The Old Engine’s Last Journey (a children’s tale for Halloween and Christmas)
This is a story I’d like to tell you about from sixty years ago – 1960. It happened to a boy called Peter and a girl, Peter’s sister, called Mary. Peter was 11 and Mary was 8.
They lived in a town called Bolton. Back then it was still a very smoky, factory town that had lots of cotton mills. There were engineering factories too, and – not so far away – coal mines. Can you imagine that men used to dig underground for coal? They did, and it was a dangerous job.
The railways were very busy moving all sorts of things including cotton but much more. Next to the station at Bolton there was a huge warehouse where all the goods that had been made in Bolton were sorted and despatched all over the country – and beyond.
Sixty years ago most trains were hauled by steam locomotives, like the ones you see at Bury, on the East Lancashire Railway. Except they weren’t lovingly polished with gleaming brass and copper. They looked a bit shabby and neglected. A few years later, in 1968, the last steam locomotives went to the scrapyard, replaced by modern diesels, or electrics.
Peter and Mary lived in a small terraced house in a part of Bolton called Great Lever, on Eustace Street- number 72. The house was like thousands more in Bolton and other Lancashire towns. Yes, Bolton was in Lancashire and people were very proud of that. Its symbol was a bright red rose. Probably more typical of towns like Bolton were the cobbled streets rather than a roses, though some of the people who lived on Peter and Mary’s street were proud of their little gardens.
The house had a small front garden and a yard at the back which used to have the outside toilet. It was where Peter and Mary’s dad used to mend things – he was very practical and loved nothing more than repairing old bikes and tools. He was what they called a tackler – a sort of engineer – and worked in Bee Hive Mill, just down at the bottom of the street. Mum, Joan, worked there as well, as a cotton spinner on the ‘ring frames’ that replaced the old spinning mules which only men were allowed to operate! Most of the grown-ups on Eustace Street worked in the mills, though a few were railwaymen. Some women worked at the hospital as cleaners, or sometimes nurses.
The street was surrounded by cotton mills, but the two Bee Hive mills were the biggest. They were six storeys high and towered over everything; you could see the towers, with their fancy red brick, for miles. Next to them was the engine shed, on Crescent Road. It was home to over seventy locomotives – large and small, but mostly for goods traffic, shunting and local passenger trains.
Peter and Mary loved going on little adventures around the area they lived. As well as brother and sister they were really good friends and didn’t often fall out.
Their Uncle Jack was a driver at the engine sheds; he’d started as young cleaner at the sheds in 1920 and became a driver just before the war started in 1939. Sometimes he’d give them both a ride up and down the sidings in the sheds, which was the most fabulous treat. “Don’t let anyone see you,” said Uncle Jack, especially that miserable old foreman, Fred Horrocks – he’d have my guts for garters!”
Peter didn’t really know what he meant, except it was bad. Visitors weren’t welcome at the sheds. At the entrance was a large sign saying ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’. Peter wasn’t sure what a ‘trespasser’ was but the message seemed to be ‘Keep out’.
He knew a prayer they said at his school – St Williams – that said something about ‘forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us’ but wasn’t sure how that had anything to do with engine sheds.
Peter and Mary’s other playground was round the back of the Bee Hive mills – the mill lodge. It was a big reservoir full of water that used to feed the steam boilers that powered the mill engines –which drove the spinning mules. The old mill engines had been scrapped years ago but the mill lodges carried on – nobody knew what to do with them and some of the local fishermen (most worked in the mill) got permission to fish in them. You’d get all sorts – carp, bream and lots more. Like the engine sheds, it was strictly out of bounds.
Peter and Mary’s mum used to say “Durnt be goin’ near that mill lodge – it’s deep, ah durnt want either of yo’ drownin’!”
Like most children in the area, they ignored their mum’s advice and used to do a bit of fishing of their own, though they’d often get shouted at by the old gaffer in the mills.
“Aw’ll tell thi mother tha’s been playn’ bi th’lodge an’ tha’ll cop it!” he said in his broad Lancashire accent. “Ah know where tha lives y’know.” Mr Tatlock lives at number 84 on Eustace Street, so he would do.
Peter and Mary ran off and climbed over the mill wall to escape his wrath.
They carried on playing – and even caught a fish, sometimes.
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As Peter got a bit older he became more adventurous and realised you could sneak in to the back of the engine sheds through a hole in the fence. After a couple of forays he asked Mary if she’d like to come as well. To tell you the truth Mary was probably more daring than her brother and didn’t need any persuasion. All you had to do was squeeze through the hole and then jump down to the ground, a couple of feet – and you were in! It was a very special, secret place.
“Do you think we’ll be alright Peter?” Mary asked as they picked themselves up from the ground after jumping down from the fence.”You don’t think we’ll get prosecuted?”
“No, I don’t think so -,” said Peter, “nobody ever comes round the back of the sheds, we’ll be safe.”
Near to the fence – and the hole in it – there was a siding which was used for storing old engines which were waiting to go to the scrapyard, at Horwich Loco Works, just a few miles away.
They’d seen an old engine dumped at the end of the siding for a few months but it took them a while to get the courage to explore it properly. It had a number on its side – 50647 – and you could make out the name ‘British Railways’ on the locomotive’s tank.
The engine was very old – it had been built at Horwich in 1890 and had been at Bolton shed for most of its life, working passenger trains to Rochdale and Wigan and – in its old age – shunting wagons and vans at Bolton station. The railwaymen called it ‘A Radial Tank’ and were very fond of it. Everyone was sad when it was finally put on the scrap line.
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It was Mary who suggested they should climb into the cab. It was a Sunday afternoon and nobody was about.
Once they were in the cab they were both very excited.
“Let’s play drivers and firemen!” said Peter. “I’ll be the driver, you be the fireman.”
“Why can’t I be the driver?” asked Mary.
“Drivers are only boys – or men, and even firemen are men so you’re very lucky to be asked…and besides, I’m older than you.”
“Well it’s not very fair,” sulked Mary. “But let’s get on with it.”
Peter sat on the driver’s seat and opened the regulator, a large handle which controlled the steam entering the cylinders. He’d seen his Uncle Jack do this, when he gave him a ride in the cab, up and down the shed yard.
Mary found an old shovel that had been thrown away in some weeds, near the buffer stops at the end of the sidings. It was heavy to carry, but she managed to lift it into the cab.
“Are you ready Mary?” Peter shouted across the cab. “Get shovelling, we’re going to London on the afternoon express and we’ve got to keep time!”
Peter opened the regulator as far as it would go and Mary pretended to shovel coal into the old engine’s firebox. He pulled the cord which made the whistle peep – if there was any steam in the boiler!
They started coming every Sunday playing on the old engine, pretending they were on an express to London, Cornwall or Scotland.
“When am I going to drive?” said Mary.
“When you’re old enough,” said Peter. “Uncle Jack said you have to be a fireman for thirty years before you can be a proper driver, so you’ve a long time to wait.”
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One day Peter had an idea.
“Our engine really needs a bit of a clean. It’s covered in dirt and rust. Let’s get some old rags and give it a polish.”
So they found some old rags in their dad’s shed and some oil as well that could clean off some of the filth on 50647.
After a few attempts old 50647 was starting to look quite smart. Peter found some white paint and painted the number on the front of the engine, the smokebox door, and the shedplate – ‘26C’, the code for Bolton.
“That’s better,” said Peter. “It looks like a proper express engine now, ready to go to London!”
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A few months later it was Christmas. The mills had closed down and most of the engines had been put into the shed, ready to start work again after the holiday.
It was bitterly cold and all the mill lodges had frozen over.
Peter and Mary were looking forward to their Christmas Day dinner, with turkey and Christmas pudding.
“Let’s go down to the lodge first and do a bit of skating! The gaffer’ll be off work and nobody’ll see us.”
They skated all round the lodge, and nobody shouted at them to stop. They went faster, and faster, and faster. Both of them felt dizzy but couldn’t stop. Someone shouted out “be careful, the ice has melted by the boiler house.” Mary got a bit frightened and called to Peter “Can we stop now?” but they carried on, almost in a dream.
Peter said “come on Mary, let’s go and see our engine and wish her merry Christmas!”
There was a secret way in to the back of the engine shed from the mill, used by engine drivers taking a short cut to and from work.
They got to where ‘their’ engine was standing. It seemed to have gone dark very early but they didn’t worry about their Christmas dinner – this was more exciting.
“Peter, look! There’s steam coming from her!”
And sure enough, the steam valves of old 50647 were sizzling
“Let’s get on, come on Mary,” Peter urged.
Once they got into the cab they couldn’t believe their luck. There was a fire blazing away in the firebox and steam pressure was showing 150 lbs. per square inch, enough to get moving.
“Get some more coal on Mary,” we’re going for a run! London here we come!”
Peter put the reversing lever into the ‘forward’ position and eased off the brake. She moved easily. Peter pulled open the regulator and the engine puffed along the siding, towards the points at the top of the shed yard, controlling access onto the main line.
He blew on the whistle as he approached the points.
“Is the signal clear for us, Mary?” Peter shouted across the cab to his fireman.
“Yes, the signal’s off, we’re right away for the main line!” Mary had picked up enough railway talk from Peter and Uncle Jack to know the proper language…
The engine veered out onto the main line, heading northwards towards Bolton station.
It was completely dark by now and they couldn’t see anyone in the signalbox at Burnden Junction, or at the next one, Bolton East Junction. It was as though everyone had gone to sleep.
They steamed through the station but again, there was nobody on the platform – no passengers, no porters nor anyone.
The signal was clear for them to proceed, over the junction and on towards Blackburn. Up the long steep climb to Enwistle, high up on the moors – and into the long murky Sough Tunnel before Darwen.
They went over the long viaduct across the River Croal and the canal and past the gasworks.
“This is great, isn’t it Mary! I’ve always wanted to do this – always, always, always…and I’ve got the best fireman – or firegirl – in the world!”
The engine picked up speed and went past Astley Bridge Junction Signal box, high up on the Tonge Viaduct. No sign of anyone in the box but the signals were all clear for them. They looked out from the cab and saw rows of houses, just like Eustace Street. Further away they could see the cotton mills, but none of the chimneys were smoking. And further away still, the clock of the town hall and the parish church.
It was a bright, moonlit Christmas night and they puffed along at increasing speed, Peter pulling back the reversing lever – a bit like the gears on a bike – as they accelerated. They steamed past the little station and signalbox at Bromley Cross and there was snow on the ground. The station lights made a shadow of the engine on the snow-covered tracks.
Peter opened the regulator of 50647 as they continued the climb towards the tunnel. By the time they reached the bridge at Turton Tower, with the old turrets on the bridge, the tracks were completely covered with snow.
They went over the level crossing by the towel mill and carried on, through open fields towards Entwistle. In a short while they passed over the big viaduct, looking down to the reservoirs, with the moon reflected in the waters.
Entwistle station was, like all the others, quiet with no sign of anyone in the signalbox, perched above the tracks.
“We’re nearly at the top now, Mary.” You don’t need to shovel any more coal on.”
“Good, I’m tired out,” she said. “I need a long rest…”
They passed the signalbox – Walton’s Siding – at the summit of the climb and started to drop down towards the tunnel mouth. Peter closed the regulator, shutting off steam.
They entered the tunnel at about 45 mph.
Then it started to happen.
Gradually a white light covered the engine cab and the whole of the tunnel. It got brighter, and brighter, and brighter. They could hardly see anything for the brightness, just the fire in the engine’s firebox.
Peter and Mary leant across the cab towards each other, their hands clutching each other’s.
“Stay with me Mary,” Peter said.
“Course I will, a good fireman never deserts her driver.”
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There was no newspaper the following day but the headlines of The Bolton Evening News for December 27th were full of a big local story.
“Terrible Christmas Day Tragedy – children drowned in mill lodge”
The report continued:
A Christmas Day skating adventure turned into tragedy for Bolton children Peter Haslam (11) and his sister Susan (8). A thin sheet of ice cracked under the children’s weight and both children fell into the freezing water. It is thought that death was instantaneous….the children’s bodies were discovered with them holding each other’s hands.
A police spokesman said “This terrible tragedy underlines the importance of children staying away from mills lodges. This is not the first time this has happened in Bolton but it must be the last.”
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It was two days later that Bill Hartley and Tommy Frost signed on at the sheds for a special job at 8.30 in the morning.
“ Take that old demick engine 50647 on the siding road to Horwich for scrap, “ said Fred Horrocks, the shed foreman. ” You’ve loco 2626 on Road number 6 to drag it. Jack Haslam’s spare so he’ll act as guard. And be good with him, you’ll have heard what happened to his niece and nephew. He were very close to ‘em.”
The crew found Jack in the messroom with a full cup of tea.
Nobody knew what to say but both men put their arms round Jack in a rough but kind show of sympathy.
“Let’s get this job done,” said Bill. “An’ we can all get finished an’ goo whom.”
They got steam up on 2626 and eased off down the shed yard, reversing into the siding to collect the old engine to make its last journey to the scrapyard.
Tommy jumped down to couple up the engine and ‘got in between the two engines. He’d been told it might be a job to get the engine moving – it had been stood outside for six months.
Yet there was something strange about the old engine.
“Are you sure this hasn’t moved for six months?” Tommy shouted up to his driver.
“Aye, that’s what Horrocks towd me, it’s been on th’scrap road for months.”
“Well this engine’s bin someweer – th’ rails under th’ wheels aren’t rusty. It’s bin movin’, for bloody sure.”
“An’ here’s summat else for Horrocks to chew on,” shouted Tommy. “That firebox is warm. It’s bin in steam not long agoo. Two days at th’most. What dost ta mek o’that?”
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