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16: Footplate Food For good stories the diesel era can never compete with the steam age. Breakfast prepared on a shovel over the firebox of a steam loco is a hundred times more fun than a fry-up on the hotplate of a diesel. But there were plenty of ex-steam men around and they still had a knack for making a loco cab breakfast especially delicious. Fry-ups were common, especially on a Friday. If you'd been in a happy crew they'd all bring in food and share it. Cheese on toast, soup, sandwiches - we'd have all sorts. An onion wedged next to a Class 47 exhaust manifold was delicious. Hot drinks - or a 'mashing' as it was often known - were brewed in a mash can or billy can, the same vessels used by the old steam crews. No self-respecting member of a train crew would come to work without one. Some old hands still had their trusty cans from the steam era. These white enamel cans had a carrying handle of thick wire, a side handle to steady it while pouring, and a lid which doubled as a small cup. Later versions were usually made of aluminium. After adding tea, milk and sugar the can would be whirled round by its handle. This took the place of stirring. Whilst climbing aboard a loco, some men would put their bag, lamp and can onto the footplate and climb up unimpeded. Others would struggle up with their equipment weighing on their arms and shoulders. The first method was the best, but there were risks. Chaps would often pull their bags into the cab, put their Bardic lamps on the desk but before they could pick up their can - crash! - their mates slammed the door with it in. That happened many times. One lesson I learned was to be wary when making milky coffee! We'd been standing at a signal at Armitage Junction and got off the loco to watch our guard, Dougie Elliot, winding up a herd of cows in the adjacent field. Cupping his hands to his mouth and mooing deeply, he soon had the herd stampeding around the field. But the cows had the last laugh. We turned to see black smoke billowing from our loco's windows and doors. The milk had boiled over onto the glowing hotplate! The stench was so bad we had to wedge open the doors for the journey home. My blackened and gunged-up can took a good hour to clean. The two Franks - Wood and Bailey - were Coalville depot's star chefs. If ever there was a smell of cooking you could bet it would be one of them. Both were ex-Burton. Bails was a passed man and a good mate of mine. Mr Wood was an old-hand driver. One Sunday afternoon Bails and I were on the 14.00 frost precautions. Our job was to run the engines up if the temperature dropped below a certain level. A device would set off a bleeper and that was our cue. 'What you got for your snap?' asked Bails. 'Just cheese sandwiches,' I answered after a quick look into my folded bread bag. 'Right, they'll do for our tea,' he said. He held up a large plastic bag. 'Here's your Sunday lunch...' Bails went on to cook a lovely Sunday dinner with chops and all the trimmings. Plates, condiments, cutlery - he'd thought of everything. It was better than I was used to at home! Another time we were on 6V76 loading stone in Cliffe Hill. The train was bound for Hayes & Harlington, but we took it only as far as Wellingborough. Bails had asked me to bring one or two bits in with me, and whilst I loaded the train he prepared our lunch. In the front cab he had bacon, sausage, eggs and black pudding on the go, while in the back cab were tinned tomatoes, beans and mushrooms. It was the nicest mixed grill I've ever tasted! Another Sunday morning I was on a ballast train between Cliffe Hill and Ellistown. Our booking-on time was 03.00, so to ease the blow I'd bring in the stuff for a nice fried breakfast. As I booked on bleary-eyed I showed the food - enough for three - to the driver and guard. They both nodded approval. After filling our cans with boiling water we climbed into a railway van which would be taking us to the site. 'Soon be time to get the frying pan out,' one of them said on the way. My heart sank. It was still in my van. 'Oh no, I've forgotten it!' 'Well, that's goodbye to a nice breakfast then,' they said. We arrived at the work site and after relieving the other crew we settled down on our Class 20s. But the thought of a long and hungry shift was making us all miserable. By one means or another I had to get that breakfast cooked. I decided to have a scout round. I walked all round Cliffe Hill but all I found was a wall tap that might come in handy if we ran out of water for mashing tea. I was just about to give up when I happened to look over at a line of platelayer's vehicles. One of the bigger lorries had large chrome wheel trims. Problem solved! Making sure I wasn't being watched I prised off the nearest one. Apart from being muddy it wasn't in bad condition. I filled it with cold water from the tap and took it back to our engine. The other two gave me some very odd looks as I put the water-filled trim on the hotplate. The boiling water soon killed any germs and after I'd given it a good scrub out - hey presto! - we'd got ourselves a makeshift frying pan. And so we enjoyed our breakfast after all. After washing the wheel trim I nipped back to the lorry and tapped it back in place. It was just getting light and I wondered if the lorry driver would notice that he had three muddy trims and one sparkling clean one! Back on the engine the driver turned to me: 'What do you think the driver of that lorry would say if someone told him we'd fried our breakfast in his wheel trim?' Though not over-blessed with good points, I've always prided myself on my initiative. I'd used it that morning with the wheel trim and I would get to use it many times in the years to come... Like the occasion I was on 14.00 frost precautions. Again it was a Sunday. The hot water geyser in the messroom kept going out and as the ignition hadn't worked for years we had to rely on the smokers amongst us to provide a light for it. But neither of us were smokers, so unless we could find a match from somewhere we were facing a dry shift without tea or coffee. 'It's no good, Tony, we'll have to drink water.' We spent another ten minutes at the ignition before admitting defeat. But I hadn't had time to think properly until then. 'Hang on, I've got it.' Trotting out to a Class 47 I started her up and turned the hotplate on. Most locos carried a spare paraffin tail-lamp in the cab and this one was no exception. I touched an old driver's slip to the red-hot element and quickly lit the lamp. Shutting the loco down again, I took the lamp back to the mess room, lit the geyser and - hey presto! - hot drinks, a happy driver and an early finish. Another time Woody, Kev Roberts and I were on a Drakelow job. We'd decided to have hot dogs so each of us had brought a contribution - rolls, hot dogs, onions. After loading the train in Rawdon Colliery I began to prepare the meal, aiming to have it ready by the time we dropped down to the bunker at C station. We soon had tears streaming down our faces - where Woody had got those onions from I'll never know! But they were soon frying nicely in the pan. I opened two tins of hot dogs and sliced the rolls in half. We'd have five and a bit sausages and slice the last one three ways. We finished off our delicious meal with a nice cup of freshly brewed tea. Then the argument started. 'Hang on...' said Frank. 'We've had five and a bit sausages each, three cobs and onions. Out of the ten cobs there should be one left. But there's two.' We were all adamant that we'd had our quota. The next half hour was spent trying to solve the mystery but without success. In the end we washed up the utensils and prepared to change ends for the return journey. But the argument rumbled on. The next day it began again... 'Someone must have missed out yesterday,' Frank insisted. 'Unless there was eleven cobs in the pack by mistake.' 'No, we all had the same: three cobs, two with two sausages in and one with one and a bit. No one had any sausages without a cob.' And so it carried on. Railwaymen like to make their point and win their corner - especially if they're right. 'I know what happened,' said Frank at last. 'Wait until we get to Drakelow and I'll find out for sure.' When we reached the bunker we got off the loco and went across to a small bin where the rubbish still remained from the previous day - including our tins. 'The answer is in one of those tins,' said Frank. 'If it's not then we'll never know. Have a look for us Tony.' The first tin was empty, but the second one contained two cold hot dogs. I must have been in such a hurry to serve up the food that I'd not emptied the tins out properly. To this day I'll don't know who went without their third hot dog. It wasn't me and the other two say they didn't. It remains another of those mysteries of railway life! My last food story took place one winter's morning. This time it was Frank Bailey. We used to take turns giving each other a lift to work and that week it was Bails' turn. At 04.30 I was sipping a hot coffee when the loud click of the gate latch announced Frank's arrival. As I opened the door our two mischievous kittens Mungo and Midge shot outside into the darkness. 'Do you want a quick coffee before we leave?' I asked. 'Yes, can do, said Frank, dropping down his bag and stepping inside. After our drink I went to fetch the kittens back. In the grey light of dawn I was dimly aware of pieces of bread all over the yard. A horrified Frank came up close behind me. 'What the... They've scoffed my snap! There's best beef in there.' I couldn't stop myself laughing. 'There was best beef in those.' I mimicked. Most of the meat had gone and a sullen Frank picked up a piece of soggy bread. 'I wouldn't have minded if they'd eaten the bread as well. What a waste.' That only made me laugh even more. But Frank cheered up when I offered to share my grub with him and to make sure he had enough he bought three bags of crisps from the newsagents. |