Shadows in the Steam Read online

  He often used High Wycombe Station and he knew several of the staff there. He hadn’t been at all frightened by the strange invisible footsteps, but he couldn’t get the experience out of his mind. He had little time for notions about ghosts and spooks and prided himself on being rational and level-headed. The next time he was there he mentioned what he had heard to one of the ticket collectors. This man didn’t bat an eyelid. He and several other members of staff had heard the same disembodied footsteps. From time to time when the station was quiet, footsteps marched up to a particular door, and when the railway worker inside opened it, there was no one there. The men who had these experiences all thought a ghost was responsible but, oddly, none of them had ever felt frightened. After this, our man from Beaconsfield was never quite so adamant that ghosts were all products of the fevered imagination.

  CAMBRIDGESHIRE

  Conington

  Conington is a small village, little more than a hamlet, and is close to the Great North Road about seven miles south of Peterborough. The very fine parish church of All Saints is some distance from the village and it possesses an especially magnificent west tower from about 1500 which can be seen, embowered in trees to the west, by travellers on the East Coast Main Line. Conington Crossing is something over a mile east of the church. It has the reputation of being haunted.

  In March 1948 a light engine on the main line hit a lorry carrying German prisoners-of-war on this crossing. They were being taken to work on local fenland farms, and the accident which led to six of them dying happened at seven in the morning, on one of those days of dense fog that used to be so characteristic of this area. Later in 1948 an eminent citizen of Peterborough had been shooting in the fens with a companion, and he was killed instantly when his large and distinctive black Chrysler car was hit by an express train as it made its way over the crossing. On this occasion the visibility was excellent.

  These two accidents followed any number of hair-raising narrow escapes over the previous decades, and a few fatalities. The road over the crossing was a very minor one which led to little more than a handful of farms, and traffic was very light. However, there was at that time no signal box to control the crossing and users had to open and close the gates as well as to get themselves across, exercising extreme vigilance because of the frequency and the speed of trains at this point. Unfortunately, users of the crossing were not always as careful as they needed to be and they sometimes took undue risks or forgot to close the gates after them. Footplate men on the locomotives that worked this stretch of line hated the place which had gained the reputation of being a serious danger spot. Pressure developed and eventually British Railways built a signal box to control the crossing.

  Conington Crossing is remote, quiet and lonely. A shift at the new box, especially the shift between ten at night and six the next morning, was no sinecure. Trains were frequent, although people or vehicles wishing to cross the line were few. What made working the box such a challenge were the strange occurrences recorded by the signalmen. It didn’t help that bitter winds howled across the fens, ‘straight from Siberia’, as they say in those parts, and they made the gates and other items of equipment rattle in a disturbing way. Several signalmen reported the appearance of a large black limousine, clearly waiting to cross the line. When they went to open the gates, however, the car vanished. This weird and irritating event happened several times. The car did not restrict its appearance just to the hours of darkness; when it turned up during the day it still waited for the gates to be opened, but disappeared as soon as the signalmen went to do so. All were agreed that this was the black Chrysler which, with its occupant, had returned to the scene of the fatality. This spectral car was unnerving enough in its own right, but the local word was that the crossing was also haunted by the ghosts of the German prisoners-of-war. Some signalmen refused to work the box, especially on the night shift.

  Conington Crossing is still there with or without its ghouls and spectres but the signal box was closed and demolished in conjunction with the establishment of a high-tech signalling centre at Peterborough in the 1970s. To this day, few people who know the area will volunteer to hang around at Conington Crossing, especially after dark.

  Peterborough

  In 1945 a married couple who lived in North London decided to visit relatives who lived in Newcastle-on-Tyne. The war was over and people just wanted things to get back to normal as quickly as possible. Many of the restrictions on travelling had been lifted, but the railway system was sorely run-down. Maintenance work had taken a back seat in the attempt simply to keep the vastly increased number of trains moving that were needed to support the war effort. Part of getting back to normal was to visit faraway relations, something that had been more-or-less impossible for the duration of the war.

  The couple were not fond of train travel and so were looking forward somewhat glumly to the journey, expecting the train to be dirty, late and overcrowded. This had inevitably become almost the norm over the previous few years. They were therefore pleasantly surprised when they got to King’s Cross not only to find their train with ease but to get seats in an otherwise unoccupied compartment. The train itself seemed reasonably clean, even to their somewhat jaundiced eyes. Not for them the pleasures of watching the moving scene as the train, headed by a Gresley A3 4–6–2, steamed northwards. They had bought a pile of newspapers at W.H. Smith to relieve the tedium of the journey.

  Serried ranks of tall brickyard chimneys and a sulphurous smell indicated that the train was approaching Peterborough, its first booked stop. The train drew to a halt, there was some activity on the platform and passengers were walking up and down the side corridor. The compartment door slid open and an elderly lady entered carrying a sizeable wicker basket. She smiled at the couple and then sat down without saying a word. Her appearance had quite an effect on both husband and wife, although it was the wife who took in the details of the newcomer’s appearance most keenly. The newcomer was dressed from head to toe in black. Her clothes were elegant and clearly of the highest quality. However, she was a walking anachronism! Every inch of her gave the impression of a prosperous Victorian lady of fashion. She looked very composed as she sat in the opposite corner, her face partly obscured by the brim of her sumptuous hat.

  Grantham was the next stop and the train halted long enough for locomotives to be changed. The man decided he had time to get some tea from the refreshment room and he bought three cups – it was a kind thought that perhaps their new travelling companion might appreciate something to drink. He returned to the compartment and offered her one of the cups, which she took with a smile but, perhaps strangely, without saying anything.

  Further calls were made at Doncaster, York and Darlington, but no one disturbed the silence in the compartment. Husband and wife continued to read the papers or to doze fitfully. The woman sat motionless, eyes closed. Every so often the man would peek at her. He didn’t know exactly what it was but there was definitely something odd about her – odd, that is, apart from the outdated fashion she sported. As the magnificent cathedral at Durham came into view, standing with the castle as its companion on the great rocky bluff above the River Wear, it was clear that this was where the woman was intending to leave the train. The man, ever gentlemanly, slid back the door for her and gestured that he would carry her basket. She smiled graciously, but without speaking, and stepped down onto the platform. The basket was strangely light, given its size. He handed it to her whereupon she spoke for the first time. ‘I wish you many happy years,’ she said. Having uttered these slightly enigmatic words, she vanished into thin air! Who was the lady in black who got on the train at Peterborough, sat in the compartment of the East Coast Main Line train and alighted at Durham that day in 1945?

  Soham

  On 2 June 1944, the 00.15 special freight train from Whitemoor to Earls Colne was travelling along the line from Ely to Fordham, approaching the small fenland town of Soham at around 03.00 a.m. Driver Gimbert, aboard a W.D. 2-8-0, looke
d back and noticed that the wagon behind the tender was on fire. The train’s payload consisted of bombs! Thinking quickly, but not panicking, Gimbert slowed the train and instructed fireman Nightfall to climb down and uncouple the wagon that was alight. This he did, and when he regained the footplate, locomotive and blazing wagon were moved forward. The Soham signalman was standing on the platform and Gimbert told him that he intended to haul the wagon into a cutting just ahead where the force of any detonation, if one happened, would be at least slightly reduced. No sooner had he informed the signalman to this effect than an enormous explosion occurred. The wagon was reduced to matchwood, the locomotive severely damaged as it was blown off the rails, Fireman Nightfall was killed instantly, the signalman received injuries from which he died shortly afterwards and the 18-stone Gimbert was propelled through the air for a distance of 200 yards, sustaining serious but not life-threatening injuries.

  Soham Station. This neat little station disappeared in the explosion.

  There is no question that had Gimbert and Nightfall not taken the action they did, the entire train might have blown up and Soham would have been obliterated. As it was, almost every window in the town was broken and nearly every house received some damage. For their heroism Gimbert and Nightfall received well-deserved George Crosses, that for Nightfall unfortunately being posthumous. Their valour was recognised decades later when each of the men had a Class 47 diesel locomotive named after him.

  It has been claimed that part of this drama is re-enacted in ghost form annually on the anniversary of the Soham Explosion. A steam locomotive hauling a freight train arrives at Soham from the Ely direction and is then detached. The apparition ends by simply fading away. Fortunately the explosion is not re-enacted. The line through Soham is still operational, although the station closed many years ago.

  Yarwell Tunnel

  The attractive stone-built village of Yarwell is in Northamptonshire, but Yarwell Railway Tunnel is in Cambridgeshire. The tunnel was on a long branch line to Peterborough from Blisworth, on what became known as the West Coast Main Line. This cross-country route served Northampton, Wellingborough, Thrapston and Oundle. The line was built by the London & Birmingham Railway and opened to passenger traffic in June 1845 and goods traffic in December of that year. This was unusual. Usually lines opened for goods traffic before receiving official approval to run passenger trains.

  The tunnel is over 600 yards long and provided a variety of problems during its construction. Conditions on the railway construction sites would have driven today’s health and safety officials apoplectic. Deaths occurred among the navvies and labourers employed on the works. Some may have resulted from drunken brawls out of working hours. It was by no means unknown, however, for the navvies to work while inebriated. They did the hardest and most skilled work, and it was part of their laddish culture to take risks and cut corners. Doing so when drunk, of course, only made the dangers worse.

  Whether it was the ghosts of the navvies making their presence felt we will never know, but men involved in maintenance work in the tunnel over the years told stories of the strange noises they heard. These included what sounded like fights, cries of pain, groans and various unidentifiable sounds. They made the tunnel an unpleasant place in which to be alone, although fortunately they usually did their work in small gangs. Also inexplicable was the disappearance of tools and pieces of equipment that would have been of little use to anyone else. A new piece of track laid on one particular day was found the following day having apparently been tampered with overnight. Many of the wooden keys strengthening the joint between the rails and the iron chairs spiked to the sleepers had been removed. This would have made the track unstable and could have led to an accident.

  When work was being carried out on the track in the tunnel, it was customary to post lookouts at both entrances to give warning of an approaching train. On one occasion a gang was busy in the tunnel when a freight train rushed in, despite the fact that no warning had been given. Fortunately there were no injuries, but the men were somewhat shaken by the experience and they rather indignantly wanted to know why the lookout apparently hadn’t been doing his job properly. They found him lying by the side of the track, uninjured but unconscious. When he came round he told the others that he had received a stunning blow on the head which knocked him out. This was puzzling because a doctor called to the scene could see no evidence of a blow. Equally puzzling was the fact that the lookout’s equipment was also missing.

  Wansford Station is not far from the eastern end of the tunnel. A past stationmaster used to carry out his duties almost always accompanied by his cat, Snowy. One early evening Snowy very unusually couldn’t be found when it was time for his dinner. Having waited for an hour or so, the stationmaster decided to have a look at all the places where he knew that the cat liked to go. One of these was the tunnel, and the stationmaster entered, calling out Snowy’s name. The man was near retirement and had become somewhat deaf, and unfortunately he was struck down by a train and killed. Snowy never reappeared. Since the tragedy, a cat answering Snowy’s description has been seen on occasions mewing pathetically at the entrance to the tunnel of ill-repute. Or is it the ghost of Snowy?

  Chester Station looking north. Nearby on the left stood a lead works. An employee there was killed on the railway and his ghost returned to stalk the works until they were demolished and houses built on the site.

  Passenger services through the tunnel on the Northampton to Peterborough route ceased on 2 May 1964 and those from Rugby to Peterborough finished in June 1966. Ironstone trains to Nassington ceased from December 1970 and vestigial freight services as far as Oundle on the Northampton line ended in 1972. However, all was not lost; the eastern end of the line from Peterborough eventually became the Nene Valley Railway, a heritage line unusual in that its loading gauge allows it to operate continental rolling stock. Trains began to run through the tunnel on a regular basis again in 1984.

  CORNWALL

  Bodmin Road

  The landowners around Bodmin and the citizens of that town did not exactly welcome the proposal that their town should be an early addition to the burgeoning railway network. The first schemes therefore came to naught, and it was not until 1874 that the Cornwall and West Cornwall railway companies proposed a branch from Bodmin Road on the main line from Plymouth to the west of Cornwall. When they discovered that the route proposed would require a lengthy and expensive tunnel they lost interest. However, when the London & South Western Railway Co. declared that it had Bodmin in its sights, the GWR – which had by now absorbed the two earlier companies – suddenly found that it cared so much for the welfare of Bodmin that it proposed to build a line to the town as soon as possible. It obtained parliamentary approval for the line from Bodmin Road on a different alignment from that originally suggested. The first sod was cut on 26 April 1884, and the line opened in 1887.

  The Great Western’s station at Bodmin was a fairly simple affair of the sort beloved by railway modellers. It and the rest of the branch led a quiet and unexceptional life, although an accident occurred close to Bodmin Road Station in 1903. A platelayer called Bricknell was in charge of two small trolleys loaded with old sleepers. They got out of control on a slight down gradient because a sudden heavy shower meant that the brakesticks he and his colleagues were using became completely ineffective. The trolleys collided and Bricknell was crushed to death. The coroner at the inquest made some acerbic comments about the GWR’s safety arrangements, or, rather, the lack of them.

  It was not long before the point at which the accident occurred gained the reputation of being haunted by a figure, described as being ghostly and ragged. It was both seen and heard by gangers walking the line during daylight hours and at dusk. It emitted ear-piercing screams of pain. Few who had this experience doubted that it was the ghost of the unfortunate Bricknell.

  Bodmin Road in the GWR days. Note the curious arrangement to get water from the tank to supply locomotives at the platform-end.r />
  St Keyne

  The Liskeard & Caradon Railway opened in 1844 from Moorswater to South Caradon, a line designed to tap into the rich copper deposits and the resources of granite in the Caradon area of south Cornwall. At Moorswater the loads were transhipped into boats on the Liskeard & Looe Union Canal which conveyed the material to ships at the harbour at Looe. As the amount of minerals and stone being transported built up, the canal company decided that a railway line linked to the Liskeard & Caradon would save one lot of transhipment, and the resulting railway opened in 1860. In 1879 passengers began to be conveyed from Moorswater to Looe. In 1901 a steeply graded and sharply curved connection was put in which allowed trains from Looe to serve Liskeard Station on the Plymouth to Penzance main line.

  The branch from Liskeard to Looe is miraculously still open for passengers, and on Mondays to Fridays enjoys a service of nine trains in each direction with one less on a Saturday. The line passes very near St Keyne’s Well. This, in its delightful setting, is the source of several legends, but the main one, perhaps obviously, refers to St Keyne herself. She is supposed to have been one of twenty-six children fathered by the fifth-century Welsh King Brechan. Obviously a busy man, Brechan nevertheless must have found time to bring his offspring up well because no fewer than fifteen of them became saints, including, of course, Keverne herself. She was beautiful and a woman of the utmost probity who went round righting wrongs and performing miracles until the time came for her to retire. She chose a spot by the well and planted four trees there: a willow, an oak, an elm and an ash. Later, as she was dying, she blessed the well in verse as follows: