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17: The Two Franks The two Franks featured many times in the stories about my Coalville days. But three tales about the antics of Frank Wood spring to mind... One day, whilst awaiting a set of empties for loading at Bagworth, he suddenly opted out of a game of crash to ask me a question. 'Tony, can you cut hair?' 'Why?' 'My missis keeps nagging me about the length of my hair. Have you got time to give us a quick trim while we're waiting?' I couldn't believe he was asking me. 'Why me? I've never cut anyone's hair in my life. What's wrong with the barber's?' 'I'm not paying their prices. Go on, be a sport.' To keep the peace I agreed to give it a go. Frank produced a pair of beaten-up scissors. Amid the chuckles of other second men I made a start, first cutting the longest bit at the back, then a bit near the ear. Soon I was quite carried away, snip-snip-snipping away here there and everywhere. I'd heard a tale about Harry Johnson, the well-known steam driver who finally retired from the railway at 72 after stints as a guard and a cabin cleaner. He had made extra money by cutting hair as he travelled around the railway system. One day, on his way to Wellingborough, he'd drawn up to the junction signal at Knighton to wait for a London bound express to pass. 'Hey up, Harry,' one of the Knighton shunters shouted up at him. 'Any chance of a short back and sides?' Harry told his fireman to keep an eye on the signal and climbed down with his clippers. He was halfway through the cut when his fireman shouted to him 'He's pulled off Harry.' With that Harry gathered up his equipment and hurried back to his loco, leaving a somewhat irritated shunter. 'Oi!' he yelled. 'I'll do the other half tomorrow,' promised Harry, and with that they charged off in a cloud of smoke and steam. Back at Coalville I was thinking that I ought to be charging Frank for his haircut. Stingy blighter! Then I took a step back to admire my handiwork. What a mess! He'd kill me when he saw it! I was just about to confess all and risk his wrath when I was saved by a shout: 'Yours is next on the up Frank.' 'Hurry up, Tony,' urged Frank. 'It don't matter what it looks like, so long as it's shorter. There's only two week's difference between a good haircut and a bad one. I've saved a couple of quid now, that's the main thing.' And so, amid tittering from various parts of the lobby, we grabbed our traps and made for our train. A few weeks later I was second-manning Frank on the 06.00 shed. It was a Thursday and the mood in the mess room was good - mostly because at 12 o'clock Roy Storer would be paying out our wages. Mischief was in the air and a bunch of younger second men, myself included, began to tease the older drivers. Frank loved a laugh but sometimes he went a bit too far. This time he appeared at the door with a bucket of water. As soon as we saw him we scarpered. We'd just got around the partition to the kitchen when he let fly. Splash!! Water went everywhere and so did railwaymen. With things getting out of hand we decided to calm down a bit. Mops were fetched and Operation Dry Floor commenced. After ten minutes of non-stop mopping and wringing the floor was clean and drying nicely. 'Isn't it funny?' Frank remarked. 'I only threw one bucket of water, yet we've emptied six buckets full down the sink!' The last of the Frank tales took place in the then newly-opened opencast between Lount and Tongue - aptly named Lounge. The metal coal bunker was still being erected so we were being pad loaded by means of a large-bucketed digger standing on the dock. We'd move several wagons at a time, the pace being controlled by means of two-way radio instructions between the digger driver and us. Most of the drivers were alright, but this one was very uncouth and his language turned the air blue. He hadn't a clue how to communicate properly. 'Right then, driver, move forward. Go on then, keep going, bloody keep going. Right then, stop, woah, bloody stop!' That's how he was - though most of his adjectives were worse than bloody. It was impossible to do right by him. You were too slow or wouldn't stop in the right place. He didn't have the brains to realise that a heavy coal train couldn't stop just like that. If he'd said 'get ready to stop' there wouldn't have been a problem. But he never did. And, for some reason, it was always those last few wagons that seemed to annoy him most. 'I'll fix this clown,' said Frank. 'He won't have reason to shout tomorrow.' The next day, as we backed in, Frank produced a square piece of wood with a point at one end. After we had positioned the last few wagons Frank got down and knocked the stake into a pile of coal adjacent to the front of our engine. He'd now be able to use it as an exact marker. 'Wait till tomorrow,' he said with a wink. The next day Mr Mouth was being his usual nasty self. When it was time for the last move Frank opened our engine right up and we shot forward. The two-way radio crackled with annoyance as the driver came on. 'Steady on, driver. Bloody go steady there!' But Frank took no notice and didn't slow down until we came up to the stake. Hitting the brakes he stopped the loco exactly beside the marker. The voice that came back to us was full of grudging respect. 'Spot on, driver. Yeah, that'll do yer.' 'There you are,' Frank said to me. 'It doesn't take much to outwit people like that. It should keep him calm from now on.' The next day the driver came over the two-way radio with a much friendlier tone. Frank did his thing again, but as we approached the marker the driver started yelling again. 'Hey, steady on, slow down. Bloody hell, you'll have to set back now.' Frank was baffled. 'What's up with him now? We're nowhere near the marker.' We found out later that we'd been sabotaged. Some of the lads in the cabin had heard about Frank's trick and moved his marker a few feet further down! |