A Cant Cove 1964 Christmas Story

[Chris in Prague]

A Cant Cove 1964 Christmas Tale

Part One

It is late evening, Wednesday, December 23rd, 1964, at fog-shrouded London's Waterloo station. A tired Sylvia, the beloved only daughter of Lord and Lady Trevelver, of the ancient castle of that name, high above Cant Cove, near Wadebridge, North Cornwall, enters the still busy station shortly before midnight and makes her way to the platform indicated by the departure boards for the 12:15 AM for EXETER CENTRAL, OKEHAMPTON, HALWILL, BUDE, WADEBRIDGE, TREPOL BAY, and PENMAYNE (arrival 7:26AM). What the boards do not reveal, but the pretty, slim brunette knows, is that a Special Stop Order has been authorised for the 12:15 to, briefly, halt at Cant Cove, at 7:10AM, to set her and her luggage down where the Castle's grinning Head Butler will be waiting to take her, by car, to her ancestral family home. As she walks along the train, mainly composed of new BR Standard Brake Composite coaches with a few old Bulleid design semi-open Brake Second and Second Corridor [Compartment] coaches but all in the immaculately clean dark green livery of British Railway's Southern Region, Sylvia, automatically notes the roofboards placed near the coaches' rooflines: EXETER CENTRAL (three coaches); OKEHAMPTON, HALWILL & BUDE (one coach); OKEHAMPTON, WADEBRIDGE & TREPOL BAY (one coach); then, finally, OKEHAMPTON, WADEBRIDGE & PENMAYNE (two coaches).

Waterloo's Station Master, complete with black top hat, is waiting to welcome the daughter of the renowned Lady Penelope, a frequent visitor to British Railway's Southern Region headquarters and highly respected by all (and even feared by some) as the initiator and driving force behind the Alliance for Cornwall's Railways which is doing so much to transform the viability of the railways and businesses of the peninsula. The senior railwayman shakes Sylvia's leather gloved hand with his white gloved right hand and then presents her with a bunch of fresh flowers passed to him by an equally smartly dressed assistant, before showing her to her reserved compartment in the brand new BR SR Green Brake First Corridor Coach. Sylvia's luggage safely stowed in the rack above her seat, the two railwaymen depart, gently closing the compartment door behind them. Checking her gold Patek Philippe watch, a 21st birthday present, bought in Paris for her by her parents, Sylvia sees she still has 10 minutes before departure so leaves the warm carriage and briskly walks the short distance past the brake van area of her coach – through the open doors of which Christmas mail, parcels, and express goods item are still being loaded, as is the case with the other brake vans in the multi-portioned train including the Brake Second in matching shining green behind her coach making up the other part of the twin portion that will terminate in far-away Penmayne.

Sylvia is delighted (but not surprised) to discover at the head of her train is an immaculately polished long sloping sided, simmering steam locomotive which she knows to be one of the Cornish Locomotive Preservation Group's prized Bulleid Light Pacifics, Battle of Britain class, 34065 "Hurricane", fresh after a Heavy General Overhaul at Eastleigh Works (which has, finally, cured it of its reputation for being a 'poor steamer' the two-man crew assure her as they greet her) and looking very smart in its BR Early Crest Green livery. Officially, on loan to BR SR for 'special duties', the loco. is, unusually, working through to Penmayne, Sylvia learns, after having brought a Christmas Shoppers' special up to the capital from Cornwall earlier that day. The volunteer BR SR crew (both also CLPG members) who will be relieved at Exeter Central by a similar pair of volunteers, from Penmayne, have invited her onto the loco's clean and tidy footplate but Sylvia, not wanting to get in their way as they make their last minute adjustments, politely refuses, talking to them from the platform side, instead. Soon, "better be boarding, shortly, Miss Sylvia", calls down the driver, who as a CLPG committee member knows her by sight.

Thanking them and wishing them a good run, Sylvia returns to her empty compartment to settle down. She misses the familiar comfort of the old Maunsell design coach that had, formerly formed one part of the two-coach Penmayne portion but has to agree that the new BR Standard compartment coach is warm and cosy, although built at Derby, she had sadly noted. Sylvia also misses her friends having had to come up to London for a last minute business meeting for her agency. Her business partner, Eli, is already back at home, in Brittany, and the other 'Chelsea Girls' are already at Cant Cove, or on their way. Sylvia greatly misses her dear friend, Captain Jeremy, and wonders just why he could not be with her for Christmas? Travelling alone, at the last minute, instead of in a reserved BR SR Restaurant Mini Buffet Car full of Christmas cheer and decorations with her laughing friends enjoying seasonal food and drink, presided over by the smiling Castle Head Butler, Sylvia has to make do with a small wicker hamper, sent up from Cant Cove in the guard's compartment of a previous through train.

The guard's whistle blows, the loco's crew acknowledge the off with a deeper whistle from their loco. and, without any of the all-too-common slipping Sylvia has experienced with less expert crew, "Hurricane" sure-footedly picks up speed as it negotiates the maze of point work. Sighing, Sylvia, unties the red ribbon and removes the bunch of holly to open the hamper. Inside, there is a Christmas Greetings Card with the reproduction of a lifelike colour painting, by a local artist, of "The Railway Hotel" in fresh snow, signed by the management and staff. Setting the card to one side, she finds a small bottle of champagne with a tiny card attached, signed by her Chelsea wine merchant friend, Giles; a bottle of "Castle Estates" sparkling spring water; another signed Christmas Card from the North Cornwall Pasty Co., accompanied by one of their delicious traditional pasties and one of their large luxury mince pies with mincemeat first soaked in French brandy, port, rum and sherry, according to its printed greaseproof paper Christmas wrapping; a rosy red apple; a bright orange tangerine; a small sack of mixed nuts; and a small pack of 'Extra Strong Mints'! Wrapped in crisp white napkins are a champagne and a mineral water glass, and two white porcelain plates with the BR SR totem. A lot of thought, and even love had, she realises, gone into the hamper's contents.

As the snaking train steams through southwest London's seemingly endless suburbs, Sylvia wonders why she feels so tired and, even . . . . depressed, just before Christmas, her favourite time of year? Is it because she is getting older? That she is working harder than ever before? That the 'Swinging London' that she and her friends had found so excitingly new, fun, and idealistic was already showing worrying signs of disintegrating into political radicalism, drug-induced apathy (or worse) and naked commercial ambition? Cornwall is seeming a more and more attractive place to be, she reflects as she carefully opens her champagne and slowly pours some into the sparkling flute on the little table under the curtained window.

Thanks to her mother and friends' efforts in the Alliance for Cornwall's Railways, she reminds herself, the proposed 1963 transfer of all SR lines west of Salisbury to the Western Region and drastic changes to (even the rumoured withdrawal of) the famous "Atlantic Coast Express" had been amended and, apart from the withdrawal of Torrington through carriages the previous year with all passenger services between Halwill and Torrington due to cease the following year, the remaining passenger and goods train services survive, albeit with some necessary (and sensible) rationalisation agreed between the SR and WR following careful and detailed analysis by the team directed by the "Castle Estates" chief accountant and his assistant. After the end of that year's summer timetable, in the September, the "Atlantic Coast Express" had become diesel-hauled by new SR Type 3s on a speeded up schedule with steam haulage agreed to be reinstated in the Summer 1965 timetable using a pool of specially overhauled Bullied Light Pacifics owned by the CLPG but provided to BR SR on an operational and maintenance lease working to the same speeded-up timetable. The similarly motivated Alliance of Cornish (now West Country) Breweries, again relying on the detailed analysis and planning of the "Castle Estates" accountants, seems to have halted the threatened march of Whitbread into the West Country. A lot to celebrate, then . . ., but . . . Sylvia drains her glass of champagne. But is all this hard work and considerable investment in time, money and effort REALLY worth it? Were they all only delaying the inevitable decline of their beloved Cornwall, its railways, businesses and people's livelihoods?

The train speeds on, Sylvia's bottle of champagne now empty. Her pasty half-eaten. The delicious mince pie reduced to a few crumbs. The mineral water bottle, empty, falls off the table and rolls on the floor as, in the darkness, the train lurches through a series of points. The compartment lights are dimmed, the curtains drawn. The hamper, into which she had returned the two empty glasses and pair of plates, lies on the seat next to her as the exhausted young woman, slumped, in the corner, sleeps troubled by uneasy dreams. Somewhere after Woking, a sudden, brief flash of light illuminates the corner of a white envelope sticking out of one of the pockets of her Aquascutum camel hair wool blend winter coat, with The Doctor neatly handwritten on it . . .

[port perran]

Thanks for the story Chris.

[Mito]

I wait in suspense for part 2

[port perran]

I wait in suspense for part 2

Crikey!! Thought I read that wrongly for a second

[Chetcombe]

Very enjoyable Chris, look forward to part 2

Merry Christmas!

[weave]

Hi Chris,

I'm glad Eli's safely tucked up in bed in Brittany as I used to live near Woking and it can be quite frightening, especially the last train home 

Looking forward to part 2 too.

Hope you have a great day tomorrow/today.

Happy Christmas weave,

Sante 

[Chris in Prague]

Hi Chris,

I'm glad Eli's safely tucked up in bed in Brittany as I used to live near Woking and it can be quite frightening, especially the last train home 

Looking forward to part 2 too.

Hope you have a great day tomorrow/today.

Happy Christmas weave,

Sante 

Many thanks, Weave. I wish you the same. I have been on a last train from Waterloo, calling at Woking, myself, a few times, with military police very visible on Woking station! Fortunately, Sylvia's train does not stop at Woking. 8-)

[austinbob]

A Cant Cove 1964 Christmas Tale

When's the TV series Chris??
Happy Xmas

[Chris in Prague]

Wishing you all a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Part 2
   Somewhere before Salisbury, where the train is booked to make an unannounced stop to take on more water and set down and pick up Christmas mail and parcels, the door to Sylvia's compartment slides open and the Ticket Inspector, a big burly man, rostered especially to assist the guard with any Christmas revellers who have over imbibed, turns up the compartment lights and announces: "Tickets, please!" Startled, Sylvia, groggily, rubs her eyes and, getting up, takes down her smart new large white patent leather bag (an early Christmas present from Mary Quant) and, opening it, passes over her First Class ticket and Compartment Reservation slip. "Ah, thank you, Miss Sylvia, sorry to disturb you. I trust all is well?" The young woman, stifling a yawn, nods and thanks him as she returns the ticket and paper to her handbag. Just as the railwayman is about to turn down the lights and close the door, he turns and, she thinks he says: "The Doctor says the Great Man Theory of History is all wrong, you know!" Bemused, Sylvia, reaches into her leather bag and, removing a folded-up copy of London's "Evening Standard", carefully spreads its pages across the end of her seat. Then placing her long Mary Quant patterned tight clad legs in their white patent leather "go-go" Courrèges boots (a birthday present bought by her friend and business partner, Eli, in Paris) on the paper's pages, she spreads her warm coat over herself. As she does so, her heavy eyelids with their smoky Mary Quant eyeshadow already drooping, Sylvia thinks she notices something white sticking out of her right-hand coat pocket that wasn't there before. But, before she can consider the thought, she is, again, fast asleep.

   The long, green train gently comes to a halt at a Salisbury Station almost deserted of waiting passengers. Then the doors to the rearmost guard's areas are thrown open and porters and postal workers with barrows swarm around the coaches to remove brown GPO mail sacks and pass parcels out. Further up the train, a similar process, but in reverse, has begun as railway and postal staff add mail sacks and parcels for the train's next stops. The commotion awakens Sylvia. Moving the curtains to look out her compartment window, she sees a second BR SR driver and fireman, again CLPG members, are waiting for the train at the head of the platform, eager to pass the required requalification inspection by the bowler-hatted traction inspector who is also standing at the platform's end. Greetings completed, having swung the canvas bag of the water crane over the opened tender water tank inlet and turned on the water via the large metal wheel, the second fireman climbs up the nearest rear ladder of the big green Pacific loco.'s tender and assists the first fireman by moving coal forward as thousands of gallons flow into the tank. (The top quality coal, renowned for its steam generating capabilities, is supplied to the CLPG from a coal mine in the extensive Somerset coalfields near Withy Junction.) Meanwhile, the second driver is carefully oiling parts of the locomotive's motion.

After handing over their train to the new crew, the first pair make their way to the reserved first compartment of Sylvia's coach, their laughter briefly half-awakening her from a sleep full of disturbing dreams. Unlocking the door the two railwaymen settle down on the dustsheet covered seats to drink tea from their white enamel cans then rest before swopping places with the second crew at Exeter. One by one, pair by pair, the train's brake end carriages' doors are closed. The train's guard gives a long blast on his whistle from the last open door and with a sharp bark of exhaust, the big locomotive surefootedly gets its train under way, again. As the big running in board with its enamel sign proclaiming 'SALISBURY' in white on Southern Region Green passes, Sylvia draws the curtain closed, again, and settles back to sleep under her warm mid-brown coat.

[port perran]

Looking forward to Part 3 Chris.

[Chris in Prague]

Thank you all for your kind comments. Previous parts will be updated as necessary. The order of the train's various portions is hypothetical but based on the theory that the part which has the furthest to travel will always be the first to depart from whenever the train divides. Also, as the train is running in the run-up to Christmas, it has the same generous allocation of coaches with brake ends (to carry Christmas mail and parcels) as a similar daytime train in the summer holiday season would have (but for passengers' luggage which was far more extensive than we are used to setting off with in these days of budget airline minimal baggage allowances!). In this alternative 1960s, some influential people are far more entrepreneurial and, more importantly, sympathetic to entrepreneurial activities than would, I suggest, have been the case in the early to mid-1960s and, particularly so, in the nationalised British Railways. But I'm getting ahead of Sylvia's story . . . 8-)

[Chetcombe]

I'm a bit worried Sylvia is going to be fast asleep and miss the stop at Cant Cove and wake up in Penmayne. I did that once and woke up in the carriage sidings at Dorking; it was an expensive taxi ride from there back home

[Chris in Prague]

I'm a bit worried Sylvia is going to be fast asleep and miss the stop at Cant Cove and wake up in Penmayne. I did that once and woke up in the carriage sidings at Dorking; it was an expensive taxi ride from there back home

Don't worry, Mike. As the train will only be two coaches by the time it leaves Wadebridge, a brand new BR Standard BCK plus a Bulleid BSK, and everyone knows that Sylvia will be in a reserved compartment of the BCK, the Head Butler will know where to find her and the Cant Cove stationmaster would not dream of giving the guard the right-away until Sylvia had safely disembarked with all her luggage. Similarly, the guard would refuse to acknowledge the stationmaster's whistle and the loco.'s crew would not 'see' the guard's green flag or hear his whistle even if he were to do so! Lastly, the ostensible reason for the Special Stop Order, unloading Christmas mail and parcels, rather than the daughter of the local nobility and her luggage (not certain to be understood at Waterloo by the younger generation of more egalitarian SR managers), was, in fact true, and unloading the guard's area of the Bulleid BSK of items for Cant Cove, including hampers from Harrods and Fortnum & Mason for the Castle, as well as letters and parcels to be transferred to the local GPO Landrover, easily took more time than it would take the Head Butler to find Sylvia, awaken her and assist her out of the train whilst ensuring that her luggage had been unloaded from the BCK onto the busy station platform.

[port perran]

That's a relief.
I believe that station staff at Trepol Bay had been put on alert in case such an unfortunate incident did indeed transpire.

[Chris in Prague]

Part 3

In the speeding train, Sylvia is dreaming, again, vividly. In her dream, she is standing on a high hilltop at dusk, a hilltop that, somehow she knows is in Cornwall, her Cornwall, somewhere north, close to the roiling, restless Atlantic. Inland, all around she sees lines of pure bright light passing through earthworks, standing stones and stone circles, through ancient churches and groves of trees glowing with soft light as they stand tall on their curved mounds of earth. All are linked by the same lines of gently pulsing brilliantly shining light which she now sees extend upwards for many yards. She feels exhilarated, energised, full of exuberant joy, a pure joy like she has never experienced before. She feels that her heart will burst from sheer happiness. Then just when she thinks she can absorb no more, the wonderful scene suddenly dissolves . . . Now, high above Cornwall, appears a glowing giant white dragon fighting a similarly enormous dragon, but a fearsome dragon so black that it is not a colour at all but the absence of all colour, all light, all hope. Sylvia feels the energy draining from her; leaving her, once again, tense, anxious, sick in mind, body, and spirit as the train speeds on towards Exeter.

***

"That doesn't sound right, Grandfather," remarks Arkytior, a tall, teenage-looking girl, with short dark hair framing a rather elfin face, known on Earth as Susan, as they enter the control room of the TARDIS. "If the Tardis had a human heart you would say that it was skipping a beat. Probably, the synchroniser valve. Why you have to use that primitive vacuum-tube triode technology when a transistor let alone an integrated circuit . . . "

"Nonsense, my girl!" exclaims her easily irritated white-haired relative as he bends down to open a panel under the central console. "Analogue components are FAR more appropriate for the Tardis! Now, do something useful and hand me my sonic screwdriver and let me see what is troubling her."

Instead of the steady grinding and whirring which usually accompanies the rise and fall of the central cylinder of the control panel as they travel through space and time there is a discordant, harsh screeching note and the translucent cylinder is rising and falling in an increasingly erratic manner.

"There's nothing for it, I'm afraid. We will have to land; the thermionic valve won't last much longer and I have no spares left."

"Oh, I see. It's a great pity we had to leave Gallifrey in such a hurry in a . . . "

"Stolen Tardis from the repair shop beneath the Capitol," completes her Grandfather with a scowl.

"Mmm, yes," responds the Time Lord's pretty young teenage looking granddaughter shaking her dark-haired head. "And a faulty TT Type 40, Mark 3 one at that!" Brightening, she continues, "transistors were invented on Earth as far back as 1947 and, by 1953, were already being used in some products . . . "

"Very good, my dear. I see you've been diligently applying yourself to your lessons. However, the first working silicon transistor only came in 1954."

"But, Grandfather, within a few years, transistor-based products, most notably radios, were appearing on the market. So, any time in the 1960s, and anywhere where silicon transistors are available . . . "

"Yes, yes! She won't like such a device but . . . "

"We have no choice!"

"Indeed. Now, where and when . . . "

"I know, Grandfather! 'Swinging London', mid-1960s! Mmm . . . Christmas 1964! You can go to find a suitable transistor and I can go shopping in Carnaby Street! You know that time in London was the happiest of my life. I miss those days and my friends."

"Yes, yes. Now, to set the co-ordinates . . . "

***

The fearsome fighting dragons fade away and a gentle soft voice from immeasurably far away calls to Sylvia: "Sylvia, dear Sylvia. It is time to remember who you are; from whence you come. Reach back. Far back. Past your Norman, Viking, Saxon and Celtic forebears. Right back. Back to the memories of your Phoenician ancestors: the fearless, far-roaming seafaring men and their wise wives who came to Cornwall to trade for tin bringing the wisdom of the East with them. Right back to the memories of your ancestors who came from the Lost Lands of the West bringing with them their understanding of All. Remember the unbroken line, for: 'You are She who is the Wisest of the Wise, who concerns herself in the matters of her people.' For, you are the Lady and your Time is fast approaching!"

***

On the footplate of "Hurricane", Driver Trevithick's fireman is concerned at the state of the fire burning within the Pacific's grate. "I've never seen it burn so fierce 'n' bright."

"Mmm, you're right there, Jack. Are you sure it's that Somerset steam coal?"

"Of course, I watched it being loaded into the coaling tower at Nine Elms, from one of our CLPG's SR coal wagons then straight into her tender. Nothing but the best."

"Very strange. I've never seen so little coal put out so much energy. I know she's fresh out of Eastleigh Works but I've never known a loco. perform so well. It's like I'm continually having to hold her back. Like she's a livin' thing strainin' at the harness . . . A mighty beast racin' for home! What do you think Inspector?" asks the perplexed driver, removing his cap to scratch his thinning, greying hair.

The Inspector carefully studies the blindingly bright fire through the opened doors. "Well, Driver Trevithick, Fireman Rowse. That is a rum do and no mistaking. That fire moves and burns like nothin' I've ever seen afore!"

"An' the nearer we get to Exeter, the less coal she burns . . . "

"Yet," adds his driver, "uphill or down she's runnin' at the same steady pace, mile after mile, no matter. I merely have to touch the brakes now and then to keep her within the limit."

"I've noted that, Driver Trevithick, the best run I've ever seen from Salisbury. And the lowest coal consumption, too. You know, I'd tell you both that you've passed with flying colours your requalification inspection on Bulleid Light Pacifics, but . . . it's almost like she's running all by herself. And, see", the Inspector, holding the cab handrail tightly as he leans out and forward, adds: "what's that golden glimmerin' along her sides?"

The driver crosses over the cab and takes the Inspector's place. "I've never seen summat like that afore."

"Me, neither", adds the fireman, doing the same on the other side of the cab. "It's all around her! Glowin' and . . . pulsin' . . . like a livin' thing!"

"That can't 'ave been any normal Heavy General Overhaul they gave 'er! She's runnin' like . . . like . . . a hurricane!"

"I've seen the paperwork, Driver Trevithick, and I can assure you", responds the Inspector, "nothing out of the ordinary was done to her. Nothing like No. 34064 "Fighter Command", which was fitted with a Giesl ejector in 1962. No, there's some other explanation, of that I'm certain. But, blow me, if I know what!"