Railway Boy

By Mitchell Deaver

Rural North Yorkshire in the 1950s is the setting for Railway Boy, a heart-warming and nostalgic journey of exploration that describes a young boy's love for railways and describes the surprising lengths to which he would go in pursuit of that passion.
Rich in period detail, the autobiographical novel begins with the family of author Mitchell Deaver uprooting from a small market town and moving to a village through which runs a railway line. Mitchell Deaver, eight years old, discovers a signal box (one that is unusual in that it is open to the public) and is enthralled by brightly-coloured signalling equipment and by passage of powerful steam engines, all of which is described in vivid detail in Railway Boy.
Mitchell Deaver then moves on to explore the local railway line, with frequently amusing and sometimes completely unexpected results. He confronts the mystery of the vanishing railway station and the mystery of the secret signal box.
When all railway avenues of exploration are exhausted, the young Mitchell Deaver turns to his own imagination. The outcome is a hilarious and unforgettable saga that is a blend of innocence and extraordinary inventiveness - a childhood adventure without precedent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468530988

Mitchell Deaver

Mitchell Deaver was born in York, England, and acquired a passion for railways in youth. The first half of a long working life was spent mainly in commerce, followed by eight years as a British Railways employee. After he immigrated to the United States in 1988, a railway career continued with employment on both a short line and a large railroad. Mitchell Deaver is now retired and lives with his wife of thirty years in Lower Windsor Township, Pennsylvania, where together they enjoy gardening and walking. Follow Mitchell Deaver on Facebook.

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Contents

PREFACE

PART I

THROUGH CHILDREN’S EYES

1

2

3

4

5

6

PART II

THE SIGNAL BOX

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

PART III

EXPLORATION

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

PART IV

IMAGINATION

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

PART V

VILLAGE LIFE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Front cover main photograph:

Class WD 2-8-0 freight locomotives were the author’s favourite.

This example was photographed in 1965 at Springbank North, Hull.

Mick Nicholson

Front cover second photograph:

The only extant 1950s photograph of the author is

one taken when he was six years old.

Author's collection

Rear cover photograph:

A recent photograph of the author.

Olan Mills

To

Pam and Rob

27834.jpg

PREFACE

There was time when all railway trains were pulled by steam engines, when all railway signals had semaphore arms that went up and down, when those semaphore signals were worked by a signalman pulling large, heavy levers in a signal box. This true story is about that time and describes one young boy’s love of railways and the extraordinary lengths to which he would go in pursuit of that passion.

Major events have been described exactly as they happened as far as memory will permit, though names have been changed in the interests of privacy for all concerned. Some lesser happenings have been compressed and blended, and supposition has been employed to avoid a narrative that would otherwise be fragmentary owing to absence of recollection.

The author gratefully acknowledges the help of others in supplying historical information without which this book would be incomplete.

M.D.

December 2011

PART I

THROUGH CHILDREN’S EYES

1

Mitchell . . . MITCHell! shouted Mrs. Deaver at the top of her voice.

Wha’? said a small voice coming from a small face beneath a large, uncombed mop of blond hair.

Never mind ‘wha’, cm’ere, yelled back my mother.

A three feet long piece of wood held in my hands would be an excellent representation of a station platform. If I placed it alongside the wall, just here, then I could run down the long yard and pull right into the station, just like a real train. But the game of let’s pretend had now to come to an end, so I dropped the piece of wood and trudged along the cobbled yard towards my mother. Sensing something amiss, I stopped several feet from where she was standing. In a pink and green floral pinafore that protected her olive green, calf-length dress from the morning’s chores, my mother stood with arms akimbo. Where’s Pauline? my mother asked.

In t’shed, I replied.

Go and get ’er. Where’s Rodney? pursued my mother, a tone of irritability entering her voice.

In t’beck, I replied in a lower voice, knowing the information would not be well received.

Is ’e in that beck again! Go and get ’im, yer father wants to talk to you, said Mother.

Wassamatter?

Never mind ‘wassamatter’, just go and get yer brother and sister.

I turned round, and annoyed that railway station construction had been interrupted, dawdled to a disused stable where I found my sister playing bakeries. As I entered she was busily arranging an assortment of tin cans containing soil and gravel ready for the oven, a pile of bricks in one corner. (An open door at a nearby bakery permitted our watching real bread and real cakes being made; children like to copy adults.) Mam said Dad wants to talk to us, I said.

What for? asked Pauline.

Dunno, she seems mad about summat, yer’d better go. The word summat was a dialectal rendition of the word something.

Pauline dropped her rusty tins of earth and walked in a huff towards the house. I sauntered in the opposite direction, out through a gate left permanently open at the bottom of our yard, and stood on the bank of a wide stream, which in Yorkshire was referred to as a beck. Rodney with several other small boys stood in the middle of the grey, shallow waterway throwing stones at one another. ‘Ey Rod, I shouted. Rodney froze in the action of hurling a wet stone at one of the other boys, turned his head and looked in my direction. If Dad catches yer throwing clemmies, ’e’s gonna ’it yer.

Rodney dropped the slimy stone into the beck splashing his knees, but that was of no consequence since they were already wet. Did you go ovver yer wellies? I asked. My young brother looked down at his water-filled Wellington boots and nodded. Anyway, I continued, yer’d better come out, Dad wants to say summat to us, I dunno what. ’Urry up, our lass is already in t’ouse.

I walked along the yard towards the house; Rodney squelched along behind. As I passed the outbuildings lining the long, narrow yard, I looked hard at the familiar mottled brickwork; most bricks were red, a few were half black, one or two were all black. Mortar had been eroded into deep white channels. The outbuildings, rather the masonry from which they were constructed, had formed the boundary of the yard which had been our playground as long as we could remember. I was seven years old, my sister four, my brother three. Those buildings and the cobblestones that stretched between them were a crucible of contentment. Buildings could be subterranean caverns, or bakeries, or places for a game of hide and seek; the yard could be railway tracks, or roads, or a place to play catch. Discarded planks, rubble and rubbish became anything our illimitable imagination wished them to be. Our play area extended to the dust that accumulated in the angle where wall met ground, a region home to dandelions and thistles that defied nature by taking root in the barren material. Dust of varying colours and textures could be carted about in toy lorries or could be used to make mud pies. Adults were too tall or too grown-up to have fun with dirt. As I walked by them, I looked at the buildings in search of comfort, the kind of comfort found only in predictability, in permanence. Father had never before called the whole family together; our safe haven, our aegis, somehow now seemed not so permanent.

Mother stood at the back door. Once I and my soggy brother were within calling distance, she told us the rest of the family was waiting for us in the living room. We entered the house and joined Pauline on the couch. Whilst we positioned ourselves, Father paced up and down puffing on a Woodbine cigarette, he kept his long, gaunt face—a face typical of men in the years of rationing and austerity during and after the Second World War—bowed towards the linoleum. Once we were still, he ceased pacing and leant against the sideboard with large hands resting against the front edge of the chest. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the biceps, his Fair Isle sleeveless cardigan and wide trousers fitted loosely about his lean body. He nervously rubbed one hand through his black, Brylcreemed hair, took a deep breath, and spoke. We’re gonna ’ave to move.

2

Devastating news of a relocation instantly filled three pairs of young, bright eyes with tears. We stared at Father in disbelief. Anticipating our emotional reaction, he kept his eyes fixed on the floor, and said nothing at that point. Smoke from the Woodbine still wedged in his mouth drifted around the modestly furnished living room, then hung in the air further irritating our wet eyes. Ash dropped to the floor. We looked at Mother. Colour had drained from her normally rosy cheeks, her usually full-bodied auburn hair seemed limp; she turned her moistened eyes away from us and bit her bottom lip to prevent it from quivering. She had not been angry with us, she had been anxious, dreading the moment when news of the move would be broken. Father cautiously raised his head to look at us through bushy eyebrows. Upon seeing we had survived the initial shock, he continued. We’re gonna ’ave to move to a smaller ’ouse, it’s gonna be better for us.

Why? I whined.

Never mind ’why?’ my Father growled, where we’re going is a lot nicer place than ’ere. Ah mean, it’s out in t’country, plenty o’ places for you kids to play, got a village green, an’ all. ’Ere, you’ve just got a yard to play in, nowhere to go.

Yer mean we wouldn’t ’ave to stay by t’ouse? I asked.

Father looked at each one us in turn; he could see our eyes were beginning to dry. As long as yer be’ave yerselves, yer’d be all right, he said.

Is there a place to ’ave me bakery? asked Pauline.

There’ll probably be somewhere, said Father, his voice less stentorian, his face less grim.

Is there a beck? asked a now bare-footed Rodney.

Father raised his eyes to the ceiling in thought. Yer know, I think there is.

Where are we going, Dad? I asked.

It’s a place called Bickle, a few miles from here, said Father. It’s a nice ’ouse. New. It’s got a garden back and front, not like ’ere, so we’ll ’ave vegetables in t’back garden, an’ yer mother’ll ’ave flowers in t’front garden.

Maybe we’ll ’ave a lawn in t’front, said Mother with relief in her voice that her children were warming to the idea of relocating.

That’s right, said Father. An’ yer’ll be going to t’school in t’village, not this one ’ere. They were talking about finding a flat for us, but t’Council got us this new ’ouse instead.

A flat! I exclaimed. What d’yer think we are, pancakes!

That was not a very good joke, even for a seven-year old going on eight, but poor quality humour is a foible I would regrettably carry into adult life, where it is tolerated even less. (When older I would mix not very funny jokes with those of a better quality, not unlike monopolistic De Beers who offer only mixtures of diamonds so that a buyer is compelled to take both inferior and superior quality gems whether or not he wants them all. To those who would criticize substandard quips, I say that a life interspersed with a snigger, a smirk, or even a sneer, is far preferable to a life bogged down in lugubriousness.)

In the event, Pauline, Rodney and I, as children, thought the quip hilarious and laughed at length. Mother wanted to smile, not at the second-rate rejoinder, but at her children giggling and enjoying their mirth on the sofa. She twisted her mouth to ward off a smile because she did not want to encourage any more levity in what was meant to be a serious matter, and because father was not laughing. He did not find the remark funny, probably because he saw my quasi-humorous outburst as mockery, as filial rebellion, as a challenge to his authority. The comment was meant to be none of those, for I loved my parents. When they would be seated in the living room watching television, Father in an armchair, Mother on the couch, I would stand between them with one hand on Father’s hand, one hand on Mother’s hand, to express I loved them both equally and dearly.

News of the impending rustication had originally grieved Pauline, Rodney and me, but after Father had explained how fine a place Bickle would be, our spirits lifted. The precocious ebullition I had uttered earlier had been merely a product of feeling relieved that the future would not be as bleak as at first thought.

Nevertheless, Father glared at me. Funny so-and-so, aren’t yer, he said. Any’ow, we’ll be moving in a few weeks’ time. That means you’ll ’ave a week or two at school ’ere, Mitchell, then we’ll move, then yer’ll start t’new school in Bickle. Father removed from his lips what was left of the Woodbine, which was now carrying three-quarters of an inch of white ash, and stubbed the dog-end in a metal ash-tray on the corner of the sideboard. Father and Mother then went on to explain that we must start collecting our toys together, throwing out anything broken or no longer played with. The family gathering broke up in a frenzy of noisy chatter. We three children returned to the long cobbled yard to speculate on what our new home might be like, and to begin converting apprehension about the move into excitement. Our parents remained indoors, doubtless to smoke a Woodbine each, and to be grateful an ordeal was over.

It was the 1950s, a time when workmen would whistle to entertain themselves while they worked, because mobile sources of music had yet to be invented; a whistler’s favourite was the incomparable, lilting theme tune from the film Moulin Rouge. It was a time at pantomime when adults would enjoy singing alongside children (for whom the song was primarily written) There’s a worm at the bottom of the garden / And his name is Wiggelly Woo. It was a time when children could have great fun collecting car registration plate numbers, because there were so few cars to collect them from. It was a time when use of the terms boyfriend and girlfriend was limited to teenagers. The 1950s were very different from times that would follow, but one year out of the decade was exceptional.

In 1953 Britain celebrated. H.M. Queen Elizabeth II was crowned in magnificent splendour and pageantry at Westminster Abbey. Only three days earlier Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing had been the first men to reach the summit of Mount Everest. Coronation bunting adorned streets, families bought commemorative mugs, great joy swept across the nation. With so much flag-flying, so much commotion, so much local preparation, I had assumed Her Majesty The Queen would be coming down the street in which we lived; I eagerly looked forward to the event. But as Coronation Day passed without a procession, as did the next day, and the next, I reluctantly concluded we were not to be favoured with a royal visit. The misapprehension is explained by having no grasp of geography at that age. I did not know Buckingham Palace was two hundred miles away, and if I had known, that distance would have been meaningless. Neither did I comprehend that if Her Majesty did travel beyond London on the day of her Coronation, our small, little-known community would be about the last place she would want to visit; far more illustrious towns—of which I had no knowledge—would take precedence.

Notwithstanding the disappointment of Coronation Day, the summer’s festivities passed and our family turned its attention more and more to the upcoming move to Bickle, which would take place later that year. Would the year 1953 be as auspicious for the Deaver family in their change of abode as it had been for Britain in its twin celebrations of the Coronation and the conquest of Everest?

3

The outstretched arms of two ranges of hills embraced a Yorkshire vale. The steep escarpement slope of one rose angrily from the fertile plain, the gentler slopes of the other rose not so much in anger, but in a series of low growls that would eventually surpass the elevation of its neighbour. In flat agricultural land between nestled several small, picturesque towns. Each had a distinctive design of market place that was surrounded by grocers whose shop interiors were filled with the aroma of Wensleydale cheese and dominated by a centrally-placed, sparklingly clean bacon-slicer, by greengrocers whose shelves were piled high with temptingly fresh fruit and vegetables, by ironmongers who supplied the district with all the hardware it needed from bradawls to wheelbarrows, by cafes that catered for a handful of residents who could afford to eat out, by small department stores that stocked worldly possessions for those who could not or chose not to travel further afield to purchase same, and by public houses that played out a contradictory role presenting a fortress-like exterior to ward off citizens for whom the establishments were considered unsuitable and at the same time supplying a thirst quenching service from which those who did not find the premises threatening found difficulty in dragging themselves away. Each selection of shops was unique; no town was like another.

There existed amongst the towns’ inhabitants an unshakeable allegiance to their place of birth, a loyalty that only surfaced when conversation turned to another town, at which point that other town would be looked upon as remote as a foreign land. Though all residents spoke the same North Riding (now North Yorkshire) variation of broad Yorkshire, a trained ear could detect minor dialectal variations from town to town. Research would probably uncover words peculiar to each parish, too.

Between trunk roads connecting those towns stretched a mesh of lesser highways, many of which incorporated in their routes sharp ninety-degree turns as they hugged the corners of fields, a feature that told of one-time supremacy of field over thoroughfare, which in turn pointed to great antiquity of the route. Numerous villages studded this criss-cross of rural highways. They lined arterial roads, straddled minor roads, stood at river crossings, nestled beneath hangers; they clustered together in knots of civilization or defiantly stood alone miles from their nearest neighbour. Some were beautiful, some were simple, some large, some so small that past grandeur could be the only explanation for a hamlet having been granted any recognition at all. Fields growing wheat, barley, oats, potatoes, sugar beet, mangolds or turnips, or that were given over to grass in the forms of pastures and ings, filled the space between town, village and road. Hawthorn hedgerows marked out each field; most hedges had been meticulously trimmed with a long blade, an operation that was termed in the local dialect slashing. Other hedges were left to grow wild, or were vigorously plashed to encourage new growth. Trees and spinneys dotted the landscape at such pleasingly random intervals an observer could be forgiven for thinking they were deliberately planted for aesthetic purposes. It was in this balmy, agrarian blend of red brick and road, farmhouse and field, masterful hills and meandering streams that our family in the autumn of 1953 moved from one of the towns so described to one of the villages so described.

On the day we arrived at our new home in Bickle, Mother and Father set about wiping down shelves and cupboards and unpacking heavy tea chests bursting with our belongings. Removals men had already positioned furniture. A workman hurried to finish laying remaining black tiles in what would be our best room: the downstairs room reserved for Sunday meals, Christmas, visitors and other special occasions. He wiped sweat from his brow, apologized for the room not being ready, but privately resented a premature arrival. Our parents encouraged Pauline, Rodney and me to explore the back yard because we were getting in the way. The row of houses in which we now lived had been built on grazing land sliced from a field; grass and clover still covered our back yard. Eventually, sods would be turned and a productive vegetable garden planted, but at present we three were standing knee-deep in vegetation and pieces of builder’s rubble. Pauline grabbed a stick and attempted to prod a clump of cowslips into something resembling a miniature garden, their delicate, vernal, yellow, trumpet-shaped flowers long having faded. Rodney found a joiner’s off-cut to kick around.

I gazed from the rear of our house into the distance and saw the complete view, much in the same way a photograph does not distinguish between closeness and afar but captures all on one flat plane. (Such prospects are unique, for on subsequent occasions the viewer tends to focus on some or other detail, never again to see the whole vista.) At the horizon water-colour demi-mountains melted with a lambent sky into a pale blue mist of heart-warming tranquility. In the middle distance the field that had given up part of its domain so that we could live there seemed to terminate in a ridge on which was placed what appeared to be a white flag pole. I gave the matter little thought. Recovering from a state of near-reverie induced in part by a melancholy that always accompanies autumn, and in part by a bewildering array of new experiences brought on by moving house, I looked around and saw that our row of new houses was placed between houses of much greater age. Indeed, the remainder of the village would be found to boast not one new structure.

Rodney set about arranging pieces of scrap lumber in the shape of a fort. My sister and I went indoors, she to look for her dolls, I to see whether the workman had finished the living room floor. He had not, so I wandered around our new house inspecting bedrooms and the bathroom. Mother and Father were still busy unpacking. Had I been sufficiently anxious to help, I would have interrupted their toiling to ask what they would like me to do, but laziness got the upper hand. I was able to convince myself they would much prefer their eldest son to be occupied elsewhere, so I continued to wander about the house doing little more than inhaling the not unpleasant aroma of fresh paint. This wasteful behaviour was suddenly interrupted by an unexplained loud whooshing noise coming from the rear of the house, outdoors. I dashed downstairs, sped past Mother and Father, and emerged in the back yard to find Pauline already standing there alongside Rodney. My brother stared motionless across the field.

Clank, clank, clank, clank, clank, clankety-clank, clank, clank, clank. Train, observed Rodney. Indeed, the unmistakable sound of wheels clattering over joints in railway track and the view of freight wagons, or trucks as they were generally called then, moving in obedient procession confirmed there were trains at the bottom of the garden, or a field’s width from the bottom of the garden anyway. Billowing white smoke hung in the air where the steam engine had passed; I had missed seeing it, but had heard