Chapter 7
As if the day hadn’t been out of the ordinary enough, the train that pulled into the little Derringbury station still managed to top it.
A steam locomotive, pulling carriage after carriage past the platform, the top half painted vintage cream and in the centre of the midnight-blue bottom half, in gold lettering, the name Yorkshire Belle.
Tim counted ten such cars after the engine head, the windows offering tantalising glimpses of opulent interiors: heavy tapestry curtains, wood-panelled walls.
When the train finally came to a stop, they all found they were level with the back of the last posh carriage and the front part of the eleventh, which was burgundy, workaday and shabby, bearing the black initials of South Riding Trains.
It looked like a poor relation cadging a lift.
When Frank said, ‘What the bloody hell… Is it royal?’ it summed up what was going through Tim’s, Roo’s and Vincent’s heads too.
They waited, silent, perplexed as to what was happening.
Was this the train they were meant to be getting on?
Then the door of the burgundy carriage opened and a man in a smart dark blue uniform hopped out.
He looked a bit togged up for a mere guard, they all thought.
‘Everyone for Eskford,’ he said, waving them on, clearly not wanting anyone to dawdle, but no one wanted to anyway. The wind started biting as soon as they’d left the waiting room.
The interior of this carriage was very different to the ones in front: rows of hard seating, half facing forwards, half the other way. South Riding Trains must be in dire straits if they were still utilising carriages this ancient, thought Vincent.
The guard checked the platform was clear, then blew the whistle that was on a cord around his neck.
Then he stepped on, slammed the door shut and dusted the snow off his jacket.
It had a YB stitched in gold on one lapel, shiny gold buttons, and two gold stripes running down the outer seam of his trousers. This wasn’t a uniform, it was livery.
Jane fumbled in her bag for her ticket so she had it ready to be scanned. Roo pulled a pained expression.
‘I haven’t got a ticket,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expect—’
‘I wouldn’t worry about tickets today,’ said the guard. ‘We can only take you one stop anyway and besides, I haven’t got the equipment to sell you one.’
‘What’s the train?’ asked Vincent, nodding forwards.
‘The Yorkshire Belle,’ replied the guard.
‘We’re going to Scotland for Christmas, picking up staff at various points along the Lochlann line.
We’ll drop you at Eskford and at least you’ll get your connections from there.
’ He grabbed hold of the back of a seat for support as the train bucked forwards, as if the driver was a learner, not yet au fait with his gears.
He pointed to the stitching on his jacket.
‘The Yorkshire Belle,’ he repeated, surprised that the name met with no reaction.
‘You’ve not heard of it? It’s been in all the newspapers.
Pullman designed all the carriages. One of the top ten most luxurious trains in the world.
You should see it.’ He sighed wistfully and gave his head a small shake. ‘Millionaires, eh?’
You’d need to be more than a millionaire to afford this setup, thought Frank. He’d be a millionaire if he liquidised all his assets and he couldn’t afford to own even one of those posh carriages, never mind ten plus an engine to pull them.
‘Maiden trip,’ the guard went on. ‘We are meeting Mr and Mrs Ingleton and their friends at Glasgow. You’ll have heard of Dwight J. Ingleton, of course.’
Their blank faces seemed to further stupefy the guard who tried again to jog their memories. ‘American businessman? Very very rich businessman at that. Iron and Steel – surely you’ve read about him?’ Still nothing.
‘And he’s bought himself a train,’ said Frank. ‘Like you do.’ And not a Hornby set either, but a life-size one with Pullman carriages.
‘In a nutshell,’ said the guard. ‘And we’re travelling around Scotland until the New Year. I know it’s work for us, but there are worse jobs.’
‘I hope he’s paying you all well,’ put in Roo. She’d done steward work and they’d treated her like a slave.
‘He’s a very generous man,’ said the guard with a knowing wink.
‘We get our perks. No shortage of people wanting to work for him, even over Christmas.’ He smiled fondly then.
‘He’s taken quite the shine to Yorkshire and his wife’s ancestors were from Scotland, hence why they decided to go there to christen the train.
Some folks live in another world, it makes the Orient Express look like a cattle truck. ’
‘I’d love to see it,’ Jane said.
‘Can’t show you, alas,’ said the guard, shaking his head.
‘No access via this carriage; besides, we can’t have people stamping their shoes through it before Mr Ingleton.
’ He shuddered then as if someone had walked over his grave.
‘Sorry about the temperature, there’s something wrong with the heating in here, but you’ll be off and on your way in about twenty minutes and at least it’s warmer in than out. ’
Roo would have questioned that. She blew out her cheeks and saw the ghost of her breath appear like ectoplasm.
Frank placed his hand over Grace’s and whispered, ‘I think he’s having a laugh, don’t you, love?
’ Hers didn’t move, didn’t make an effort to flip and curl her fingers around his; it remained stiff.
He kept it there though, because she was cold and he wanted to comfort her, defrost her.
If only it were as easy as holding her and transferring some of his heat, but she was frozen beyond her bones, beyond her soul.
‘Can I just ask, how big is Eskford station? Are we really likely to get our trains from there?’ asked Elizabeth, leaning forward to speak to the guard who had taken the seat in front of her.
‘Well, the station itself is about the same size as Derringbury, but just because it’s a little station doesn’t mean it’s not as well-connected as the big ones. More than one line goes through it, hence its full name: Eskford Junction.’
Its full name was music to their ears because it sounded busy and reliable. Hope settled in their hearts and stayed there for ten glorious minutes, then the train juddered and ground to a sudden hard stop, the main lights were extinguished and the emergency lights came on.