

Bluebell: Where the place?

 

Primrose: At Horsted Keynes.

 

178: There to meet with Stepney.

 

Bluebell: I come, dear Sharpthorne!

 

Primrose: Foreman Calls.

 

178: Anon.

 

All: Steam is smoke and smoke is steam, head down the line from Horsted Keynes.

 

Exeunt 

 

Act 1, Scene 3

 

Steam. Enter the three WAINWRIGHT P's.

 

Bluebell: Where hast thou been, Sister?

 

Primrose: Killing Pheasants.

 

178: Sister, where thou?

 

Bluebell: A Maunsell U had coal in her tender

                And shovelled, and shovelled and shovelled.

                "Give me" quoth I:

                "Aroint thee, P!", the Coal-fed mogul cries.

                Her shedmate's to East Grinstead gone, loco o' the Wealden Rambler:

                But light engine I will thither approach, and like a 1400 without an autocoach

                I'll do, I'll do and I'll do.

 

Primrose: I'll give thee a fireman.

 

Bluebell: Thou'rt kind.

 

178: And I another.

 

Bluebell: And I myself have the driver.

                And via the blower air will flow,

                To draw the fire up, you know.

                 I the single line tablet.

                 I will drain the S15 dry as hay:

                 Steam shall neither night nor day,

                Hang upon his cylinder cocks;

                He shall live a loco, a c**k:

                Weary se'nnights nine times nine

                Shall he dwindle, cutting and bank:

                Though his wheels cannot be lost,

                yet they shall be tempest-toss'd.

                 Look what I have.

 

Primrose: Show me, show me.

 

Bluebell: Here I have a porter's thumb

                 Lost as trackwards he did come.

 

Whistle within

 

178: A whistle, a whistle! Stepney doth come.

 

All: The Wainwright P's, buffer in buffer (   ),

       Posters of the rail and land,

       Thus do go about, about:

       Thrice to thine and thrice to mine

       And thrice again to make up nine.

       Peace! The charm's wound up.

 

Enter STEPNEY and FENCHURCH

 

Stepney: So fair and foul a day I have not seen.

 

Fenchurch: How far'st it called to Grinstead? - What are these,

                    So green and so blue in their paintwork,

                    That look not like inhabitants o' the 'Brighton'

                    And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught

                    That A1 may question? You seem to understand me,

                    By each at once her smokebox dart laying upon her smokebox door:

                    You should be engines, and yet your small size forbids me to interpret

                    That you are so.

 

Stepney: Speak if you can: what are you?

 

Bluebell: All hail, Stepney! Hail to thee, Thane of Horsted!

 

Primrose: All hail, Stepney! Hail to thee, Thane of Grinstead!

 

178: All hail, Stepney, thou shalt be King hereafter!

 

Fenchurch: Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear

                     Things that do sound so fair? I' the name of truth,

                     Are ye fantastical, or that indeed

                     Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner

                     You greet with present grace and great prediction

                     Of noble having and of Royal hope,

                     That he seems rapt withal; to me you speak not.

                     If you can look into the seeds of time,

                     And say which grain will grow and which will not,

                     Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear

                     Your favours nor your hate.

 

Bluebell: Hail!

 

Primrose: Hail!

 

178: Hail!

 

Bluebell: Lesser than Stepney, and greater.

 

Primrose: Not so happy, yet much happier.

 

178: Thou shalt get kings though thou be none: So all hail, Stepney and Fenchurch!

 

Bluebell: Fenchurch and Stepney, all hail!

 

Stepney: Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more:

                By Waddon's death I know I am Thane of Horsted;

                But how of Grinstead? The Thane of Grinstead lives, 

                A prosperous Dukedog; and to be king

                Stands not within the prospect of belief,

                No more than to be Grinstead. Say from whence

                You owe this strange intelligence, or why

                Upon this blasted yard you stop our way

                With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.

 

Wainwright P's vanish

 

Fenchurch: The Earth has bubbles, as the water has,

                     And these are of them. Whither they are vanish'd?

 

Stepney: Into the air; and what seemed corporal melted

                As steam into the wind. Would they had stay'd!

 

Fenchurch: Were such things here as we do speak about?

                     Or have we been fired on the insane fuel

                     That takes all reason prisoner?

 

Stepney: Your pups shall be kings.

 

Fenchurch: You shall be king.

 

Stepney: And Thane of Grinstead too, went it not so?

 

Fenchurch: To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here?

 

Enter CAMELOT and BAXTER

[Edwardian]

I posted this in the Hattons thread:

 

Stepney - Act 1, Scene 1

 

Steam and Whistles. enter three WAINWRIGHT P's.

 

Bluebell: When shall we P's meet again?

                 At Grinstead, Horsted or in Tenterden?

 

Primrose: When the Branch Line Gala's done - when 813 'as gone an' done one.

 

178: That will be 'ere the set of sun.

 

Bluebell: Where the place?

 

Primrose: At Horsted Keynes.

 

178: There to meet with Stepney.

 

Bluebell: I come, dear Sharpthorne!

 

Primrose: Foreman Calls.

 

178: Anon.

 

All: Steam is smoke and smoke is steam, head down the line from Horsted Keynes.

 

Exeunt 

 

Act 1, Scene 3

 

Steam. Enter the three WAINWRIGHT P's.

 

Bluebell: Where hast thou been, Sister?

 

Primrose: Killing Pheasants.

 

178: Sister, where thou?

 

Bluebell: A Maunsell U had coal in her tender

                And shovelled, and shovelled and shovelled.

                "Give me" quoth I:

                "Aroint thee, P!", the Coal-fed mogul cries.

                Her shedmate's to East Grinstead gone, loco o' the Wealden Rambler:

                But light engine I will thither approach, and like a 1400 without an autocoach

                I'll do, I'll do and I'll do.

 

Primrose: I'll give thee a fireman.

 

Bluebell: Thou'rt kind.

 

178: And I another.

 

Bluebell: And I myself have the driver.

                And via the blower air will flow,

                To draw the fire up, you know.

                 I the single line tablet.

                 I will drain the S15 dry as hay:

                 Steam shall neither night nor day,

                Hang upon his cylinder cocks;

                He shall live a loco, a c**k:

                Weary se'nnights nine times nine

                Shall he dwindle, cutting and bank:

                Though his wheels cannot be lost,

                yet they shall be tempest-toss'd.

                 Look what I have.

 

Primrose: Show me, show me.

 

Bluebell: Here I have a porter's thumb

                 Lost as trackwards he did come.

 

Whistle within

 

178: A whistle, a whistle! Stepney doth come.

 

All: The Wainwright P's, buffer in buffer (   ),

       Posters of the rail and land,

       Thus do go about, about:

       Thrice to thine and thrice to mine

       And thrice again to make up nine.

       Peace! The charm's wound up.

 

Enter STEPNEY and FENCHURCH

 

Stepney: So fair and foul a day I have not seen.

 

Fenchurch: How far'st it called to Grinstead? - What are these,

                    So green and so blue in their paintwork,

                    That look not like inhabitants o' the 'Brighton'

                    And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught

                    That A1 may question? You seem to understand me,

                    By each at once her smokebox dart laying upon her smokebox door:

                    You should be engines, and yet your small size forbids me to interpret

                    That you are so.

 

Stepney: Speak if you can: what are you?

 

Bluebell: All hail, Stepney! Hail to thee, Thane of Horsted!

 

Primrose: All hail, Stepney! Hail to thee, Thane of Grinstead!

 

178: All hail, Stepney, thou shalt be King hereafter!

 

Fenchurch: Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear

                     Things that do sound so fair? I' the name of truth,

                     Are ye fantastical, or that indeed

                     Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner

                     You greet with present grace and great prediction

                     Of noble having and of Royal hope,

                     That he seems rapt withal; to me you speak not.

                     If you can look into the seeds of time,

                     And say which grain will grow and which will not,

                     Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear

                     Your favours nor your hate.

 

Bluebell: Hail!

 

Primrose: Hail!

 

178: Hail!

 

Bluebell: Lesser than Stepney, and greater.

 

Primrose: Not so happy, yet much happier.

 

178: Thou shalt get kings though thou be none: So all hail, Stepney and Fenchurch!

 

Bluebell: Fenchurch and Stepney, all hail!

 

Stepney: Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more:

                By Waddon's death I know I am Thane of Horsted;

                But how of Grinstead? The Thane of Grinstead lives, 

                A prosperous Dukedog; and to be king

                Stands not within the prospect of belief,

                No more than to be Grinstead. Say from whence

                You owe this strange intelligence, or why

                Upon this blasted yard you stop our way

                With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.

 

Wainwright P's vanish

 

Fenchurch: The Earth has bubbles, as the water has,

                     And these are of them. Whither they are vanish'd?

 

Stepney: Into the air; and what seemed corporal melted

                As steam into the wind. Would they had stay'd!

 

Fenchurch: Were such things here as we do speak about?

                     Or have we been fired on the insane fuel

                     That takes all reason prisoner?

 

Stepney: Your pups shall be kings.

 

Fenchurch: You shall be king.

 

Stepney: And Thane of Grinstead too, went it not so?

 

Fenchurch: To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here?

 

Enter CAMELOT and BAXTER

 

Excellent!

 

Though you've clearly got stuck in Shakespeare tunnel!

 

Not what you should be doing, though, is it?!?

 

[sem34090]

I am most sorry, James... it was completed during my 'offline period'...

[Edwardian]

I am most sorry, James... it was completed during my 'offline period'...

 

Glad you employed your time so well - but back to the grindstone for us both, I fear!

[sem34090]

The Saga doth continueth in 'The Sussex Play'...

 

Act 4 - Scene 1

 

The yard. In the middle, the ash pit.

 

Steam, Enter the three WAINWRIGHT P's.

 

Bluebell: Thrice the B4 Tank hath whistled.

 

Primrose: Thrice and once the block bells chimed. (ED. For the 'Wealden Rambler' was due to leave for Horsted, and it's an express. I know Sheffield Park is a terminus...)

 

178: Birch Grove cries 'Tis time, 'tis time.

 

Bluebell: Round about the ashpit go;

                In the boiler sludge throw.

                TOAD, that under cold stone

                Days and nights has the O-One

                Swelter'd diesel (sleeping git)

                Burn thou first i' the charmed pit.

 

All: Double, double toil and trouble;

       Firebox burn and Ashpit shovel.

 

Primrose: Fillet of some boiler plate,

                  In the ashpit melt and cremate;

                  Rod of H and buffer of U,

                  Bulleid Chain and Wainwright Flue,

                  Adams Bogie and a cylinder ring,

                  Drummond dome and the machine that goes 'ping',

                  For a charm of powerful trouble,

                  Like a hell ashpit, boil and shovel.

 

All: Double, double toil and trouble;

       Firebox burn and Ashpit shovel.

 

178: Green of Stroudley, wheel of Gooch,

        Stephen's Gazelle, Gresley's Pooch,

        Of the new-build Marsh Atlantic,

        The wheels begin turning frantic,

        Boxpoks of the stuffed Q1,

        Just so I can think of a pun,

        The nose of an A4, 

        A spanner left on the workshop floor,

        A fresh new Wainwright Pagoda cab,

        Dubdee outshopped in WD Drab,

        The tender from a Hughes-Fowler Crab,

        Add thereto a tiger's ashpit,

        For the ingredients of this sh*t.

 

All: Double, double toil and trouble;

       Firebox burn and Ashpit shovel.

 

Primrose: Cool it with the finest water.

                  Then test the charm o' the nearest Porter.

 

Enter HECATE (0-8-0T) to the three WAINWRIGHT P's.

 

Hecate: O well done! I commend your pains;

              And everyone shall share i' the gains;

              And now about the ashpit sing,

              Live Pecketts and Barclays all in a ring,

              Enchanting all that you put in.

 

Music and a song: 'Black Moguls' & C.

 

HECATE retires.

 

Primrose: By the clunking of my Buffers, (   )
                  Something wicked this way chuffers.

                  Open, points,

                  Whoever appoints!

 

Enter STEPNEY

 

Stepney: How now, you secret, green (and blue), and midnight tanks?

                What is't you do?

 

All: A deed without a name.

 

Stepney: I conjure you, by that which you profess,

                Howe'er you come to know it, answer me:

                Though you untie the jumbos and let them fight (ED: Them Caley 0-6-0's keep me up all the night!)

                Against the management, through yesty clouds,

                Confound and swallow trackwork up;

                Though bladed points be lodged and trees blown down;

                Though bridges topple on the signal heads;

                Though signal posts and lamps do slope

                Their heads to their foundations; though the treasures

                Of the C&W Workshop do tumble all together,

                Even till destruction stricken; answer me

                To what I ask you.

 

Bluebell: Speak.

 

Primose: Demand.

 

178: We'll answer.

 

Bluebell: Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths,

                Or from our masters?

 

Stepney: Call 'em, let me see 'em.

 

Bluebell: Pour in the porter's blood, that hath eaten

                His bacon sarnie; fat that's sweaten

                From the buffet's frying pan through

                Over the gas-ring stove.

 

All: Come, high or low;

       Thyself and office deftly show!

 

Steam. FIRST APPARITION: An armed tank (An ex-GER F5)

 

Stepney: Tell me, thou unknown power, --

 

Bluebell: He knows thy thought:

                Hear his speech, but say thou nought.

 

First Apparition: Stepney! Stepney! Stepney! beware the 'Duff.

                             Beware the Thane of Loughborough. Dismiss me. Enough.

Descends 

 

Stepney: Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks;

                Thou hast harp'd my fear aright: but one word more, --

 

Bluebell: He will not be commanded: here's another,

                More potent than the first.

 

Steam. SECOND APPARITION: Princess Anne (As met her end at Harrow)

 

Second Appartion: Stepney! Stepney! Stepney!

 

Stepney: Had I three ears, I'ld hear thee.

 

Second Apparition: Be bloody, bold and resolute; laugh to scorn

                                  The power of diesel, for none of Brush Works built

                                  Shall harm Stepney.

Descends

 

Stepney: Then live, Duff, what need I fear of thee?

                But yet I'll make assurance double sure,

                And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live;

                That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,

                And sleep in spite of thunder.

 

Steam. THIRD APPARITION: A Royal Engine (LBSCR B1 'Gladstone' ordained with royal regalia)

               

                What is this

                 That rises like the issue of a king,

                 And wears upon his smokebox door the crown

                 And garters of sovereignty?

 

All: Listen, but speak not to't.

 

Third Apparition: Be lion-mettled, proud and take no care

                              Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are:

                              Stepney shall never be vanquished until

                              Great Sharpthorne Tunnel to Sheffield Park

                              Shall come against him.

Descends

 

Stepney: That will never be

                Who can impress the tunnel, bid the brick

                Unfix its hill-bound wall? Sweet bodements! good!

                Rebellion's head, rise never till the tunnel

                Of Sharpthorne rise, and our high-placed Stepney

                Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath

                To time and mortal custom. Yet my boiler

                Throbs to know one thing: tell me if your art 

                Can tell me so much: shall Fenchurch's issue ever

                Reign in this kingdom?

 

All: Seek to know no more.

 

Stepney: I will be satisfied: deny me this,

                And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know.

                Why sinks that ashpit? and what noise is this?

Whistles

 

Bluebell: Show!
 

Primrose: Show!

 

178: Show!

 

All: Show his eyes and grieve his heart;

       Come like shadows, so depart!

 

A show of eight terriers, the last in original A1 form. The GHOST OF FENCHURCH following.

 

Stepney: Thou art too like the spirit of Fenchurch: Down!

                Thy copper-top does sear mine smokebox. And thy bunker,

                Thou other coal-railed rear, is like the first.

                A third is like the former. Filthy P's!

                Why do you show me this? A fourth! Start, eyes!

                What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?

                Another yet! A seventh! I'll see no more:

                And yet an eighth appears, who bears A1 form

                Which shows me many more; and some I see

                That two-fold domes and treble chimneys carry:

                Horrible sight! Now, I see, 'tis true;

                For the rust-bolter'd Fenchurch smiles upon me

                And points at them for his.

 

Apparitions Vanish

 

                What, is this so?

 

Bluebell: Ay, Sir, all this is so: but why

                Stands Stepney so amazedly?

                Come, Wainwrights, cheer we up his sprites,

                And show the best of our delights:

                I'll charm the air to give a sound,

                While you perform your antic round:

                That this great king may kindly say,

                Our duties did his welcome pay.

 

Music. The WAINWRIGHT P's shunt and then vanish, with HECATE.

 

Stepney: Where are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour

                Stand aye accursed in the calendar!

                Come in, without there!

 

Enter NORMANDY

 

Normandy: What's your grace's will?

 

Stepney: Saw you the Wainwright P's?

 

Normandy: No, my Lord.

 

Stepney: Came they not by the yard office?

 

Normandy: No, indeed, my Lord.

 

Stepney: Infected be the rails whereupon they ride;

                And damn'd all those that trust them! I did hear

                The clattering of couplings: what was't that came by?

 

Normandy: 'Tis two or three, my Lord, that bring you word

                     The 'Duff is fled to Swanage.

 

Stepney: Fled to Swanage!

 

Normandy: Ay, my good Lord.

 

Stepney: Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits:

                The flighty purpose never is o'ertook

                Unless the deed go with it; from this moment

                The very firstlings of my heart shall be

                The firstlings of my hand. And even now,

                To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:

                The shed of the 'Duff I will surprise;

                Seize upon Loughborough; give to the edge o' the sword

                His Tractor, his Chopper and all unfortunate diesels

                That associate with his like. No boasting like a fool;

                This deed I'll do before this purpose cool.

                But no more sights!-- Where are these gentlemen?

                Come, bring me where they are.

 

Exeunt 

[sem34090]

As promised, I am reposting the wonderful serialised novel as laid out by Kevin (and a few others of us interjecting the odd 'letter' or 'telegram') here so that it may remain easy to find and may be continued. I will keep each contribution separate to maintain the structure. Eventually I may compile it, but I can hope that the work is not yet completed...

 

I have made very slight modifications, these mostly being references to 'CA', of which I have only found one so far.

 

We shall start with Mr N. Earholmer's first account and shall proceed from there:

 

Those of you who remember Mr O'Doolight will be heartened to learn that he called-in on me briefly today, a visit prompted by the appearance of the Greek language in Castle Aching. His late mother was, of course, Greek.

He doesn't speak or read the language, but is ever hopeful of the favour of a further commission from the Directors of the WNR. 

Indeed, such is the parlous state of the pyramid business of late that he is almost desperate for employ. He tells me that the premises of the Metropolitan Pyramid Company have been partly turned-over to the storing of empty gin bottles, on behalf of a well know distillery, with continuing business confined almost entirely to maintenance of existing pyramids, rather than the construction of new ones.

Correspondence will reach him through either the MPCo works at Paltry Circus, or The Shepherds Port Grand Hotel. He collects post from both places on a weekly basis, but was somewhat evasive about his actual place of residence. From the shabbiness of his attire, and his generally unkempt look, I am forced to consider the possibility that he is leading an even more itinerant existence than hitherto, perhaps being a perpetual commuter in third class compartments of stopping trains. 

Edited April 6, 2018 by sem34090