As Sylvia would later discover, several months prior, a clandestine gathering had been held in the secure oak-panelled Library of the Chelsea townhouse—some discussions were too secret even for Whitehall.

Present were her parents, her godfather, and the enigmatic Admiral Tregowan—the head of a top-secret organisation within the British government and confidant of Sir Winston Churchill. Their purpose, veiled in the utmost secrecy—decisions that would shape the future of the Trevelvers.

The Admiral, the embodiment of purposeful discretion, presided over their clandestine deliberations. His posture remained disciplined, unwavering, as his gaze swept the room—an adept grandmaster, perpetually calculating several moves ahead. Clad in his customary tailored suit of dark hues, he exuded professionalism and a reserved sense of style. Every detail, meticulously attended to, mirrored the precision he applied to life's intricate game.
His silver hair crowned a tall frame, a testament to wisdom earned through navigating treacherous waters. His steel grey eyes, unique and penetrating, added to the air of discernment that surrounded him. Lines etched on his face spoke of a lifetime spent balancing duty's delicate scales and hinted at years of strategic manoeuvring. The chessboard awaited his next move.

His presence carried the weight of history and whispered covert instructions. When he spoke it was the measured cadence of a man who knew when to reveal and when to withhold. Approval for Jeremy Corentyn Cador—the putative heir to Trevelver Castle—was the subject. Since the First World War and Winston Churchill's time as First Lord of the Admiralty, the Castle had housed an ultra-secret site of the greatest national military importance. Thus, the Admiral—steward of secret history—wielded influence. Lord and Lady Trevelver patiently awaited his decision while Sir George watched, eyes sharp as a rook's beak, the well-being of his goddaughter front and centre. The future of the twenty-one-year-old naval officer rested on the Admiral's approval—a pawn's journey toward figurative kingship.

The Library doors firmly closed. As soon as all were seated, Admiral Tregowan opened the meeting without preamble.

"Before we delve into the heart of our discussion," he began, his voice a low rumble, "we have another related matter to consider." His gaze swept over the three faces focussed on him. "Sylvia", he continued, "the young heiress to Trevelver Castle remains absent from our midst. She is but fourteen. Yet in two years' time, she will be considered old enough to sign the requisite Official Secrets Act."

Lady Trevelver, her dark brown eyes alight with determination, rose from her chair. "Admiral", she began, her gaze unwavering, "as you are aware, the Trevelvers uphold the sacred traditions of Atlantis—the Queen Priestesses of that lost civilisation. Their wisdom, their connection to the unseen realms, transcends mere mortal years. Even centuries later, in medieval England", she stated, her voice unwavering, "the age of majority remained at fourteen for girls if married and sixteen if single; while, for boys, it was twenty-one, as it is today, alas, for both genders! However, our family steadfastly upholds fourteen as the age of majority for our daughters—a matrilineal legacy stretching back to our ancestor Queen Priestesses, the bearers of ancient wisdom now known to very few."

Lord Trevelver nodded, his features showing quiet pride. "Admiral, our daughter", he stated, "is no ordinary girl. She carries the inheritance of those priestesses within her—a lineage that defies mere mortal years."

Sir George, ever the vigilant protector, leaned forward. "Unusual as the situation may indeed seem, Admiral, I can affirm that Syvia's maturity surpasses her years", he stated. "Her inheritance, at this time, demands her inclusion in our counsels."

And so, in that hallowed room, the Admiral weighed ancient tradition against modern-day regulations. Sylvia, at fourteen, stood on the threshold of destiny. The Official Secrets Act awaited her signature. A pawn's journey toward queenship, affirmed by ancient bloodlines and the wisdom of ages.

In the dimly lit room, the green-shaded electric bulbs cast their shadows upon the mahogany bookshelves. Lady Penelope's resolve remained unyielding: her daughter need not wait. From their ethereal realm, the Queen Priestesses nodded—an ancient approval echoing through the fabric of time and space. The decision was made. And now, Admiral Tregowan could turn their attention to the main business at hand.

As if that moment summoned by Sylvie's thoughts, her beloved godfather, Sir George Widgeon III, came into view, moving with accustomed grace across the crowded terrace. His meticulously groomed silver-streaked hair catches the fading sunlight as he acknowledges individual guests with a smile and a cheery greeting. The impeccably tailored navy-blue suit he wears—a testament to timeless elegance—accentuates his stature and bearing.

Greeting Sylvie and her godmother, Sir George's eyes crinkle at the corners—a genuine warmth that transcends formality. His commanding presence exudes both authority and congeniality, striking a balance between confidence and approachability. When he kisses Isadora's cheeks, their shared history resonates in the timbre of his rich, resonant voice.

Turning to his goddaughter, his cobalt eyes twinkle in his good-humoured face. In this delicate moment, Sir George embodies the essence of a true gentleman. He leans down to Sylvie's level, observing her pose—the delicate tilt of her chin, the way her long, slim-gloved hands clasp the folds of her pink dress.

"Ah, my dear Sylvie", he says, his words a symphony of perfect assurance. "You are a vision—a rosebud in full bloom. Your dress is the epitome of elegance. And your bearing! Straight-backed, shoulders squared—you carry yourself with the grace of a swan gliding across a mirrored lake."

His strong, comforting hand briefly rests gently upon her shoulder. It is a touch that bridges generations—a connection between the seasoned English gentleman and the glowing promise of youthful beauty and latent power. Sylvie's heart swells.

"And your smile," Sir George continues, his broad smile mirroring hers. This evening, you've made us all feel a little brighter, a little younger."

In this tender moment, Sylvie is enveloped by her godfather's congratulatory embrace—a steadfast display of considerate courtesy before he gently reassures her.

"Dear Sylvie, as you prepare to meet Jeremy Corentyn Cador for the first time, you're not flying solo. Isadora and I will be by your side on this important occasion."

"Indeed, we will", Isadora assures Sylvie.

"Although Trevelver tradition forbids us from discussing the young man in question," her godfather pauses and, leaning closer, whispers, " You have nothing to fear, my dear! Absolutely nothing at all!"

The new series of 'The Responder' started on BBC1 last night and he plays Martin Freeman's father so that was probably his last acting part

RIP Bernard.
He was the king of Rohan in the LOR trilogy,
loved him in Boys from the black stuff, should try and find that on a streaming service to watch again.

The name rings a bell, though I've never seen the show you mention. What part did he play in Lord of the Rings?

Famous for playing Yosser Hughes (Gissa job) in 'Boys from the black stuff' through to Lord of the Rings and Titanic, he was a very versatile actor and will be sorely missed

Amidst the lively hum of conversation and the delicate chime of crystal glasses, the family's formidable Head Butler, Huw Jenkins, moves with precision, orchestrating the evening's festivities. Guests—dressed in their finest attire—exchange pleasantries, their laughter punctuating the evening air.

And there, amidst the throng of adults, stands Sylvie. Her youth belies a quiet confidence, and her beauty draws every eye. As her proud parents introduce her to the assembled company, Sylvie navigates this adult world with poise.

At her side, Isadora—her steadfast companion—grounds Sylvie. Her godmother's mature allure complements Sylvie's youthful beauty, balancing innocence with worldly wisdom. Together, they bridge the gap between generations, combining beauty and duty.

Sylvie's dark brown eyes widen as she takes in the well-known faces around her, their names familiar from her parents—the seasoned diplomats, the distinguished politicians, including government members of the Third Churchill Ministry, renowned military men, scientists, actors, artists, authors, industrialists, and top managers from the six Regions of British Railways, leavened with charming socialites—all gathered this beautiful evening.

She recalls how her father had explained that the previous year's Transport Act had reorganised the British Railways with a system of area boards for each of its regions, Sir Brian Robertson becoming its first Chairman.

"Robertson", her father had stated over breakfast. "A name steeped in military valour. A man who cut his teeth on the battlefields of Africa and Italy. A strategist, no doubt—though railways are a different kind of theatre of operations. A web of steel arteries connecting cities, ports, towns, and villages, factories, and farms. The pulse of commerce, the ebb and flow of commuters, the surge of summer holidaymakers."

"And what of the challenges, Charles? The pressing need for investment and modernisation, the labour unions, the ageing locomotives, electrification versus dieselisation, the delicate balance between progress and tradition? Efficiency, speed, and comfort—the trifecta to woo passengers back to the rails?" Her mother had asked, echoing the frequently expressed opinions of their family friend, Sir George Widgeon III.

"Quite. The British Railways crest—a proud lion astride a wheel—has lost some of its roar. Punctuality woes, overcrowded carriages... Leadership demands more than epaulettes and brass buttons, Penny. It requires finesse—the ability to sway ministers, open purse strings, negotiate with unions, and keep the steel wheels turning smoothly."

Sylvie, suitably informed of such weighty matters, was well prepared for the world of grown-up soirées. Yet, the blend of elegance, curiosity, and intrigue was a heady mix.

In her gown of blossom pink, Sylvie stood poised, wine glass in hand. Yet, beneath her perfect exterior, trepidation lingered. This night would shape her destiny with consequences stretching into a future she could not yet see.

Her heart raced with anticipation. What would this evening reveal? What promises would be made? Adulthood beckoned—a delicate choreography of introductions, alliances, and unspoken understandings. Sylvie took a deep breath. She was ready, and two steadfast allies would be by her side.

Hi all.

Apologies for the break in service and thanks for everyone's concern! As mentioned I've just moved house and changed jobs so NGN took a little bit of a back seat for a while but things should be getting back to normal now. It is a one man effort in my free time and these types of events can easily eat up that time.

I do have a bit of a backlog on reviews, but these will start again shortly now things are bit more settled.

Thanks again!

Tom. 

Hi,

The livery is ficticious but the wagon is not  . It is a Dgw 266 built from 1953 for DB by Talbot works, Aachen, Germany. But yes, nowhere near a Walrus or such...

Cheers, Frank