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20: Trapped In A '20' After my alarming experiences on the 18.00 ferry, and the near demise of a Coalville crew, life at Mantle Lane slipped back to its usual pace. That's it for a bit, I thought, nothing else can go wrong surely? On a glorious summer evening I went to prepare the Class 20s for the night Toton tripper. After my earlier scare with the parking brake the first thing I did with closed-down 20s was to put in the battery isolating switches and start them up before even thinking about the parking brake. All manner of exterior checks had to be carried out too. As well as the lights, buffers, pipes and fuel gauges I had to look out for cracks in the brake blocks - none of which should be over one inch. The water level in the header tank also had to be checked. For this you had to climb onto the side framing and open the nose-end side door with a T-key. Once in, you had to switch on the light or aim your Bardic lamp at the water gauge at the top of the rear wall. It was always best to leave one of your legs sticking out so that the heavy door wouldn't shut on you. Tonight though the water gauge was obscured by grease and so I had to pull in my leg and reach up to clean it with a cloth. Slam! The door always tended to close, due to the slight lean of locos while on shed side. I wasn't that bothered. After satisfying myself that the water tank was full enough, I turned back to open the door. The handle wouldn't budge. I tried it downwards, then upwards, but it still wouldn't budge. Neither would the other door open. I was stuck fast! But I knew my mate was out in the yard doing a job. All I had to do was bang on the doors. I was panicking a bit now, in case I was in for a noisy and claustrophobic trip to Toton. Bang bang bang, I went. 'Hell-ooo! Let me out!' Several minutes were spent with these frantic pleas - until a metallic scrape outside the door signalled the arrival of help. My mate had been heading back to the cabin when he'd heard my furious banging. 'You daft bugger - what you doing in here?' As we climbed down off the loco I explained what had happened. 'You're bloody lucky I heard you,' he said. 'Look over there.' Indeed, I was lucky. The Class 20's crew were already walking across the yard to start up the locos and head off! A few weeks later, while on annual leave, I was taking Geordie on his usual morning walk along the railway towards Swadlincote Junction. As we passed by the Stapenhill F.C ground and walked along the top of the embankment a man approached from the opposite direction trailing a Jack Russell. We nodded to each other, but as we went to pass his dog took one look at Geordie and fled in terror down towards the tracks. Just at that moment a Class 47 passed DY 126 signal down in the cutting. Driven by the late Mick West it was trundling slowly towards Drakelow east at about 10-15 mph. The dog headed straight along the track towards the train. Inevitably the engine went over him. The dog was now so hysterical it didn't even attempt to run out. It just spun round and round on the spot. Unable to look, the dog's owner covered his eyes and tensed up for the final death yelp. But he was not to hear it that day. One by one, thirty five fully loaded HAA coal wagons passed over the dog and as the last one clattered clear that lucky little Jack Russell was still there spinning on the spot. The owner and I rushed down. As he picked up the trembling dog I apologised, feeling that it was my place, even though Geordie hadn’t so much as looked at the Jack Russell. The owner was too relieved to care. ‘It’s alright mate, it wasn’t your fault. I just can’t believe that’s happened, can you? I reckoned I’d be going home with just the lead!’ There are two more short anecdotes about the branch. Both sound far-fetched, but they did happen and I believe they deserve recounting... The first event, which took place at the end of a long hot summer day in 1974, is also recounted in John Smalley’s second book Nottinghamshire Railway Ghosts. Day in day out during the long school holidays a group of us cycled down to Moor Street Bridge to spend the day spotting. This particular day one of the lads had a puncture, so we'd had to walk down. As dusk approached we were all ready for home - but not until we had seen the 20.30 southbound mail train. It was often hauled by a Stratford-based 47 and painted up with silver roof and red buffer beam. When it had vanished into the distance, beyond the loco depot, we set off for home. ‘Let’s nip down Anglesey Road and then walk back along the lines,’ one of us suggested. We all agreed, so at Branston Road we scrambled up onto the bridge and started to walk along the lines towards Stapenhill. The night sky was darker now as we approached the viaduct over the River Trent. Two of us were in front, while myself and the other two followed some yards behind. Both groups were chatting happily about the day's loco sightings when all of a sudden the front two came to a dead stop. ‘What yer bloody stopped for!’ we cursed as we cannoned into the back of the first two. They didn’t reply, but just stood staring in front of them, towards the middle of the viaduct just beyond the wartime pillboxes. ‘What’s up?’ we asked, frightened by their silence. We were all looking that way now and as my eyes focused in the poor light I saw what looked like a figure in an illuminated mist. It was possible to make out the head and shoulders, and a long body. But there was something wrong with the legs. They only went as far as the knees – below them nothing was visible. The thing - what else could I call it? - moved slowly towards us. For a couple of seconds we were transfixed – then we pelted as fast as we could, stumbling blindly, scattering the ballast, consumed by terror until we reached Branston road bridge and saw the street lights and the window of a small shop. We just stood there shivering. We were in shock. One of us was even sobbing openly. It affected him so much that he stopped coming out with us after that. In the following days we told our story and asked questions about what or who it might have been out there. From the bits and pieces we were able to put together it seemed that, over the years, there had been several deaths on or around that viaduct. Several workmen had lost their lives in accidents during its construction. One hot day many years back, a young fireman from Burton had been drowned while swimming in the river with some of his colleagues. Several suicides had been recorded there too, including my father's best friend. And in the early Sixties a crowd of people – including my mother and me in my pram – had watched the river being dragged for the body of a young boy. He’d been playing on the parapet when a passing train had caused him to fall to his death. He was eventually found down the river at Clay Mills. So just what was it we saw that night? Exactly a year later a crowd of over seventy people – our schoolmates and their relatives - gathered at the spot, hoping for an anniversary repeat. Nothing appeared. But the viaduct exerted such a strong feeling of dread that a religious man was eventually called in to exorcise the place. Eight years later, by then working on the railway, I was witness to another strange event. I'd booked on as shed second man at 22.00. The night ferry had returned early and while awaiting the last engine to come on shed, I tended to my duties - setting the road for the last engine, locking up all the locos, bringing in the fog signals/detonators and fixing the large rail blocks in place. This last had been a necessary precaution since some local kids went joyriding on some engines in 1978. Once my duties were completed and the last loco was safely in, the depot would close down for the weekend and the key would be left under the dustbin until 23.59 on Sunday night. Quite often there would be two or three of us from Burton, and we would proceed home in a leisurely convoy, looking out for each other in case of car trouble. Tonight though, as I set off down the A50 at 02.45 on that dark and drizzly Saturday morning, I was on my own... At that time the road was being widened and for months there’d been widespread delays as the road workers had moved from one section onto the next. That night the work was near the top of the Alton Hills, right outside Alton Grange where the famous railway engineer George Stephenson had once lived. Drawing up at the temporary lights – on red of course – I allowed myself a wry smile. Not so long ago chargeman/shunter Jack Johnson had been pulling me leg about the place. ‘You want to be careful on that A50 at night,' he told me. 'Specially up on the Altons. They reckon on certain nights you'll see George Stephenson in his gig, being pulled along by his favourite horse, Bobby.’ Jack’s warning had been greeted by chuckles. Now here I was, on that very same stretch of road. The rain spattered against my windscreen and the radio was on, playing a quiet song through the static crackle. I’d been thinking of ignoring the red light anyway. There was virtually no other traffic around at that time of night and you could see well ahead if anything was likely to come. Just then, somewhere in the distance behind my van, I distinctly heard the clump of heavy footsteps. Before each footfall came a distinct tap, as if the boots had segs on. Feeling distinctly uneasy now, I listened to the regular metallic chink as whoever it was got closer and closer. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Just as the footsteps got close to the back of the van the lights changed and I screeched away. I was really spooked. The sound was definitely that of someone walking, but there'd been no one in front of me as I’d approached the lights. Tall thick hedges lined both sides of the road, so it was highly unlikely that anyone could have joined the road from the side. The hairs didn't start to go down until I passed the Packington crossroads. Could it have been George Stephenson taking a walk around his estate? Or some tramp making his way down to Ashby? Or was it just the over-tired imagination of a young railway worker eager to get home to his bed? It’s a mystery to which I'll never know the answer - and perhaps it's better that I don't! |