text: Howard Wilkins, sixty-three (Widower, arthritic knee) Rose that morning, despite his pains, With one purpose: spotting trains &#x200B; For Howard lived to see in action The roaring behemoths of traction To see them roaring through a station That - to Howard - was true elation &#x200B; To see trains was to feel alive Hence his house, in Chaffinch drive From every surface displayed this passion (*Wilfully* disdaining fashion) &#x200B; In photos hanging from the wall Stood trains from large to very small Here trusty freights, there record breakers Some scrapped now, they’d “met their makers” &#x200B; Model sets stood proud on shelves 1:10s and 1:12s, And in pride of place, TMST (That’s eurostar, to you and me) &#x200B; Though if one really sought to look In each cranny and every nook Though the collection was a delight Something there was not quite right &#x200B; For though Howard’s pictures, bright and shining, Showed royal engines, carriages for dining, Amongst them all could not be seen A single engine built for steam. &#x200B; For Brunel’s monsters, pride of Britain, Which left his fellow spotters smitten, Could not in Howard Wilkins sire A tiny inkling of desire. &#x200B; Men in the club would chide him often, (Especially chairman, Roger Mofton) “Howard, chief amongst your evils, Is your blinkered view of diesels” &#x200B; And Howard, inwardly seething, Would distract them, temper even, Smile warmly back at their harangue “Time for food - Vi’s made meringue.” &#x200B; He had to say, he thought with pride, In fact he’d told her, as she died, Vi’s cooking was the best he’d eaten, In bed he’d called her “Mrs Beeton”. &#x200B; Yes she’d not been that bad all told Until she’d started getting old And Vi, with all her aches and pains, Had took up all his time for trains &#x200B; He wrung his hands - they still felt dirty, *But anyway, it’s gone 4:30* Time to get the show on the road *Or on the rails -* his joke of old &#x200B; The morning’s fun still to begin He started whistling, was it a hymn? He’d sang it at a funeral Though quite when, couldn’t recall &#x200B; He gathered up his torch and flask \-Equipment for this morning’s task- Satisfied he’d packed it all He hurried onwards, down the hall &#x200B; As he passed the living room Glowing softly, from the moon Was there a shadow, clear and neat Lying by the three piece suite? &#x200B; No - there was nothing of the sort His mind was just a little fraught He shook his head, left by the door Locked it, checked, then checked once more &#x200B; Sat neatly round him, sleeping sweetly, But most importantly, *discreetly* Stood modest semis, in a row, Mrs Comstock’s bungalow, &#x200B; Shiny cars and well-kept gardens (ignore the gnomes outside the Mardens’) Announced the folk who lived within: Proper, *private*, just like him. &#x200B; He’d always liked that - Vi had too When they’d moved in at sixty-two Neighbours *greeted*, but nothing further - Even if you screamed bloody murder &#x200B; He knew they’d never have any trouble Safe in that like-minded bubble He’d thought of that as Vi grew sicker Thought of it, when they would bicker - &#x200B; He shut the gate and started walking.. Now Vi was gone, he missed the talking Though the house, where he’d turned violent Was never really - truly - silent. &#x200B; He turned up the path, slightly uphill Braced against the morning’s chill All was still, all was sleeping No neighbours prying, no deliquents creeping... &#x200B; But wait, that woman, up ahead? Had she cut across that flower bed? Caused that cursed dog to bark, Creeping round here, in the dark? &#x200B; He peered out through his anorak - She didn’t move, or gesture back He called in greeting, but more in warning “What are you up to here, this morning?” &#x200B; As soon as he spoke this aloud The moon shifted behind a cloud A ray of moonlight lit the scene - The woman? Nowhere to be seen. &#x200B; At his call he’d noticed twitchings From forty-nine, old Mr Hitchens The estate was private, his neighbours shy But nothing passed old Hitchens by &#x200B; And Howard, sweating only slightly Waved and nodded, quite politely Then he turned and walked on, briskly To give Hitchens gossip was far too risky &#x200B; The danger of the old man passed He started on his way at last To the station, a walk away Across the old dual carriageway &#x200B; No traffic or lights, glaring or strafing His feet along the pavement chafing For Vi, (her thrifty matched by nought) Had bought him shoes a smidge too short &#x200B; She never had quite understood The way Howard felt in his blood That order and perfection mattered He’d thought that as her blood had spattered... &#x200B; But pushing Violet from his head And focusing his mind instead On the purpose of this sortie The diesel pulling the 05:40. &#x200B; He huffed and puffed, feet hot and screeching To the quietest station saved from Beeching Although that was a grand description For a small brick building, caked in lichen &#x200B; The station’s guard, a man named Devine Would not be here til five past nine And as this stop had but one commuter Howard stood alone, in moonlit pewter &#x200B; He took out his notebook, paper witness Spotting was a detailed business Much information needed amassing Firstly - the time of the train’s passing, &#x200B; He sighed - why were trains just so unable To keep to their own set timetable? He checked his watch now, growing restless Why was the whole world just so feckless? &#x200B; Then in the distance, he heard it coming The familiar metallic drumming But too came a sound, a moment later Was that the haunting song of vapour? &#x200B; His heart ran cold, an old affliction The dark side of his train addiction The part that he so vainly tried To obfuscate, cover over - hide &#x200B; Vi had asked once - she’d loved to pry * She hated trains, so God knows why - “Those old steam engines your friends mention - Don’t they capture *your* attention?” &#x200B; He’d told her it dated back to Father Who’d been a soldier - conscripted, rather He’d taken steam down to the ferry That took him off to death by Jerry &#x200B; That wasn’t quite the truth, all told What really happened made him cold For Howard Wilkins, duller than most Had once - and just once - seen a ghost &#x200B; A ghost train to be more precise A hellish and profane device But it was true, real in its vocation And what’s more - it was at *this* station &#x200B; Lost in this memory, blind to his eyes With a jump he realised Up the platform, looking back, Stood that woman, dressed in black &#x200B; Now then, again, no-one was there He stared at dark and empty air He had a thought (quickly despised) Was her face one he recognised? &#x200B; But then from down the track, like rain Came the whistle, a beast in pain He whispered aloud now, quite deranged, “I think the timetable has changed” &#x200B; It was true, zero dispute A steam whistle (the devil’s flute) At five hundred yards, now maybe four The very train he’d seen before &#x200B; The pistons slowing, metal clanging The wheels protesting, boiler banging Howard watched on, nerves quite distraught As the engine slowed to a halt. &#x200B; Last time the train had roared right through As from its funnel, fire flew He’d only had a glimpse inside At those on their eternal ride &#x200B; On seats of fabric, worn and fraying Sat bodies of the long decaying Though were they corpses? Hard to say If they could claw and scream that way? &#x200B; Men and women, first class to third Screamed past the platform, the image blurred Steam billowed around young Howard, burning These memories flocked back, returning &#x200B; And worst of all, source of his fears Words that haunted through the years As the train rushed past, lit by the moon A voice had called “You’ll join us soon.” &#x200B; His heart beat faster in his chest The train came slowly to a rest The engine now was right before him Purring loudly in the morning &#x200B; He gazed in wonder, or maybe fear To see the impossible stop so near Engine, tender, carriages black Clear as day, sharp as a tack &#x200B; From outside all was quite serene * Apart from the atrocious steam - But inside - now there one could tell That this was truly a train from hell &#x200B; The corpses screamed, whooped and cried, Turned handles vainly, locked inside They clamoured, their dead arms a’beckoning Inviting Howard to his reckoning &#x200B; A tall man from the rear descended Checked his watch, his face offended “So sorry that we’re running late, I do try to be on time for fate.” &#x200B; He gazed at Howard, from top to floor “Ah! Mr Wilkins - I’ve seen you before I knew it then, I’m never wrong This train is right where you belong” &#x200B; “Now if you please, we need to hurry We’ve four more stops (and that’s just Surrey) If you would kindly step aboard I think you’ll find your just reward.” &#x200B; As Howard started his approach To the nearest black and gleaming coach The beasts on board roared and knocked, Protested Howard “The door is locked.” &#x200B; “Not so fast” the Guard’s smile was wide “What makes you think you’ll sit inside? ‘Replace the stoker, until repentance Coal and fire’: that’s your sentence” &#x200B; A blackened man stepped from the tender His eyes red hot, charcoal ember His body broken, bent in double Produced for Howard a filthy shovel &#x200B; The spade was hot - no wooden handle Melting his hands, as wax on candle Howard screamed, he dropped the spade Jumped back from the unholy crash it made &#x200B; “How” said Howard “Am I expected To use that tool as you directed?” It can’t just be me that understands That to shovel coal I need my hands? &#x200B; “Mr Wilkins, do you not comprehend Just where you are, and to what end? You’ll shovel coal, make no mistake Until I hear your backbone break.” &#x200B; “You’ll be in pain, and you’ll carry on For Howard Wilkins, you’ve done wrong This train must run, this train needs coal And if you stop: I’ll burn your soul.” &#x200B; “Now on the tender, and quick about it My orders are not to be flouted Though yes! I do have one nice surprise Someone’s here for their goodbyes” &#x200B; And the woman, dressed in black Haunting him, was once more back She pulled down her laced and ornate veil To show a face, waxy and pale &#x200B; There hadn’t been an open casket After the knife from the bread basket And though the mortician had done good work Her face remained a jagged smirk &#x200B; She’d never made that smile alive While sat with him in Chaffinch drive “Hello, dear.