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For those of you who have been following "An Eventful Christmas at Trevelver Castle", I am posting, as a 'taster', a draft of Chapter One of "Keeper Of Secrets" for feedback. I won't be posting the whole book. Book One in the series is just about finished, and Book Two is underway. Both incorporate not only the same characters as have been featured on the forum but also some of the stories. There is a railway element running through the books, (as in this chapter), but some scenes from the books are for Mature Audiences only and could not be posted in a family forum.

The following is the draft marketing 'blurb':
THE KEEPER OF SECRETS

"Set against the vibrant backdrop of early 1960s Swinging London and the mystical shores of North Cornwall, **The Keeper of Secrets** is an enchanting tale of romance, history, and magic, intended for mature audiences.

As Sylvia Trevelver approaches her sixteenth birthday, the awakening of her magical powers unlocks long-buried secrets linked to her heritage—secrets that could reshape her destiny. With the legacy of Atlantis coursing through her veins and the looming presence of Trevelver Castle casting its shadow, Sylvia must navigate powerful expectations and the enchanting allure of a world steeped in history and hidden truths.

Three years later, surrounded by her band of liberated, independent, fashion-loving female friends—bold, savvy, and fiercely supportive—Sylvia steps into the exciting realm of advertising, art, high fashion, and youthful rebellion, exploring the complexities of love. Among them is Elayne Guillou, a beautiful but tormented young Breton artist whose mysterious charm and hidden passions introduce a captivating love tangle that challenges Sylvia's heart. Torn between her growing feelings for the handsome protector she needs to fulfill her destiny Jeremy Cador, and the magnetic pull of Elayne, Sylvia embarks on a journey through the intertwined realms of magic, desire, and business success.

As they all confront societal norms and personal desires, the story reveals the beauty of love in all its forms, thoughtfully navigating intimate connections that are sexy but never pornographic.

Can Sylvia unravel the truth behind her inheritance, protect her newfound love, achieve business success, and embrace the hidden legacies that bind her to Atlantis and Trevelver Castle?

For lovers of romance, history, magic, Sixties high fashion, and the charm of railways, **The Keeper of Secrets** invites readers on a captivating journey filled with laughter, heartache, and unexpected challenges. Join them in a world where the echoes of the past collide with the vibrant spirit of the present—a story that celebrates independence, friendship, and the diverse expressions of love, lingering in your heart long after the last page is turned."

This is the book's first scene, written in a magical realism style, which introduces a world where the ordinary and the extraordinary coexist seamlessly. In this narrative, fantastical elements are woven into everyday life, and accepted without question by the characters. The scene sets the tone for the story by blurring the lines between reality and imagination, using magical aspects to express deeper emotions and provoke thought about the nature of reality. The genre blends the real and the supernatural to make poignant observations about the human experience.

Copyright Christopher Shallow MSc 2024

Chapter 1: The Arrival

"There are those very rare occasions, Jeremy", the older man said, his voice low and gravelly as he swirled the measure of amber liquid in his glass, "when being the first-born son means very little".

Across the softly lit wood-panelled study, the woman with flashing green eyes leaned forward in the crimson leather chair. Despite the late spring evening, a fire crackled softly. Her silver-streaked hair caught the firelight as she addressed Jeremy resolutely. "Yes, when being the first-born daughter is all that matters!"

Her gaze bore into Jeremy's confused face for a long moment before she leaned back in her chair. "Let's start at the very beginning, young man—since we were both there at the beginning."

"Indeed", her companion replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I've always found that's the best place to begin."

Trevelver Castle, Monday, 28th November 1938

Amid North Cornwall's undulating hills, Trevelver Castle emerges like a slumbering giant from the rain-soaked horizon. Its grey granite walls, weathered like an ancient warrior's skin, defy time. Salt-laden gusts sweep uphill from Cant Cove, whispering secrets of the past.

The visitor's motorcar crawls along the driveway, its driver vigilant for fallen branches. Rain-slicked tyres sluice through the final stretch of an endless journey. Memories rush forth, tinged with complex emotions, overshadowing the urgent telephone call and heartfelt apologies about downed lines that prompted their urgent journey.

Knuckles white on the steering wheel, they peer through the rain-lashed windscreen. Headlamps carve wan light through November gloom. The gnarled limbs of ancient oaks and beeches stretch overhead like spectral fingers. Strong gusts send the branches dipping perilously low, scraping the car's roof with eerie, drawn-out screeches setting the driver's teeth on edge.

As the Alvis Silver Crest rounds the final bend, battered gardens come into view. Winding stone pathways gleam, each puddle reflecting the turbulent sky. Once again, the visitor feels the familiar, unsettling presence of ancient secrets, whispering from an unimaginably distant time.

The Castle stands tall, silhouetted against the storm-tossed sky. Rain beats a relentless tattoo on the car's ebony exterior. Moonlight fights through leaden clouds, catching on wet stone. Intricately carved windows punctuate the rain-slicked stone walls, their surfaces reflecting interior warmth. Sturdy battlemented towers rise resolutely toward the starless sky.

The Castle evokes its familiar blend of awe and unease. Weathered stones promise sanctuary, yet hint at untold histories concealed within. As they approach, the visitor braces themselves against both gale and Castle. Crossing its threshold means entering a world where past and present blur.

The clocktower chimes a quarter to midnight, each tone penetrating bone before the gale swallows them whole. The visitor's breath catches, fingers tightening on the wheel. It seems the Castle itself holds its breath, aware that destiny is about to unfold.

The coupe halts before towering oaken doors. In the sudden quiet, senses sharpen: the whistling wind, mournful gulls, and a pounding heart carry renewed weight. A door swings open, and a silhouetted figure emerges with a lantern. A second retrieves the rain-slicked suitcase as the two men exchange knowing glances.

Stepping out, the visitor feels Trevelver's full impact. Its imposing silhouette offers refuge yet exudes mystery. Wind slices through clothing, carrying a briny scent. A bone-deep chill settles—not just from the elements but as if the ground exudes centuries of bitter cold.

Hurrying inside, the air thickens with history's weight. Grand halls illustrate tales of former inhabitants. Shadows brood while beeswax candles flicker in red and gold lanterns, hinting at lingering presences. Burning oak logs evoke memories of cosy evenings in the Great Hall—the noble family gathered at the High Table, warmed by crackling flames in the massive Carrera marble fireplace. Yet beneath all lurks tension—a reminder that, here, the past is never truly passed.

In these halls, spirits linger in shadows, their tales awaiting the brave and sensitive. Trevelver Castle stands as a living chronicle, where history and legend intertwine. Its ancient stones resonate with whispers of forgotten kings and queens, hard-fought battles, and secrets entombed beneath its walls. The wind carries echoes of chivalrous knights and fair maidens, of passionate vows and broken oaths.

As twilight embraces its towers, past and present converge, casting elongated shadows across the courtyard. The visitor treads paths worn by countless predecessors, footsteps reverberating through time. Each breath feels laden with history, every heartbeat an anticipatory echo. Time seems to hold its breath, suspending the Castle between past and future, as the visitor is swiftly guided through a labyrinth of corridors and winding staircases.

Dear readers, if you like it, please, at least, indicate so by clicking on the 'thumbs up' and consider a 'thank you' donation to the forum funds.

[A thumbs up from each reader would be greatly appreciated.]

In the mighty circular Owl Tower, far from the anxious household, twenty-three-year-old Lady Penelope Trevelver lay in the oak-framed birthing bed. Her usually pale olive skin had taken on an ashen hue, dark brown hair framing her drawn face. The room, designed for serenity, belied the tense atmosphere within.

Intricate tapestries adorned the walls, their peaceful scenes a stark contrast to the unfolding drama. A roaring fire bathed the chamber in a warm glow, while flickering candles infused the air with lavender's soothing scent. A harmonious blend of woods burned in the hearth, each contributing to the room's ambience. Sturdy oak logs roared with comforting intensity, while cherry and apple wood released sweet fragrances. Together, they cast a warm, flickering glow that danced across the rounded walls.

Outside, the tempest raged, heavy clouds obscuring the stars. The distant cry of gulls seemed to echo Lady Penelope's muffled groans, a haunting reminder of life's cycle renewing within these ancient walls.

Inside, silence reigned, broken only by the fire's soft crackle, the gentle hiss of candles, and Lady Trevelver's occasional stifled cry. The air hung heavy with expectation, as if the very stones held their breath, awaiting the first piercing wail of new life.

Amidst this carefully orchestrated attempt at calm, Lady Margaret, the forty-six-year-old Dowager Lady Trevelver, paced restlessly. Her dark hair, now streaked with the first faint lines of grey, caught the firelight as she moved, casting fleeting shadows that mirrored her unease. Keen brown eyes, etched with deepening worry, darted between her beloved daughter, Penny, and the midwife, Mrs Penrose.

Lady Margaret's gaze lingered, seeing in her daughter's strained features a younger reflection of herself. Their shared rich brown eyes, dark hair, and pale olive skin—a living testament to the Trevelver lineage—now emphasised the disparity between the Dowager's anxious vitality and her daughter's pain-etched pallor.

Mrs Penrose, the midwife, moved around the bed with quiet efficiency. Her weathered hands, testament to years of bringing new life into the world, worked with gentle surety. Her calm demeanour provided a stark counterpoint to Lady Margaret's growing agitation.

"There, there, m'lady", Mrs Penrose murmured soothingly to Lady Penelope. "You're doing splendidly. Not long now."

As tension mounted, it dissipated the soothing atmosphere, accentuating the disparity between the room's intended tranquillity and the palpable anxiety within. The experienced midwife laboured tirelessly, her furrowed brow reflecting the strain of the prolonged delivery.

Shadows danced across the walls, as if ancestral spirits kept silent vigil. Lady Margaret's lips moved in fervent prayer, invoking not only God and the Virgin Mary but also the strength of her formidable foremothers. Each whispered plea called upon generations of Trevelver women, their wisdom and resilience a silent force in the room. The weight of history pressed down, an unspoken reminder of the responsibility that rested on her young daughter's slim shoulders.

A particularly sharp cry from Penny shattered the relative calm. Lady Margaret rushed to her daughter's side, clasping her hand tightly. "I'm here, my darling", she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You're so brave, so strong."

Penny's eyes, mirrors of her mother's, locked onto Lady Margaret's gaze. In that moment, years melted away like morning mist. Lady Margaret saw not the woman her daughter had become, but the little girl who had once tripped and skinned her knee in the sun-dappled Castle Courtyard. She had been chasing her beloved cocker spaniel puppy, Cador, her laughter turning to startled tears at the fall. The same fierce determination that had dried those childhood tears now blazed in Penny's eyes, steeling her against the visceral pain of childbirth.

Time crawled, each minute an eternity clawing at Lady Margaret's soul. She ached to shield her daughter from the pain, yet remained rooted beside the bed, acutely aware of her powerlessness despite her mystical gifts. The fate of the Trevelver line hung in the balance—a fragile thread she clung to with every fibre of her being, its resolution beyond her control.

"How much longer, Mrs. Penrose?" Lady Margaret's voice was taut with concern.

The midwife looked up, her lined face calm amidst the turmoil. "Not long now, m'lady. The babe is eager to greet the world."

Lord Charles Trevelver was also pacing before the crackling hearth, his composure fraying. He raked a hand through his close-cropped black hair—a nervous habit from his army days—betraying the turmoil beneath his stoic exterior. The flickering firelight cast shadows across his careworn features, etching deep worry lines on his brow.

Pausing, he gazed into the flames, seeking solace but finding none. With a heavy sigh, he resumed pacing, his boots thudding against the stone floor in rhythm with his pounding heart.

The stalwart former Colonel, seasoned by years of command, seemed diminished. The strain was evident in the tightness around his steely grey eyes and the tension coiling in his shoulders—a man struggling to maintain control in the face of forces beyond his reach.

His mind drifted to their magical honeymoon in Paris, just three years ago in December 1935. He smiled, recalling their exquisite dinner at Le Train Bleu, the renowned restaurant in the bustling Gare de Lyon.

The grand establishment, once the station's buffet, had opened its doors in 1900. Its sumptuous art nouveau decor enchanted all who dined there, including them. He could still hear his wife's voice, her dark eyes twinkling as she whispered, "Anyone who's anyone has dined here".

In a shadowed corner of the centuries-old birthing room, the breathless late arrival, Lady Isadora Hawthorne, stood silent and watchful. Charles' sister was a study in contrasts: timeless elegance paired with hidden rebellion, statuesque curves draped in couture clothing edged with delicate lace. Her dark hair framed a face dominated by deep emerald eyes that darted between her sister-in-law and the room's dim corners, missing nothing.

The pearls at her throat gleamed softly in the lamplight, contrasting with the dark blue of her woollen dress. Lady Isadora exuded calm certainty, yet beneath her poise, the Castle stirred a familiar disquiet, as past and present blurred.

In the shadows of the adjacent chamber, Sir George Widgeon III perched on an ornately carved mahogany chair, his commanding stature at odds with his white-knuckled grip on a crystal tumbler of 'Tullibardine' single-malt whisky. The chair bore the Trevelver family crest—a proud lion and rampant gryphon flanking a shield—alongside an enigmatic circle of three overlapping triangles. These twin symbols, appearing discreetly throughout the Castle, seemed to stand vigil with him as muffled sounds filtered from the birthing room beyond.

Despite the tension evident in his grip, Sir George's silvered hair framed a broad, good-humoured face with chiselled features, and his striking cobalt eyes twinkled with a warmth that belied his current state of anxiety. Here was a man who clearly enjoyed life and easily communicated such sentiments to those fortunate to share his company, though at this moment, his usual calm confidence was tested by the weighty events unfolding nearby.

Sir George's fingers nervously traced the intricate patterns on the armrests, their rhythm echoing his racing heart. As a visionary engineer and successful industrialist, he was more accustomed to factory floors, boardrooms and racetracks than birthing chambers. Yet his dedication to the Trevelver family, particularly his role as godfather, had drawn him here on this momentous night.

His mind drifted to his beloved Yorkshire, where the Widgeon name was synonymous with champion racehorses and engineering excellence.

Tapestries lining the walls depicted pastoral scenes—knights, ladies, and mythical creatures in enchanted forests—but Sir George's gaze remained fixed on the heavy oak door separating him from the unfolding drama. The air, infused with beeswax and lavender, offered a paradoxical blend of solace and tension, mirroring the contrast between the idyllic woven scenes and the reality of the moment.

Sir George's inner turmoil mirrored the tempest outside, wind howling and rain lashing leaded glass. His journey, spurred by duty and affection, began early morning at Doncaster, where he boarded a Down Express. Some three hours later, after disembarking at Kings Cross, a brief taxi ride delivered him to Waterloo. There, he settled into the plush blue moquette of a First Class compartment on the eleven am "Atlantic Coast Express". His trek from his Yorkshire home ended at Cant Cove station before five pm, well ahead of dinner and the storm now raging around the Castle.

Although unseen, his godchild already occupied a cherished place in Sir George's heart—a bond forged by choice and love. He envisioned the upcoming christening in St. Petroc's Chapel: the infant nestled in its proud mother's arms, a living emblem of hope and new beginnings. Together with Lady Isadora, he had vowed to protect and guide this child through life's trials, a promise that both inspired and weighed upon him.

The crackling hearth fire cast dancing shadows on stone walls, whispering ancient secrets of birth and rebirth, of generations passing on the torch. Sir George could almost feel the warmth of the child's tiny body, their lives destined to intertwine in ways he had yet to comprehend fully. Questions flickered through his mind like the shifting firelight: Would the child inherit its mother's wisdom or father's courage? Grow to be a dreamer gazing at storm-obscured stars, or a pragmatist as dependable as the chamber's oak beams? The tempest's relentless force outside mirrored the weight of responsibility and unanswerable questions pressing upon Sir George's shoulders.

Beyond the fire's warmth, long shadows stretched across the ancient walls. As Monday night waned, the air hung taut with anticipation. While Sir George waited, an old nursery rhyme echoed in his mind, foretelling a child's character by its birth day:

"Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day,
Is bonny and blithe, good and gay."

The clock inched towards midnight, its measured ticks echoing Sir George's contemplation of the rhyme's implications. This new life, poised between Monday and Tuesday, might it truly embody both fair countenance and innate grace? If the child took after its grandmother, a long journey of trials and triumphs surely awaited. Yet, mirroring its mother would bestow a loving and giving nature—a beacon of warmth in an often bleak world.

Sir George's thoughts drifted to recent events; the horror of Kristallnacht still fresh in his mind. Such a child, he mused, might grow to be a force for compassion in a world increasingly shadowed by cruelty. As the pogrom's aftermath continued to unfold in Hitler's Germany, he found himself fervently hoping that this new life would embody the very qualities the world so desperately needed.

His mind also turned to the Munich Agreement of September 30th. Sir George and Lord Charles had both been disgusted by Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain's appeasement of Hitler, which ceded the Sudetenland region of Czechoslovakia to Nazi Germany. They saw it as a shameful capitulation that would only embolden the dictator's aggressive expansionism. The agreement, hailed as ensuring "peace for our time", struck them as naïve at best and dangerously misguided at worst.

Lord Charles and Sir George sat in the study, each nursing a glass of 'Tullibardine' single-malt whisky. The amber liquid caught the light as Lord Charles swirled it gently, his expression pensive. He had summed up the situation with his characteristic wit: "Feeding a wolf your neighbour's lamb will not sate its hunger; it will only whet its appetite for your flock".

Sir George nodded in grim agreement, recognising the truth in his friend's words.

"I fear we'll be called up sooner rather than later, old chap", Lord Charles said, his voice low. He took a sip of the whisky, savouring its smoky notes. "Though as a Colonel in the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, I suppose I'm already halfway there."

Sir George nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips as he raised his own glass in a silent toast.

"And with your interests, George", Lord Charles continued, gesturing with his tumbler, "I'd wager you'll find yourself in one of the Royal Engineers' Railway Operating Companies before long."

"I daresay you're right", Sir George replied, his expression a mix of determination and concern. He swirled the 'Tullibardine' in his glass, watching the legs form on the sides. "Our expertise will be needed, though I wish it were under better circumstances."

The two men shared a moment of silent understanding, the weight of impending war hanging heavily in the air between them. The rich aroma of the whisky seemed to underscore the gravity of their conversation.

This exchange, punctuated by sips of the fine Scotch, only strengthened Sir George's hope that the next generation might bring about the change and justice the world so desperately needed.

Hope and curiosity intertwined in his mind as he envisioned myriad possibilities. Would this child embody the rhyme's promised beauty and charm, or would fate weave a different tale? The air hummed with uncertainty as he anticipated meeting this newest addition to his dear friends' family—a life poised to inscribe its own chapter in their history.

As minutes stretched to hours, Sir George shifted, his chair creaking in protest. He imagined the midwife's skilled hands guiding this fragile life into existence, Lady Penelope's pale, determined face etched in his mind. His prayers encompassed her safety, the child's arrival, and the dawn that would bring news.

For one reason and another, I have just started reading the new book 'Keeper Of Secrets'. It has the makings of an excellent story and, given the date, I am looking forward to reading more - I have always had a fascination for that period of time. And I was a teenager in the 60's, so lots to look forward to.  :thumbsup: 

Quote from: dannyboy on August 22, 2024, 09:10:20 PMFor one reason and another, I have just started reading the new book 'Keeper Of Secrets'. It has the makings of an excellent story and, given the date, I am looking forward to reading more - I have always had a fascination for that period of time. And I was a teenager in the 60's, so lots to look forward to.  :thumbsup:

Thank you very much, David. Even if no one else likes it, I'll continue posting it for you. I was only a teenager right at the end of the 1960s, but I am also fascinated by the period.

NB The previous scene has been extended.

"Mother Margaret", her son-in-law said, using the formal address that always set his teeth on edge, "mightn't you consider taking some rest? I'm quite capable of keeping vigil with Penny". His words echoed softly in the Birthing Chamber.

Lady Margaret turned, her posture regal and unyielding. One elegantly arched eyebrow rose, a gesture that had silenced countless debates. When she spoke, her voice was crisp and brooked no argument.

"Don't be absurd, Charles", she said, fixing him with a look both imperious and dismissive. "A new Trevelver heir is about to grace us with her presence." Her voice softened. "This birth... it's of utmost importance."

The weight of centuries resonated in her words; not merely a statement, but a declaration of duty—an unbreakable bond tying Trevelver women to this moment. Her tone made it clear that nothing, certainly not her son-in-law's protests, would sway her from her vigil.

In those few words, Lady Margaret embodied the strength and determination that had defined generations of Trevelver women. Her presence was not just expected; it was essential—a living link between past and future. Her subtle reminder to Charles of his place in the family hierarchy—important, yes, but ultimately secondary to the Trevelver matrilineal tradition—was unmistakable.

Lord Charles nodded, acknowledging the weight of her words. Their firstborn, Gerald, was a joy and a qualified blessing. But in the Trevelver family, daughters carried the true weight of inheritance and legacy. As if sensing the conversation's gravity, young Gerald's wails echoed from the nearby nursery, sharp and demanding. Lord Charles frowned, a fleeting premonition of future troubles clouding his mind.

As he often did, he reflected that the price for having as wonderful a wife as Penny seemed to be having a matriarch as unyielding as Margaret. It was a trade-off he accepted, albeit sometimes grudgingly. The Trevelver women were a formidable lot, their strength both a blessing and a challenge to navigate.

From the nursery came Madam Yvonne's soft, lilting voice. The Breton widow's gentle shushing and patient French murmurs seemed to calm Gerald, if only momentarily. Lord Charles silently thanked Providence for Yvonne's steady presence. Despite witnessing Gerald's frequent tantrums, the nanny's soothing voice, gentle hands, and unwavering devotion never faltered.

Mademoiselle Yvonne Kermarrec had joined them just before Gerald's birth. At forty-five, she brought a wealth of experience from aristocratic Parisian households. Her calm demeanour and enduring patience made her the ideal caretaker for the challenging young Gerald.

Yvonne's presence stabilised the household. She spoke to Gerald primarily in French, aiming to instil the refinement of a second language early. Lady Penelope appreciated this cultured approach, though Lord Charles sometimes worried it might set the boy apart at Eton.

Despite Gerald's tantrums and growing signs of a wilful, potentially troublesome nature, Yvonne never lost her composure. She gently but firmly redirected the child's energy through Breton folklore or simple games that captured his fleeting attention. Her methods often clashed with stricter English child-rearing norms, but his parents could not dispute the results.

Yvonne's role extended beyond nannying. She served as Lady Penelope's confidante, offering a sympathetic ear and sage advice gleaned from years of observing aristocratic family dynamics. Lord Charles respected her discretion and calming influence on both his young wife and infant son.

However, Yvonne harboured a private concern, shared only with Lady Margaret. In her experience, children like Gerald—indulged by wealth yet overshadowed by expectations—often struggled to find their place. She kept these thoughts private, focusing instead on providing Gerald with guidance and affection, hoping to shape him into a gentleman worthy of the Trevelver name despite the challenges ahead.

I might have to do without my 'daily chapter' for a few days Chris, but I will be catching up next weekend.  :thumbsup:

Thanks for letting me know, David. I'm sorry to read that and hope that it's nothing serious. I will miss your daily 'likes' and occasional comments. I hope you'll enjoy the next episodes on 'catch-up'! 8-)

Before Lord Charles could respond to Lady Margaret, a loud gust rattled the mullioned windows, prompting a cry from Lady Penelope. Mrs. Penrose moved swiftly to her side, her voice cutting through the charged atmosphere. "Tis time, m'lady. When you feels the need comin' on ye next, push wi' all yer strength, that's the way."

The air in the room seemed to thicken with anticipation. Lady Margaret held her breath, her world narrowing to her daughter's face and the midwife's steady hands. Outside, the wind's wild keening echoed the tension within, nature's tumult matching the drama unfolding in the Owl Tower.

Penny's face contorted with effort, a low groan escaping her lips. Lady Margaret felt her muscles tense in sympathy, willing her strength into her daughter. The fire crackled, punctuating the heavy silence.

Lady Margaret her heart, weighed down by both hope and dread, could only wait and pray. She silently pleaded for her daughter to emerge triumphant from the ordeal of childbirth and for a strong granddaughter who could carry their legacy forward.

The next few minutes blurred into a whirlwind of activity and anguished cries. Then, at precisely one minute to midnight, a new sound filled the room—the indignant wail of a newborn taking their first breath. Sylvia Trevelver had arrived.

As Mrs. Penrose cleaned and swaddled the healthy infant, Lord Charles moved to his wife's side, taking her hand. "You've done wonderfully, my dear", he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Lady Margaret approached, her dark brown eyes glistening. She carried a soft woollen blanket, a centuries-old family heirloom. "For Sylvia", she said softly, her usual brusqueness melting away.

At last, the door swung open, and the midwife emerged, her eyes tired yet triumphant. Lady Isadora Hawthorne rose, her legs stiff from waiting. She nodded, and Sir George stepped into the birthing room. Lady Penelope lay there, exhaustion softened by a radiant smile. In her arms, swaddled in warmth, was the godchild he had longed to meet.

As he cradled the newborn, Sir George felt a profound connection take root—one that would endure the relentless march of time. A godfather's deep and steadfast affection blossomed in that moment.

Chapter 2: Whispers of Destiny

Trevelver Castle, Monday, 28th November 1938 (continued)

In the Castle's grey stone Early Gothic chapel, dedicated to Saint Petroc, the household gathered to pray together for mother and child and give thanks for the safe delivery. Stone walls soared to a vaulted ceiling, with light streaming through slender, plain glass windows, casting a serene glow. Opposite the entrance, strategically placed to avoid direct sunlight, a magnificent sixth-century Byzantine painting of the saint, encased in a pure gold frame, radiated warmth behind the kneeling figures. Their faces were illuminated by flickering candles in the Castle's signature red and gold lanterns.

Mr. Alfred Trelawney, the Trevelvers' head butler, conferred in hushed tones with his wife, Mrs. Edith Trelawney, the Castle's housekeeper. As they knelt before the oak pew, worn smooth by years of use, their faces reflected a blend of happiness and concern.

"A maid, then?" Edith asked, her Cornish accent pronounced with excitement.

Alfie nodded solemnly. "Aye, born just before midnight. You remember the old saying, Edith? 'A Trevelver born 'twixt dark and light shall bridge two worlds and set things right'."

Edith crossed herself, a habit from her Catholic upbringing. "Ess, but let's not be puttin' too much stock in old tales, Alfie. The poor little maid's not even a day old, my 'andsome."

Yet, despite her words, a flicker of hope danced in Edith's eyes. "The child es born; praise be to Saint Petroc", she whispered, her gaze softening at the thought of new life. "But Lady Trevelver's condition remains delicate, it do. We must prepare for any eventuality, sure 'nough."

Edith's thoughts briefly flickered to Lady Penelope's beloved younger sister, Eleanor. An adventurous spirit, Eleanor had embarked on daring expeditions, but her last journey into the remote Andes Mountains had ended in tragedy when she disappeared during a sudden storm. The memory weighed heavily on Edith's heart, a poignant reminder of life's fragility, especially in moments like these when new life was welcomed into the world.

As Edith reflected on the delicate balance of existence, Alfie's thoughts turned to Father Trevorrow, the Castle's priest, who offered spiritual guidance to the household, providing comfort and wisdom in times of need—like now.

"Indeed, my dear", Alfie replied, his weathered face etched with worry. "I've sent word to the physician in Wadebridge and Father Trevorrow. They'll be here as quick as they can manage."

As the congregation left the chapel to resume their tasks, Alfie and Edith paused before the painting of Saint Petroc. Its vibrant colours and intricate details captured the saint's serene gaze and divine status. The rich blue background, adorned with golden stars, enhanced the sacred atmosphere of the chapel.

"Saint Petroc, watch over our Lady and the little maid", Edith murmured, crossing herself. "May your divine light guide 'em through this 'ere perilous time, if it please you."

Alfie placed a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder, his own silent prayer mingling with hers in the stillness of the chapel. As they stepped into the courtyard outside, the Castle, with its ancient stones and hallowed halls, exuded a sense of grandeur and history. A solemn silence enveloped the grounds as the household processed the arrival of the healthy newborn while the mother lay recovering.

As news spread throughout the Castle, a palpable sense of excitement filled the halls. In the Great Kitchen, the Breton chef, Madern Pennec, prepared a special breakfast for the new mother, a feast designed to nourish and delight.

He whipped up fluffy pancakes drizzled with honey, their golden surfaces glistening in the morning light. Alongside, a savoury casserole of sausage, egg, and cheese, rich and hearty, infused with fresh herbs from the garden, he promised sustenance. To complement the main dishes, he arranged a vibrant platter of seasonal and preserved fruits, including ripe strawberries and juicy blueberries, their colours brightening the table.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet scent of cinnamon rolls, still warm from the oven, their gooey centres promising indulgence. As bustling maids whispered about the future Lady Trevelver, the kitchen buzzed with anticipation, each dish a symbol of love and celebration for the family's newest member.

Deep beneath the Castle, in the secret library hidden under the Great Library, a hidden mahogany drawer slid open of its own accord. This concealed chamber, known only to the Trevelver women and their sworn male consorts, held centuries of arcane knowledge. Inside the drawer lay a yellowed parchment, its seal bearing the crest of a long-dead Trevelver matriarch. As if awakened by Sylvia's first cries, the letter seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Its secrets lay in wait, ready to be revealed when she had grown into a woman in full command of her inherited powers.

Back in the Birthing Chamber, Lord Charles cradled his daughter, marvelling at her tiny features. "She has your eyes, nose, skin tone, and hair, Penny", he said softly.

His wife smiled tiredly. "And I do believe she has your chin, darling. Mother, what's your opinion?"

Lady Margaret leaned in, her keen gaze appraising her newborn granddaughter. She noted the infant's thick dark brown hair and big brown eyes, which seemed to hold wisdom beyond their hours. The pale olive skin, a hallmark of their ancient lineage, glowed with life. For a moment, the room held its breath, awaiting the matriarch's verdict.

To everyone's astonishment, Lady Margaret's stern features softened. A genuine, warm grin spread across her face, transforming her countenance entirely. The assembled family members exchanged glances, unaccustomed to such an open display from the usually stoic grandmother.

"Well", Lady Margaret announced, her voice rich with pride and a hint of something more profound—perhaps relief or recognition. "I'd say she's perfect. A true Trevelver, through and through."

Her words released a collective sigh in the room, as if the Castle had been waiting for this pronouncement. The legacy would continue, embodied in this tiny, perfect infant named Sylvia.

Lady Isadora's slender fingers absently toyed with the pearls at her throat, perhaps remembering nights of jazz and gin. Though adorned with the trappings of respectability, an air of intrigue surrounded her, hinting at a life steeped in secrets and wisdom lived beyond societal conventions. As Sylvia was placed in her arms, Lady Isadora's emerald eyes softened, the magic within them seeming to recognise a kindred spirit in the newborn.

As the family gathered around baby Sylvia in the Owl Tower, a palpable sense of destiny filled the air. All present were acutely aware of the weight of legacy resting upon this first-born Trevelver daughter. The strange play of light across the heirloom blanket and Sylvia's uncanny focus as her eyes tracked movements only reinforced what they knew: her story was beginning, and the legacy she would inherit was far more significant—and dangerous—than outsiders could ever imagine.

As Sylvia's parents and grandmother admired the child, Isadora stood slightly apart, her posture a blend of pride and vigilance. Like the others, she understood the significance of this moment, yet her awareness seemed to extend even further, as if she could see the threads of fate weaving around her newborn niece. In Sylvia, perhaps, lay the potential for the kind of rebellion and nonconformity that Isadora herself had embodied throughout her colourful life.

Tawny owls, ancient guardians of the Castle grounds, stirred in their roosts, sensing the momentous event. For countless centuries, they had witnessed the births of Trevelver women, each a link in an unbroken chain of female power. As young Sylvia lay swaddled in her heirloom blanket, the owls' calls heralded her arrival. In this seemingly ordinary infant, centuries of Trevelver power took on its latest form.

The Castle held its breath, its ancient stones recalling countless proud matriarchs. Sylvia's birth marked more than a joyous occasion—it heralded the renewal of an ancient lineage, a destiny both wondrous and perilous, as it had been for every Trevelver woman before her.

Lady Penelope, recovering, recalled Father Trevorrow's arrival. With her mother and her husband gathered around her bed, the priest had blessed her and her daughter, his words weighted with significance:

"May God's grace cradle you, little one. May you see His wonders and sing His praise. For your mother: strength from above and Christ's love. Walk righteously, guided by the Holy Spirit. Know God's family's warmth and His church's embrace. May His glory fill your days and His peace your nights. When trials come, face them with David's courage and Solomon's wisdom, for the Lord is your shield and strength."

Father Trevorrow's knowing look betrayed the child's significance. He had then solemnly shared his vision from St. Petroc: Lady Penelope would bear no more children.

Later, the Wadebridge physician had arrived. After examination, he declared both healthy but warned Lady Penelope that any future pregnancy could prove fatal for mother and child.

Lady Penelope's heart clenched at these pronouncements. She gazed at Sylvia, marvelling at her perfect features, and felt a bittersweet pang. This beautiful child would be her second child and only daughter. Yet, as she contemplated the mystical weight of Father Trevorrow's words and the grave warning from the physician, a sense of destiny settled over her. Sylvia was not just a daughter but a legacy embodied. Lady Penelope silently vowed to pour all her love, hopes, and ancient wisdom into this singular, precious gift.

Lord Charles grasped his wife's hand, his eyes reflecting a complex mix of emotions – concern, resolve, and a fleeting shadow of worry. "My dear", he murmured, "Sylvia is a blessing beyond measure." His voice carried the weight of his love and support, tinged with relief that his wife would face no further danger. Yet, a note of unease crept in as he added, "Perhaps... perhaps she'll be a steadying influence on young Gerald". The unspoken thought hung between them – their son's troubling behaviour and the hope that this daughter might somehow balance the scales.

Lady Margaret, standing at the foot of the bed, nodded gravely. Her piercing gaze softened as it fell upon Sylvia, a rare smile gracing her austere features. "At last, the Trevelver line truly continues", she stated, her tone a blend of satisfaction and reverence. "This girl-child will bear our hopes and our burdens. Together, we will ensure she is ready." Her eyes briefly flicked to the door, beyond which young Gerald slept, before returning to Sylvia with undisguised preference. In her mother's words, Lady Penelope heard both a promise and a challenge, the whisper of centuries of Trevelver women echoing through time.

Just after 6:45, Lady Penelope's ears perked up at the familiar toot in the distance. Her face lit up—it was the Southern '02' tank locomotive, hauling the 6:42 from Penmayne to Wadebridge. Despite her exhaustion, she vividly pictured the scene unfolding at Cant Cove station.

In her mind's eye, the compact yet powerful 0-4-4T steam loco. approached the main platform with its two dark green coaches. Its robust dark green body, a testament to late nineteenth-century engineering, gleamed in the early morning light, polished brass fittings catching the sun's first rays. The distinctive stovepipe chimney released white puffs into the crisp air, while its high cab roof lent the loco. an air of authority.

Lady Trevelver could almost hear the rhythmic clanking of pistons and the steady hiss of steam as the locomotive drew nearer. Large, spoked driving wheels turned steadily, hinting at the impressive tractive effort that made this small engine perfect for the varied terrain between Penmayne and Wadebridge.

To her, it was more than just a train; it was an integral part of the community's daily life. Each morning, its arrival signalled the start of a new day full of possibilities, highlighting the railway's crucial role in reliably connecting people and places. Cradling little Sylvia, she quietly vowed to share her deep love for the Southern Railway. She eagerly anticipated the day when she could teach her daughter everything she knew about train timetables and trains. She imagined them watching the trains together, their shared love creating a bond between them, just like the railway connected different places.

As the mantle clock struck eight, its chimes mingling with hushed voices and the soft clink of crystal, the extended family and leading members of the Castle household gathered in the Birthing Chamber. Outside, the November sky over North Cornwall brightened from dawn's blush to a pale autumn light.

Lord Charles stood in the room's centre before a small table, carefully pouring the 1934 Dom Perignon into delicate flutes. His face was etched with relief and profound gratitude as he watched the bubbles race upward, mirroring the rising tide of emotion within the room. For a moment, he paused, composing himself as the weight of the occasion settled upon his shoulders. Then, clearing his throat, he turned to address the assembled group, ready to toast the newest addition to the Trevelver family.

"To Sylvia", he intoned, the corners of his eyes crinkling with pride. "May she carry forward the proud heritage of the Trevelvers."

A chorus of agreements rippled through the room as glasses were raised. Lady Penelope, still flushed from her ordeal, shifted in her bed, cradling Sylvia closer. Her weary smile spoke volumes as she gazed at her newborn.

Sir George, Sylvia's godfather, stood tall and proud, his usually reserved countenance softening as he beheld his goddaughter. Beside him, Lady Isadora, the child's godmother, discreetly dabbed at her eyes, her composure momentarily overcome.

At the edge of the room, Alfie, the Head Butler, maintained his impeccable posture, though his eyes shone with unmistakable warmth. Edith, the Housekeeper, allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she oversaw the smooth running of this momentous occasion, her efficient movements reflecting years of devoted service.

As sunlight streamed through the windows, gradually warming the room, Sylvia surveyed the scene with inquisitive eyes the colour of sun-warmed chestnuts. Cradled in her mother's arms, her gaze darted from the dancing flames in the hearth to the faces surrounding her as if cataloguing each detail of her new world. Her tiny fingers clutched at the embroidered edges of the heirloom blanket, tracing the gentle waves and spirals that promised protection. The soft, stylised leaves and tiny stars seemed to shimmer under her touch, while the subtle animal guardians kept silent watch – dolphins for wisdom, owls for knowledge, and butterflies for transformation. As she gripped the delicate stitching of intertwined lines representing her unbroken maternal lineage, Sylvia unknowingly connected herself to generations past, her heritage flowing through the ancient blessing script as surely as it did through her veins.

Chapter 3: Echoes of Magic in Wartime

Emerald eyes gleaming in the firelight, the woman leaned forward. "Jeremy, in some families, power courses through the very essence of their being, transcending ordinary blood."

His fingers gripping worn leather, the companion's baritone filled the room. "Their lineage manifests power in ways others cannot conceive."

Jeremy's brow furrowed. "How can you tell when someone has those... powers?"

The woman glanced at the older man before answering. "There are signs, subtle at first—unexplained occurrences, unusual perceptions, an uncanny affinity with nature."

"As the child grows", the man added, his voice low and measured, "these signs become more pronounced. Until..."

"Something occurs", the woman interjected, her eyes holding a mysterious glint, "that irrevocably alters their life".

Jeremy leaned in, his curiosity piqued. "What kind of occurrence?"

The woman's lips curved enigmatically. "Let me tell you about a little girl's fifth birthday, when the first flicker of her power manifested through candles that behaved rather... unexpectedly."

Quote from: Chris in Prague on August 25, 2024, 05:41:49 AMand hope that it's nothing serious.

Oh it was extremely serious Chris! I had to have a few days back home visiting my brother and his wife in Essex  ;) . Mind you, he did take me to 'Colne Valley Railway' - I am of course not talking about the proper Colne Valley back in Yorkshire, but a little Colne Valley in Essex. However, the railway is well worth a visit, (I might do a travalogue a la @Bealman !  :)). If not tonight, I will catch up properly tomorrow.  :thumbsup:

Quote from: dannyboy on August 30, 2024, 06:34:50 PM

Quote from: Chris in Prague on August 25, 2024, 05:41:49 AMand hope that it's nothing serious.

Oh it was extremely serious Chris! I had to have a few days back home visiting my brother and his wife in Essex  ;) . Mind you, he did take me to 'Colne Valley Railway' - I am of course not talking about the proper Colne Valley back in Yorkshire, but a little Colne Valley in Essex. However, the railway is well worth a visit, (I might do a travalogue a la @Bealman !  :)). If not tonight, I will catch up properly tomorrow.  :thumbsup:

Thanks, David. That sounds like an enjoyable time. Is that the CVR that has some ex-BR Class 03 diesel hunters, amongst other railway items? I look forward to your travelogue.

Best wishes,
Chris

[A longer episode today.]

As Europe simmered with shifting alliances and mounting tensions, Sylvia's childhood unfolded within the weathered walls of Trevelver Castle. From a wide-eyed toddler to a sharp-witted seven-year-old, she grew amidst a world on the brink of upheaval. Her small hands traced worn tapestries depicting long-ago battles, an unwitting parallel to the conflicts brewing beyond the Castle gates.

Sylvia's brown eyes, flecked with gold, missed little. She eavesdropped on hushed conversations between her father and grim-faced men in military uniform, while poring over discarded newspapers. Her young mind struggled with words like "ultimatum" and "mobilisation", sensing their gravity without fully grasping their meaning. Even as nations braced for war, the ancient rhythms of Castle life endured. Centuries-old floorboards creaked underfoot, and hymns echoed from the grey stone Early Gothic chapel dedicated to Saint Petroc—a timeless constant amidst the looming chaos.

Doted upon by her parents and grandmother, Sylvia was steeped in Trevelver traditions from her earliest days. Lady Margaret, in particular, took a keen interest in her granddaughter's education, imparting both practical skills and mystical lore. Under her grandmother's tutelage, Sylvia began to understand that the Castle was more than just her home—it was a repository of secrets and power, waiting for her to uncover its depths.

One crisp autumn morning, as leaves crunched underfoot, Lady Margaret gently took Sylvia's small hand in hers. "Come, my dear Sylvie", she said, her dark eyes twinkling with excitement. "Let's explore some of the treasures of our land." At their heels, Rusty trotted eagerly, his warm russet coat gleaming in the dappled sunlight. The Cocker Spaniel's nose worked overtime, sniffing at every leaf and twig, his tail wagging in anticipation of the adventure ahead.

One crisp autumn morning, as leaves crunched underfoot, Lady Margaret gently took Sylvia's small hand in hers. "Come, my dear Sylvie", she said, her dark eyes twinkling with excitement. "Let's explore some of the treasures of our land."

At their heels, Rusty trotted eagerly, his warm russet coat gleaming in the dappled sunlight. The Cocker Spaniel's nose worked overtime, sniffing at every leaf and twig, his tail wagging in anticipation of the adventure ahead.

In the distance, the faint whistle of a train echoed across the countryside, its rhythmic chugging a comforting reminder of the world beyond their magical realm. The sound seemed to blend seamlessly with the rustling leaves and Rusty's happy panting, creating a soothing backdrop for their expedition.

Sylvia squeezed her grandmother's hand, feeling a surge of excitement. The familiar train sounds, a constant presence in her life at Trevelver Castle, now seemed to take on a new significance. They were a gentle reminder of the ordinary world that existed alongside their extraordinary one, a world she was learning to navigate with increasing skill.

As they set off down the leaf-strewn path, the distant train continued its journey, its sounds fading in and out like the ebb and flow of magic itself. Sylvia wondered what adventures awaited them in the crisp autumn air, her heart light with the joy of discovery and the comforting presence of her grandmother and the faithful Rusty.

Venturing beyond the Castle grounds, Sylvia's eyes widened with wonder. Lady Margaret knelt beside a fragrant patch of herbs, her veined hands caressing the delicate leaves. "See here? This carpet of green is Wild Thyme", she explained softly. "Breathe deeply, child."

Sylvia closed her eyes and inhaled, a smile spreading across her face. "It smells like... sunshine!" she exclaimed, eliciting a warm chuckle from her grandmother.

As they continued their ramble, Lady Margaret's tone grew serious. She pointed to a cluster of beautiful purple flowers, their bell-shaped blooms nodding gently in the breeze. "See the Foxglove here? Its bells hold powerful medicine for the heart, but can be deadly if misused."

Sylvia's brow furrowed as she nodded solemnly, committing the plant's appearance to memory. Her small hand reached out, hovering just above the delicate petals. "It's beautiful", she whispered, "but dangerous".

"Just so, my dear", Lady Margaret replied, a proud smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Nature, like life, is full of such dualities."

Their path then led them through an ancient archway in the Castle wall, a short walk from the Great Kitchen. As they stepped through, Sylvia's eyes widened at the sight before her: a well-tended stone-walled herb garden, its neat beds filled with a tapestry of green leaves and colourful blooms.

Lady Margaret's face lit up with pride as she gestured to the carefully arranged plots. "This, Sylvia, is where we cultivate the herbs that have aided our family for generations. Each plant here has a story and a purpose."

Sylvia inhaled deeply, savouring the mingled scents of Lavender, Rosemary, and countless other herbs. Her fingers traced the feathery leaves of Yarrow as she pondered the garden's secrets. "What does this one do, Grandmama?" she asked, her voice brimming with curiosity.

"Ah, that's a true warrior's herb", Lady Margaret replied, her eyes sparkling. "It stops bleeding and fights fever."

Their path wound past beds of Sage, where Lady Margaret paused to pluck a leaf, crushing it between her fingers. "Inhale deeply, my dear", she instructed, her eyes twinkling with a mix of reverence and mischief. "Sage is a faithful friend in the kitchen, but it's also a powerful ally against sore throats and winter's chill." Sylvia leaned in, her nose wrinkling slightly at the strong scent.

As they strolled through the misty grounds one morning, Lady Margaret told more tales of Trevelver's history, which danced on the edge of fairy tales. Their path soon led them to a cluster of gnarled trees, their twisted branches reaching out like grasping fingers. Lady Margaret paused, her voice softening with reverence.

"Ah, Sylvie", she murmured, gesturing to the ancient specimens. "These are Hawthorns—the fairies' own trees and a living part of our estate's lore." Her wrinkle-skinned hand reached out, caressing a gnarled branch. "Their berries and flowers are a tonic for the heart—both the physical and the spiritual."

Sylvia's eyes widened, her gaze transfixed by the trees' otherworldly presence. "But why are they the fairies' own trees, Grandmama?" she asked, her voice hushed with wonder and curiosity.

Lady Margaret smiled, pleased by her granddaughter's interest. "Well, my dear, Hawthorns are said to guard the entrance to the fairy realm. The fae folk are drawn to their beauty and magic. It's believed they bloom on May Eve, when the veil between our world and theirs is thinnest."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Some say if you sit beneath a Hawthorn on Midsummer's Eve, you might hear the fairies whisper their secrets. But be careful", she added with a wink, "for they are beings as mischievous as they are magical."

Sylvia's imagination soared, picturing moonlit gatherings of ethereal beings. She reached out tentatively to touch the rough bark, half-expecting to feel a spark of magic beneath her fingertips. In her mind's eye, she could almost see tiny, gossamer-winged creatures flitting among the leaves, guardians of centuries-old secrets.

As the years passed, these walks and stories became a cherished ritual. Sylvia grew taller, her questions more insightful, but her wonder never dimmed. Rusty remained a constant companion, though his muzzle gradually greyed and his pace slowed. In the Castle's walled herb garden, Lady Margaret taught Sylvia the art of harvesting and drying herbs in the little granite-built herb house, while Rusty dozed contentedly in patches of sunlight, his nose twitching at the myriad scents.

One summer afternoon, as they hung sprigs of Borage to dry, Sylvia's face lit up with recognition. "The star-shaped flowers! They're the ones you put in our summer drinks, aren't they, Grandmama?"

Lady Margaret beamed with pride. "Indeed, they are, my clever girl. Each plant has its purpose, its story." Her expression softened as she gently cupped Sylvia's cheek. "But remember, Sylvie, you can learn from many sources. The Great Library holds treasures of knowledge waiting for you."

She gestured towards the castle. "John Gerard's 'Herball', Culpeper's 'Complete Herbal', and your great-grandmother's 'Cornish Herbiary and Folklore' await on those shelves, filled with wisdom from ages past."

Kneeling beside a Chamomile patch, Lady Margaret lightly ran her fingers over the delicate flowers. "But books aren't the only teachers, my dear. If you learn to listen, the plants will share their secrets. The bees, the birds – they too have much to teach us about the plants upon which they feed."

Her voice lowered to a near whisper, a mysterious glint in her dark eyes. "Not forgetting the dryads, Sylvie. They are the true guardians of the trees and keepers of nature's deepest mysteries. If you're patient and respectful, they will share their ancient wisdom with you."

Standing, she brushed soil from her skirt. "Your learning, Sylvia, will come from many places – seen and unseen. You need only keep your eyes, ears, and heart open to receive it."

Sylvia nodded, her eyes wide with wonder. "I understand, Grandmama. I'll learn from everything and everyone I can."

As they worked, Lady Margaret continued her lesson. "The Cornish heath beyond the walls is a rare treasure, found nowhere else in the world. The sea thrift on our cliffs is as hardy as it is beautiful. Betony for headaches, Chamomile for calm, Fennel for digestion – each plant has its purpose, its story."

As the golden sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of rose and amber, Lady Margaret placed her hands on Sylvia's shoulders. Her expression grew serious, the lines around her eyes deepening. "This knowledge, Sylvia, is just one part of your inheritance. Guard it well, use it wisely, and it will serve you all your days."

Sylvia straightened her back, squaring her shoulders beneath her grandmother's touch. Her brown eyes, flecked with gold in the fading light, met Lady Margaret's own with a newfound maturity. "I will, Grandmama. I promise."

Chris
I believe there are 2 operational class 03s , D2041 and D2184

Any news please on that Plymouth dock shunter /naval yard shunter you proposed in a previous thread ?

Have caught up Chris, another excellent story in the making.  :thumbsup:

Quote from: crewearpley40 on August 31, 2024, 07:21:30 AMChris
I believe there are 2 operational class 03s , D2041 and D2184

Any news please on that Plymouth dock shunter /naval yard shunter you proposed in a previous thread ?

Thanks, Chris. Alas, no. The producer of the 00 Gauge kit had no interest in even providing scale plans for someone else to produce a 3D print. Scale plans must exist somewhere.

Quote from: dannyboy on August 31, 2024, 04:45:10 PMHave caught up Chris, another excellent story in the making.  :thumbsup:

Many thanks, David. There is still a strong railway element as the next excerpt shows. I'm making much more of a conscious effort to write well in the intention of publishing the books.

Sylvia's love for trains also grew under the care of her family and carers. When home on leave from the Army, Lord Charles would tell her tales of brave knights and noble causes, his eyes bright as he also described the Great Western Railway's important role in the war effort. Sylvia's interest in trains was further nurtured by her dear old Cornish nanny, "Nursie", and her mother. Together, they taught her to recognise the distinct whistles of engines passing through Cant Cove or climbing the steep, goods-only line.

This single-track line led to a network of underground sidings in caverns beneath the Castle. Sylvia's father explained, with a mix of pride and caution, that some of these sidings were still secret. He stated that they dated back to Winston Churchill's time as First Lord of the Admiralty between 1911 and 1915. This blend of history, secrecy, and the everyday wonder of trains fuelled Sylvia's growing love of railways.

As Sylvia's curiosity about trains grew, so did her desire to explore beyond the confines of Trevelver Castle. One crisp morning, Sylvia discovered a fascinating piece of information that piqued her endless curiosity. The overnight 1:15 am newspaper train from Waterloo arrived at Wadebridge station at precisely 9:05 each morning, bringing the freshly printed London papers. The train was on its way to Penmayne and did not stop at Cant Cove unless Waterloo issued a Special Stop order for passengers to alight there.

"Mr. Trelawney", Sylvia asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "May I come with you to collect the newspapers?"

The Head Butler's stern expression softened, the corners of his mouth twitching into a barely perceptible smile. His silver hair caught the early morning light as he considered her request. "Very well, Miss Sylvia. But you must promise to stay close and mind your manners."

From that day forward, Sylvia often accompanied Mr. Trelawney on his morning trips to Wadebridge. She delighted in the bustling activity of the larger station, which was so different from the quiet charm of Cant Cove. The air was filled with a symphony of sounds: the hiss of steam, the clatter of trolleys, and the chatter of passengers mingling with the authoritative voices of railway staff. Soon, Sylvia knew everyone at Wadebridge by name – from the Head Butler's older brother, Mr. Clarence Trelawney, the stationmaster with his gleaming pocket watch and neatly trimmed moustache, to the porters Jago Penrose, Meryn Polwhele, and Kenver Nancarrow with their trolleys and cheerful greetings. But her favourite was Bill Truscott, the Yardmaster, with his limp and special walking stick with its brass knob and tiny plaque.

To Sylvia's wide eyes, Wadebridge station was a magical place where the Southern and Great Western railways met. Mr. Truscott explained that around fifty men worked there, each with an important job. She watched in awe as Arthur Angove, the Shedmaster, directed the care of the worn locomotives, both large and small. The smell of oil and coal smoke lingered in the air. The signalmen, Sandy Penduckett at Wadebridge West Box and Neamiah Treskerby at the East Box, fascinated her as they worked their signals, their actions a complex dance that kept the trains running safely.

With the war, Bill mentioned that the station had become even busier. Sylvia was fascinated by the trains carrying soldiers and their equipment, imagining distant adventures. Occasionally, she overheard staff whispering about convoys and the movement of troops, equipment, and ammunition. She recalled her mother's words: "Always remember you are the Keeper of Secrets!" Mr. Truscott explained how everyone worked tirelessly to keep things running smoothly, even during tough times. He recounted a terrifying night when three bombs were dropped on the hill above Fernleigh Road but reassured her that they kept the trains moving regardless.

Sylvia absorbed every detail, feeling part of something grand and important. She admired how Mr. Truscott got along with everyone, whether they were from the Great Western or Southern railways. Every noon, Sylvia eagerly awaited the arrival of Gracie, Mr. Truscott's wife, a lovely, friendly Cornish woman who brought her husband his lunch. Gracie always greeted Sylvia with a warm smile and often shared stories about life in Wadebridge, quickly becoming another cherished friend at the station.

One afternoon, Sylvia solemnly asked the stationmaster about Mr. Truscott's limp and special walking stick. Mr. Trelawney, his voice hushed and tinged with admiration, told her about Bill's bravery.

"Bill there, 'e severely injured 'is leg while tryin' to stop a runaway goods train on the steep incline down to the 'arbour at nearby Trepol Bay", he said in his thick Cornish accent. "That's why Waterloo gave 'im the position of Wadebridge Yardmaster and 'is special walkin' stick. But 'e don' like to talk 'bout it", he added solemnly. "'Afore that 'e were destined for great things on the railway."

Mr. Trelawney's eyes twinkled as he continued, seeing Sylvia's sadness, "But don't you think that's stopped 'im from doin' great things, young miss. Bill's a much-respected Methodist lay preacher and pillar of the local community. 'E's a JP now, too."

Seeing Sylvia's puzzled expression, he explained, "That means Justice of the Peace. 'E 'elps out at the local magistrate's court, makin' sure justice is done fair and square."

From that day on, Sylvia looked at Mr. Truscott with even more wonder, seeing not just the kindly Yardmaster but a true hero of the railways and a pillar of the community. Her curiosity piqued, she mustered the courage to ask him about his role as a JP.

"Well, Miss Sylvia", Bill began, his eyes twinkling beneath his bushy eyebrows, "as a JP, I 'elp keep the peace and deal with minor offenses. Sometimes it can be quite amusin'". He chuckled, remembering a particular incident.

"There was this Scottish soldier on a troop train, see. 'E was found leavin' Wadebridge station with a stolen mirror marked LNER, which 'e 'ad unscrewed from the wall of the train compartment, in 'is kitbag." Bill's eyebrows rose in amusement. "When asked why, 'e said 'e needed a shavin' mirror! 'Twas a bit big for that, mind you", he added with a hearty laugh, his Cornish accent thick with mirth.

Sylvia giggled at the story, imagining the soldier's surprise when confronted with his oversized 'shaving mirror'. "What happened to him, Mr. Truscott?" she asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"Well", Bill continued, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "we 'ad to confiscate the mirror, o' course. It was returned to the LNER. The soldier was fined for 'is mischief, and then we 'anded 'im over to the Military Police. They don't take kindly to their men pilferin' railway property, even if it's just for a shave!"

Sylvia nodded solemnly, realising that being a JP meant balancing justice with understanding, even in the most unusual cases.

To her, Wadebridge station was not just a place – it was a world of endless fascination, brought to life by the stories, bravery, and kindness of her dear friend, the Yardmaster, his wife Gracie, and all the dedicated railway folk she had come to know and admire. And now, with tales of Bill's experiences as a JP, it seemed the station held even more exciting stories than she had ever imagined.

These excursions became a cherished part of Sylvia's routine, broadening her world beyond the Castle grounds and deepening her fascination with the railways so integral to her family's life and businesses. As she helped Mr. Trelawney sort through the stack of newspapers, the smell of fresh ink filling her nostrils, she felt a sense of importance, a small but significant role in the daily life of Trevelver Castle.

She took pride in remembering that her grandmother and mother favoured 'The Times', while her father preferred 'The Daily Telegraph', and she always made sure to set aside the local 'West Briton' for Cook. Sylvia also noted with interest that Mr. and Mrs. Trelawney shared a copy of the 'Daily Mail', often discussing its contents over their morning tea.

As the war progressed, Sylvia noticed changes at the station. There were more soldiers, more urgent telegrams, and sometimes hushed conversations among the staff. Yet through it all, the rhythms of the railway continued, a comforting constant in uncertain times. Sylvia found herself growing more observant, more curious about the wider world that touched Wadebridge through the daily paper deliveries from far-away Fleet Street.

In the evenings, as she shared stories of her morning adventures with her family, Sylvia felt a new sense of connection to their legacy and the community beyond the Castle's walls. She was no longer just a Trevelver, but a small part of the intricate, fascinating world of the railways, where everyone, from the Yardmaster to the porters, played a vital role in supplying the sinews of war.

Sylvia's mother was delighted by her daughter's ever-expanding interest in the workings of the railway. She often listened with rapt attention as Sylvia recounted her adventures at the station, pleased to see her child's world growing beyond the Castle grounds.

When Sylvia's father and godfather were home on leave, they, too, showed great interest in her stories. Her father would often nod approvingly, remarking on how the railways were indeed the nation's lifeblood, especially in these trying times. Her godfather, with his military railway service, was particularly impressed by Sylvia's understanding of how the railway supported the war effort. He would sometimes add his own anecdotes about troop movements and supply trains, further fuelling Sylvia's fascination with the intricate scheduling of locomotives, carriages, wagons, and people that kept the country running. Their positive reactions only served to deepen Sylvia's love for the railway and her appreciation for the hardworking men and women who operated it.

As the weeks turned into months, Sylvia's presence at Wadebridge station became as much a part of the daily routine as the arrival of the 9:05 am 'papers from Waterloo. Her genuine interest and quick mind endeared her to every member of the railway family, whether they were of the Southern or Western persuasion, as Bill termed it.

From Bodmin to Penmayne, Sylvia and her Cocker Spaniel were a welcome sight. Her inquisitive nature and respectful demeanour, complemented by Rusty's playful spirit, earned them invitations into every signal box and onto many a locomotive footplate. The gruff drivers and firemen would beam with pride as they explained the workings of their engines to the attentive young girl with her charming smile and neatly plaited hair, while signalmen delighted in teaching her the intricacies of their vital role in keeping the trains running safely. Rusty's wagging tail and friendly disposition often helped break the ice, and the railway workers would sometimes sneak him treats, further endearing the pair to the railway community.

The railway workers saw in Sylvia not just the daughter of the local gentry but a kindred spirit who truly appreciated the magic and importance of their world. For Sylvia, the railway had become more than just a fascination—it was a second home filled with friends who shared her passion for the endless rhythm of the rails.

Quote from: Chris in Prague on September 01, 2024, 07:18:49 AM

Quote from: crewearpley40 on August 31, 2024, 07:21:30 AMChris
I believe there are 2 operational class 03s , D2041 and D2184

Any news please on that Plymouth dock shunter /naval yard shunter you proposed in a previous thread ?

Thanks, Chris. Alas, no. The producer of the 00 Gauge kit had no interest in even providing scale plans for someone else to produce a 3D print. Scale plans must exist somewhere.

Chris

Hi the only hope as discussed previously must be to a library or historical society or even see if railway modeller has drawings and then approach the 3d modellers on this forum. Shame really as it would make a beautiful loco


If it's this

https://www.ngaugeforum.co.uk/SMFN/index.php?topic=18923.msg579801#msg579801

railway,-centre.com
https://www.irsociety.co.uk/Archives/back_issues.htm

Sadly I cannot find any drawings

Quote from: Chris in Prague on September 01, 2024, 07:20:06 AMI'm making much more of a conscious effort to write well in the intention of publishing the books.

It would be nice to see your stories in a 'proper' format, (although there is nowt wrong with reading them in the forum of ccourse!). Keep us informed.  :thumbsup:

Quote from: dannyboy on September 01, 2024, 12:47:22 PM

Quote from: Chris in Prague on September 01, 2024, 07:20:06 AMI'm making much more of a conscious effort to write well in the intention of publishing the books.

It would be nice to see your stories in a 'proper' format, (although there is nowt wrong with reading them in the forum of ccourse!). Keep us informed.  :thumbsup:

Thanks, David. I will.

This deep connection to the railway and its people prompted Lady Penelope to contact her friends at the Southern Railway headquarters at Waterloo. She knew that Sylvia's railway adventures were more than mere childish whims—they were an integral part of her daughter's growth and education. With this in mind, Lady Penelope arranged for a special pass to be created, one that would allow Sylvia and Rusty to travel freely between Penmayne, Cant Cove, Wadebridge, and Bodmin.

The pass that arrived was a marvel of craftsmanship, clearly modelled after the prestigious Directors' passes but with a touch of whimsy befitting its young recipient. Made of polished brass, it gleamed in the sunlight, its surface adorned with an enamel rendering of the Southern Railway's iconic logo. The initials "SR" stood out prominently in a bold, serif font, instantly recognisable to any railway employee. The logo was beautifully executed in the railway's signature bright malachite green, with yellow accents that seemed to catch and hold the light.

In elegant script beneath the logo, it bore the words "Special Junior Pass" followed by "Hon. Sylvia Trevelver and Rusty". The use of "Hon." before Sylvia's name, short for "The Honourable," reflected her status as the daughter of Lord and Lady Trevelver, adding an extra layer of official recognition to the document. Below this, a small, expertly rendered image of a girl and a spaniel was etched into the metal. The pass was personalised further with Sylvia's date of birth – 28th November 1938 – and a unique serial number: No.1. This number, signifying that Sylvia's pass was the very first of its kind, added an extra layer of distinction to the already special document.

The reverse side of the pass detailed the extraordinary privileges it granted: "The bearer and her canine companion are permitted unlimited travel on all Southern Railway lines between Penmayne, Cant Cove, Wadebridge, and Bodmin". It also specified "First Class accommodations when available", a nod to the comfort usually reserved for the railway's most distinguished passengers.

Security features abounded, from the raised Southern Railway seal to the intricate border pattern that would be nearly impossible to replicate. At the bottom, the signature of Sir Herbert Walker, General Manager, Southern Railway, lent the pass its ultimate authority. A thin leather strap was attached to the pass, allowing Sylvia to wear it around her neck, keeping it safe and visible during her travels.

On a bright morning, Lady Penelope accompanied Sylvia and Rusty to Cant Cove station for the presentation of this special pass. The station, usually a bustle of activity, seemed unusually quiet. As they approached the platform, Sylvia noticed Stationmaster Keneder Treskerby standing formally at attention, his uniform immaculately pressed and his cap set at a perfect angle.

"Good morning, Miss Sylvia", Ken said, his voice carrying a hint of suppressed excitement. "We have a special presentation for you today."

Sylvia looked up at her mother, curiosity shining in her eyes. Lady Penelope simply smiled and nodded encouragingly.

With great ceremony, Ken produced a small, polished box made of local oak. Its rich grain and warm colour spoke of the care and craftsmanship that had gone into its creation, matching the significance of the item it contained. He knelt down to Sylvia's level and opened it, revealing the gleaming brass pass nestled on a bed of bright green velvet.

"Miss Sylvia Trevelver", Ken announced formally, though his eyes twinkled, "on behalf of the Southern Railway, it is my honour to present you with this Special Junior Pass. This pass grants you and Rusty the freedom to travel our lines and explore the wonders of Cornwall."

Sylvia's eyes widened in amazement as she gently took the pass from the box. She ran her fingers over the engraved surface, marvelling at the detail.

"Thank you, Mr. Treskerby", she said, her voice filled with awe. "But... why me?"

Ken smiled warmly. "The railway recognises its special friends when it sees them, Miss Sylvia. You and Rusty have adventures ahead, and we're honoured to help you on your way."

As if on cue, the distant whistle of an approaching train sounded. Sylvia wearing her new pass, her heart full of excitement for the journeys to come. Rusty wagged his tail, seeming to understand that new adventures were on the horizon.

As news of Sylvia's special pass spread among the railway staff, it was met with a mixture of surprise, delight, and a touch of pride. The signalmen, porters, track workers, and stationmasters along the lines between Penmayne, Cant Cove, Wadebridge, and Bodmin felt a sense of shared responsibility for their young charge. They viewed Sylvia's presence not just as a charming novelty, but as a reminder of the railway's importance to the communities it served. Many of them, having their own children or grandchildren, took it upon themselves to keep a watchful eye on Sylvia and Rusty during their travels, offering friendly waves, interesting titbits about train operations, and the occasional treat for Rusty.

It was 1944, and the war effort was still very much at the forefront of everyone's minds. Sylvia, who would turn six that November, embodied a spirit of curiosity and resilience that resonated deeply with the railway folk. Despite her young age, her questions often surprised them with their insight, demonstrating an understanding more typical of an eight-year-old. This precocious nature, combined with her genuine enthusiasm for the railway, endeared her all the more to the staff.

The Special Junior Pass was not just a ticket for Sylvia; it symbolised hope and continuity for the railway community. In Sylvia, they saw a glimpse of a peaceful future – a bright-eyed explorer ready to carry forward the legacy of the tracks that crisscrossed the Cornish landscape, even as the shadows of war still loomed.

Lady Penelope watched the scene with a mixture of pride and nostalgia, knowing that this pass was more than just a travel document—it was a key to a world of discovery for her daughter and a recognition of the special place Sylvia had created for herself in the heart of the railway community.

Despite the freedom this pass granted her young daughter, Lady Trevelver felt no anxiety. Her peace of mind came from the unwavering presence of Rusty, Sylvia's loyal Cocker Spaniel. Rusty was far more than a mere pet; he was Sylvia's guardian, gifted with an uncanny ability to sense any potential threat to his young mistress.

Lady Penelope had observed Rusty's protective instincts with admiration. His attentiveness to Sylvia was constant yet unobtrusive. At even the slightest hint of unease, Rusty would communicate wordlessly with Sylvia through a series of subtle signals—a gentle nudge, a soft whine, or a particular tilt of his head and look in his eyes. These silent messages were always understood by Sylvia, who shared a deep, intuitive bond with her canine companion.

While such occasions were thankfully extremely rare, Lady Trevelver had witnessed Rusty's protective instincts in action from an unexpected vantage point. She vividly recalled an incident during one of Sylvia and Rusty's exploratory walks through the streets of Penmayne, the seaside port whose character had been dramatically altered by the war.

Lady Penelope had been in Penmayne that day, attending to business with the local Women's Voluntary Service. As she emerged from a meeting at the town hall, she caught sight of Sylvia and Rusty further down the high street, near the junction that led down to the harbour. The usual holiday crowds were absent, replaced by a mix of off-duty sailors, dockworkers, and women who had taken on new roles in the harbour's war-related activities.

From about fifty yards, partially obscured by a shop window plastered with wartime posters, Lady Penelope watched the scene unfold. The vibrant displays caught her eye: a "Careless Talk Costs Lives" poster featuring a stern-faced sailor warning against loose lips in this port town; next to it, the iconic "Dig for Victory" image encouraged even urban dwellers to grow vegetables. A local addition proclaimed, "Keep Our Shores Safe - Report Suspicious Objects", a stark reminder of the coastal town's vulnerability.

Lady Penelope noticed an inebriated sailor, likely fresh from a long and perilous voyage, approaching Sylvia and Rusty with unclear intentions. Her first instinct was to rush to her daughter's aid, but something made her pause – a mixture of curiosity about Rusty's reaction and a desire to see if Sylvia could handle the situation with the dog's help. The scene stirred a memory from her own childhood: her loyal Cocker Spaniel, Cador, who had been fiercely protective of her.

With her characteristic intuition, Lady Penelope felt a quiet certainty that Rusty would show the same instinct to guard Sylvia as Cador had once done for her. This innate sense of knowing, honed over years of navigating the intricacies of high society and her keen observations of both people and animals, reassured her. She watched intently, her posture relaxed but alert, trusting in the bond between her daughter and the faithful canine companion.

In an instant, Rusty's demeanour transformed. His usually friendly eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a warning snarl, and a low, rising growl emanated from deep in his chest. Standing at full height, with his muscular frame and thick coat, Rusty cut an imposing figure against the backdrop of the grey, wartime street. Suddenly sobered by the dog's fierce display, the sailor quickly retreated, disappearing into the passing workers and military personnel.

Lady Penelope watched in amazement as Sylvia remained calm throughout the encounter, her hand resting reassuringly on Rusty's back. The incident was over in moments, leaving Sylvia unharmed and even largely unalarmed, thanks to Rusty's swift intervention.

As the stranger vanished, Lady Penelope hurried to Sylvia and Rusty, her heart racing with relief and pride. She knelt down, quickly checking Sylvia for any signs of distress before enveloping her in a tight hug. "Are you alright, darling?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Satisfied that Sylvia was unharmed, Lady Penelope turned her attention to Rusty. She lavished praise on the loyal spaniel, ruffling his ears and patting his sturdy flank. "Good boy, Rusty! Such a good, brave boy", she cooed, her voice thick with gratitude. This isolated incident cemented her trust in both her daughter and her canine companion. Rusty's unwavering loyalty and protective instinct, combined with Sylvia's remarkable composure, proved a formidable partnership that both reassured and impressed Lady Penelope.

In that moment, Lady Trevelver's lingering doubts dissolved. The extraordinary bond between Sylvia and Rusty echoed her own childhood relationship with Cador, Rusty's matrilineal ancestor and her faithful protector. Like Cador before him, Rusty could clearly safeguard Sylvia beyond the sheltered routines of Trevelver Castle. The Special Junior Pass, which had initially caused her and her husband some apprehension, now symbolised their trust in this remarkable duo. As she stood up, Sylvia's hand in hers and Rusty pressed loyally against her daughter's leg, Lady Penelope felt a surge of relief tinged with nostalgia. In this tumultuous wartime world, she had found an unexpected comfort: her daughter and faithful spaniel were ready for whatever lay ahead, just as she and Cador had been a generation before.

From Bodmin to Penmayne, Sylvia and her Cocker Spaniel were a welcome sight. Her inquisitive nature and respectful demeanour, complemented by Rusty's playful spirit, earned them invitations into every signal box and onto many a locomotive footplate. The gruff drivers and firemen would beam with pride as they explained the workings of their engines to the attentive young girl with her charming smile and neatly plaited hair, while signalmen delighted in teaching her the intricacies of their vital role in keeping the trains running safely. Rusty's wagging tail and friendly disposition often helped break the ice, and the railway workers would sometimes sneak him treats, further endearing the pair to the railway community.

The railway workers saw in Sylvia not just the daughter of the local gentry but a kindred spirit who truly appreciated the magic and importance of their world. For Sylvia, the railway had become more than just a fascination—it was a second home filled with friends who shared her passion for the endless rhythm of the rails.

Sylvia's growing understanding of the world of trains had sharpened her awareness, attuning her to the rhythms and sounds of the railway. For weeks, she had felt a strange tingling in her fingertips whenever she neared running water, but she had dismissed it as imagination. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she caught glimpses of vague, wavering silhouettes near streams or ponds, but they always vanished when she turned to look. These odd sensations and fleeting visions were pieces of a puzzle she could not yet understand – hints of a hidden power stirring within her, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

One fateful afternoon, as Sylvia and Rusty took their usual stroll along the Castle grounds, the distant chug of an approaching train caught her attention. She paused, watching intently as a heavily laden goods train laboured up the steep incline towards the caverns beneath Trevelver Castle. The locomotive's laboured breaths echoed across the landscape, each exhalation of steam a testament to its burden. The acrid smell of coal smoke and warm oil mixed with the sweet scent of wildflowers, creating an oddly comforting aroma.

As the train crawled past, Sylvia's keen eyes spotted something alarming – an axlebox under one of the ammunition vans glowed an ominous cherry red, with tendrils of evil-smelling smoke curling upward. Her heart leapt into her throat, pulse quickening. Memories of Stationmaster Treskerby's warnings about overheated axleboxes causing derailments flashed through her mind. She could picture the dangers: derailment, explosion, catastrophe in the caverns under the Castle.

Time seemed to slow. The world around Sylvia faded away, leaving only her, the train, and the imminent disaster. Indecision raged within her – should she run for help? Signal the guard? But there was not time. Without conscious thought, her focus shifted to a nearby stream, the tingling in her fingertips intensifying to an almost painful degree.

What happened next defied explanation. A succession of shimmering orbs of water, no larger than a football, rose from the stream. They hovered in the air, pulsing, refracting sunlight into a dance of miniature rainbows. Sylvia stared, transfixed by the peculiar sight, a mixture of awe and fear coursing through her.

Suddenly, as if answering a silent call, the watery spheres sprang into action. One by one, they launched towards the train, streaking through the air like liquid comets. Sylvia watched, wide-eyed and breathless, as the glistening orbs arced gracefully overhead.

With a sound like angry cats, the spheres smashed against the glowing axlebox. Steam erupted in great billowing clouds, momentarily obscuring Sylvia's view. She rubbed her eyes in disbelief, wondering if what she had seen was real or just her imagination playing tricks.

When the hissing vapour cleared, she blinked hard and looked again. The axlebox was transformed. Its menacing cherry-red glow faded rapidly, cooling to a harmless, rusty black before her very eyes.

Sylvia stood frozen, her mouth slightly open. Had she really seen what she thought she had seen? Had she somehow made it happen?

Rusty, who had been watching the entire spectacle with rapt attention, let out a soft whine and pressed himself against Sylvia's leg. His warm presence anchored her, reminding her that this was real, not some fantastic daydream.

As the last drops of water fell onto the tracks with a soft patter, Sylvia remained rooted to the spot. Her mind was spinning, trying to understand what had just unfolded before her eyes. A whirlwind of emotions swept through her – excitement, fear, and confusion all mixed together in a dizzying blend.

In that moment, as she absently stroked Rusty's fur for comfort, Sylvia knew something big had changed. The amazing scenes from her grandmother's stories about brave girls saving the day were not just pretend anymore – she could feel something special and powerful inside her, like butterflies in her tummy but all through her body and even in her head.

A funny, almost metallic tang hung in the air around her. Sylvia had noticed this smell before, usually when strange things happened around her. She had always thought it was just her imagination playing tricks.

The steady rumble of the goods train jolted Sylvia from her daze—danger still loomed. Heart racing, she sprinted towards the slow-moving train, with Rusty loping alongside her, barking excitedly. Her eyes locked onto the guard's van—a weathered grey wooden box on four wheels, its chipped paint and rust spots bearing the marks of years of service. As it rolled along at the rear, Sylvia's desperate shouts pierced the air, trying to catch the guard's attention, who stood oblivious on the far side of the van's small, covered platform.

"Guard! Guard!" she called out, waving frantically. "The axlebox! It's too hot! On the ammunition wagon!"

Alerted by her cries, the elderly railwayman quickly moved to the side of the van facing Sylvia. He leaned out, his bushy eyebrows furrowing with alarm as he gave her his full attention. "What's that then, me little maid?"

"The axlebox was smoking on the ammunition wagon!" Sylvia called back, her voice urgent. She had been told that overheated bearings could seize up, causing a terrible derailment. "It's stopped smoking now, but it's screeching bad! You gotta check it when you stop! It might break!"

The guard's eyes widened in recognition of the grave danger, and he nodded sharply. "Yer right there, me dear! That's proper serious, that is! I'll 'ave 'em check it the moment we stops. Could've been a right disaster, that could. 'Ow did 'ee spot it, then?"

Sylvia bit her lip, thinking fast. "I... I saw smoke", she shouted, feeling better as the train slowed down near where it was going to stop.

"Well, bless my soul!" the guard shouted as the train pulled ahead. "You've done us a right good turn today, you 'ave! Thank 'ee kindly, miss!"

She stood still as the train disappeared into the reception sidings outside the caverns, her pulse racing. She looked down at Rusty, who wagged his tail and whined softly. "Did you see that, Rusty?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "The water... I think I made it move. I... I don't understand what's happening to me."

Rusty tilted his head, his brown eyes seeming to say he had seen it all. Sylvia reached down to scratch behind his ears, her mind whirling with the implications of what had just happened. She had always known she was different, but this... this was beyond anything she had ever imagined. As the reality of her newfound power settled in, a mix of excitement and trepidation filled her. What other wonders – or dangers – might lie ahead?

With a deep breath, Sylvia straightened her shoulders. Whatever this might mean, she would face it head-on. But first, she needed answers, and she knew just where to start. It was time for a long-overdue conversation with her grandmother about the true nature of those tingling sensations.

As they returned to the Castle, questions flooded Sylvia's mind. Was this the ancestral power her grandmother had hinted at? Were there other things she could do? And most importantly, who could she tell about this extraordinary event? The familiar walls of Trevelver Castle loomed before her, suddenly full of secrets waiting to be uncovered. Yet, as Sylvia gazed upon her ancestral home, excitement and determination welled inside her. Whatever this power was, whatever it meant, she was ready to embrace it. After all, she was a Trevelver, and Trevelvers had always been ready for adventure. With Rusty by her side, Sylvia squared her shoulders, prepared to unravel the mysteries that lay ahead and discover the true extent of her newfound abilities.

In the following days, the incident with the water and the overheated axlebox left Sylvia both exhilarated and confused. As she tried to understand what had happened, she looked at her familiar surroundings with new eyes. Even her beloved toys seemed different now, as if they, too, might hold hidden secrets. The lines between the ordinary world of trains and the extraordinary world of magic began to blur in her mind, transforming her everyday life into a landscape of potential wonder and discovery.

On a sun-dappled afternoon, five-year-old Sylvia sat cross-legged among her wooden toys in the Castle's airy morning room. A sprawling farmyard and village spread across the rug, bathed in sunlight streaming through tall, arched windows. Rusty lay curled beside her, his tawny coat glowing in the warm light, his tail softly thumping as he watched with drowsy, protective interest.

Sylvia's fingers traced the contours of a stone barn and a quaint farmhouse, her miniature world dotted with stables, a chicken coop, and a pigsty. White-painted fences and grey stone walls snaked across the carpet, mirroring the undulating grounds outside. A duck pond shimmered with reflections of overhanging trees, and painted figures stood outside village buildings—a general store, bakery, post office, school, church, and pub.

Sylvia pushed a green tractor with a trailer laden with hay bales across the carpet. The room smelled of old books, beeswax polish, and a hint of lavender from her mother's perfume.

Her gaze fell on two wooden passenger trains. One train was a rich dark green, while the loco. of the other was a lighter green with chocolate and cream coaches.

Next to the trains was a new addition—a goods train, a birthday present from Sir George, featuring various wagons and vans. The light blue vans for the Castle Estates, dark blue for the Castle Brewery, and bright orange for the North Cornwall Pasty Co. made Sylvia smile as she recognised the family businesses.

Tracing the bright orange wagon with her finger, Sylvia's eyes lit up. "Mummy, do you remember when we visited the North Cornwall Pasty Company?"

Lady Penelope smiled warmly. "Of course, darling. That was a lovely day, wasn't it?"

Sylvia nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes! The smell of the pasties was simply divine. And I watched the workers crimping the edges—it was terribly fascinating."

"Indeed it was," Lady Penelope agreed. "And do you recall the train that pulled into the siding while we were there?"

"I do!" Sylvia exclaimed. "I asked you if it was our train, didn't I?"

Lady Penelope nodded. "You did, clever girl. And I explained that it was frightfully important for transporting pasties and other goods across the country."

Sylvia looked at her toy train with newfound understanding, her eyes sparkling with recognition. "So, Mummy, my little orange van is just like the big ones we saw in Penmayne?"

Lady Penelope beamed with pride. "Exactly, darling. Your toy train is a miniature version of the real ones that help our family's businesses."

"How splendid!" Sylvia exclaimed, her excitement palpable. She then turned her attention back to the passenger trains. "Mummy, why are our passenger trains, my trains, different colours?"

Her mother looked up, setting her book aside. Her gentle smile reflected her pride in Sylvia's observations, and a warm smile illuminated her face.

"How a very good question, darling. Those different colours represent two different railway companies."

Sylvia listened intently, the distant chime of the Castle clock tower marking the quarter-hour. Outside the window, she could hear the faint rustling of leaves, carried by a gentle breeze that brought with it the salty tang of the sea.

"Railway companies?" Sylvia echoed, her brow furrowing slightly.

"Indeed," Lady Penelope nodded. "The dark green one is the Southern Railway, and the lighter green with chocolate and cream coaches belongs to the Great Western Railway."

Sylvia picked up the two trains, examining them closely. "But why do we need two, Mummy? Isn't one enough?"

Lady Penelope chuckled softly. "A very good question, Sylvie. Having two railway companies is actually rather advantageous for us. It's rather like... hmm..." She paused, considering how to phrase it. "It's rather like having two roads to the same destination instead of just one. If one road is terribly busy or closed for repairs, we can use the other."

"Oh!" Sylvia's eyes lit up with understanding. "So, we can always send our pasties and such, even if one train is out of sorts?"

"Precisely, darling!" Lady Penelope beamed, clearly impressed. "And it's not merely for transporting our goods. It also aids in bringing more visitors to Cornwall."

Sylvia nodded, then tilted her head curiously. "But Mummy, why do you prefer the dark green one and Daddy prefers the other?"

Lady Penelope's eyes twinkled with amusement. "My, you are particularly observant today. Well, the ladies in our family have always been very fond of the Southern Railway. Would you care to know why?"

Sylvia nodded eagerly, edging closer to her mother.

"You see, Sylvia, the Southern Railway was the first to use electricity to power its trains, especially around London," Lady Penelope began. "This made them faster, cleaner, and they run ever so smoothly. Its efficiency is most impressive, and its trains are almost always punctual, which we find terribly important."

"Like when we mustn't be late for tea?" Sylvia inquired.

Lady Penelope laughed lightly. "Yes, darling, rather like that. The Southern is always trying new things, always improving, and that feels frightfully exciting and modern to us."

"And what about Daddy's train?" Sylvia pressed, her curiosity piqued.

"Ah, yes. Your father and his family have always preferred the Great Western Railway", Lady Penelope explained. "You see, he grew up on Great Western territory and has the most delightful memories of its trains from his boyhood."

She continued, her tone warm with affection, "The Great Western is a bit grander and more traditional. A very famous engineer named Brunel helped build it, and his bridges and tunnels are considered absolute masterpieces. They used to have wider train tracks called broad gauge, which made the rides feel smoother and faster."

Sylvia's eyes widened. "It sounds splendid, Mummy!"

"Oh, it is... in its way", Lady Penelope replied. "Your father adores how beautiful and comfortable everything is—the stations are elegant, and the trains are designed to feel utterly luxurious. For them, it's not merely about reaching a destination; it's about enjoying the entire experience. He's terribly fond of their history and engineering."

Lady Penelope stood and walked to a tall bookshelf, returning with a heavy, leather-bound album. As she opened it, revealing sepia-toned images of people and locomotives from long ago, Sylvia spotted a distinguished man standing next to a gleaming train.

"Is that Great Grandpa?" Sylvia asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

Lady Penelope nodded. "Indeed it is, darling. This photograph was taken when he assisted in opening the new railway line from Bodmin Road to Boscarne Junction. Our family has long understood the importance of railways in connecting our businesses to the rest of the country."

She then opened a map and explained: "The Southern Railway runs from London Waterloo via Okehampton, Launceston and Wadebridge to Cant Cove, then Penmayne. It's a vital link for our businesses, connecting us to the capital and beyond. The Great Western Railway runs from London Paddington to Penzance, stopping at Bodmin Road with connecting trains to Wadebridge. Both these lines are essential for transporting our goods and bringing visitors to Cornwall."

Sylvia nodded, her mind racing with new understanding. "So both railways help us with our business, and that's why we need them?"

"Precisely, darling", Lady Penelope said, clearly impressed. "And one day, perhaps you'll help look after these railways and all the people who depend on them, too. You see, it's not just about trains, Sylvia. It's about connecting people, places, and livelihoods. That's why both the Southern and Great Western Railways are so terribly important to our family and to Cornwall."

As Sylvia returned to her toys, she viewed them afresh. In her imagination, her little trains now travelled the routes her mother had described—Penmayne to Cant Cove, Cant Cove to Wadebridge, and finally, all the way to London; the lines connecting her family's past, present, and future across Cornwall and England.

Sylvia then thought about how her toys differed from Gerald's soldiers and guns, lorries, and cars and how she loved spending time with her mother in the Great Library, while Gerald preferred playing outside.

A new certainty took root within her: being a Trevelver was about more than just trains and businesses. The strange magic she had sensed with the hot axlebox had stirred something deep inside her. She began to notice subtle shifts in her surroundings, feeling the presence of ancient and powerful forces.

A sudden hoot from a tawny owl startled her, knowing they normally slept during the daytime. The room's atmosphere shifted; sunlight turned golden and sparkly, and the air grew thick with anticipation. Sylvia felt the Castle holding its breath, the air charged with the tang of magic, like licking a coin. Her wooden toys seemed to tremble, and the bell on her toy sheep tinkled softly. Sylvia sensed something thrilling—and perhaps a little frightening—was about to happen, just like in her favourite tales.

Anything more planned Chris?
@Chris in Prague

Quote from: dannyboy on October 14, 2024, 09:01:45 PMAnything more planned Chris?
@Chris in Prague

Thanks, David. I'm now writing a trilogy featuring Sylvia. I began with what, later, became Book Two, from which some of these railway scenes are taken. Then, I decided it would be interesting to write about her birth and childhood, which grew into an entire book which I'm trying to complete before Christmas.

I'm still buying model railway items, including 3D-printed coaches but have no time to do anything with them!

I can post some more railway scenes. When Book One is finished, I can send you a .PDF as I'm keen to have some pre-publication readers' feedback. I'm trying to find one of my former students to design the book covers as I don't have the skills to do an expert job, only a rough draft.

Best regards.

This is all sounding quite interesting.  :thumbsup:

Quote from: Chris in Prague on October 15, 2024, 06:53:43 AMWhen Book One is finished, I can send you a .PDF as I'm keen to have some pre-publication readers' feedback.

I do not mind being a guinea pig.  :)  :beers: