Date: Thu, 04 Jan 2024 09:30:29 +0000 From: Jonah Subject: Whiteout chapter 4 Whiteout by Jonah Those who have read my previous stories will need no introduction to Simon and Garret and their family. Those who haven't - why not? This is the latest in the series that began a couple of years back with "A Letter from America" and it fits in right after "Christmas in New England". If you haven't read the others, don't worry. It will stand on its own. It is a story of love - the real sort. Some of its characters are gay, though that doesn't matter. They are good people. They are not, however, real people. This is a work of fiction and every character is also a fiction - created by me, except for Garret, who was created by Jacob Lion, in the USA. I want to thank Jacob for permitting me to use his characters. This story is brought to you, free of charge, by Nifty. Nifty brings all these stories to you free of charge and he doesn't charge us authors either. The cost is borne by himself and our donations. To keep this site going please consider donating to Nifty at https://donate.nifty.org/ Chapter 4 The little saddle tank made heavy work of its heavy train. I was not supposed to apply power, but I had cracked my controller open just sufficiently to move the weight of the diesel. As we approached bridge 303, over the coast road, we could see that drifting snow had almost filled the cutting below and the road was impassable. Even a plough wouldn't shift it because there was nowhere to shift it to. The railway cutting was not much better but Ring Haw had cut a swathe for herself on the way down and Ben was making liberal use of his cylinder drain cocks to blow some of it away. At my end of the train, of course, it didn't matter but I was still in favour of Ben's enterprise since I hadn't got any cylinder drain cocks to use on the way back. The shallow cutting as we entered Weybourne station was the worst bit. A lot of snow had drifted there during the night but, again, Ben's engine had already cleared as much as she needed to. The diesel, D3935, sometimes called a "jocko" or a "pilot", or a "350", was an 0-6-0 with a cab at one end. At the end nearest the train she had large windows affording a beautiful view of the end of the coach but not much else. At the other end of the cab she had two small windows - one each side of the engine compartment - which would have been rectangular, but the sloping top of the main fuel tank gave them an angled bottom. To obtain any sort of view of what was going on, the crew needed to stick their heads out of the side windows. Once we were moving that soon made the cab cool. Our seats, which pivoted from the cab sides, were near to the engine compartment so, when travelling cab-first, as we had been doing, there was lots of spare leg-room. When travelling the other way, you had to turn in the small space between the cab-side and the control desk, then fit your knees into the space between the seat and the cab front. To add to the pleasure, on the driver's side that space already contains the cab-heater pipe and the vacuum brake pipe and its chamber release valve, On the second-man's side it contains the handle for the fuel transfer pump. It is not a comfortable ride - especially for the driver, who has to keep his left foot on the deadman's pedal. As soon as we were stationary I climbed down to the platform, after first applying the air brake so that Ben could blow off the vacuum brake. Harry was talking to a number of villagers, some of whom only wanted transport to Sheringham. The local farmer who normally did the village milk round wanted to bring a barrow down to Sheringham so that he could load up with milk crates. He also wanted to collect eggs and bread if they were obtainable in Sheringham. I asked Ross to help him load his barrow in the brake-van. Two police officers wanted to ride down so that they could assess the situation on the road. We agreed to drop them near bridge 303 so that they could check out the abandoned cars in that area, then we would pick them up on the way back. They would ride in my cab so that I would know where to drop them and pick them up again. In any case, the diesel was the easiest vehicle to climb off of. This was, of course, a naughty proceedure since the maximum number allowed in a diesel cab is two, but the police were an emergency service and would have the right to commandeer the loco if they chose. In minutes we were ready to set off. Ben had created vacuum and I tested the brakes again. That was not really necessary since the train formation hadn't changed since we last tested them but, in view of the weather, I wanted to check that the pipe hadn't been blocked by ice forming in it. On Harry's signal I sounded the whistle, released the air brake and cracked open the controller. That was as much as I was going to do since, apart from a short climb of 1 in 100, it was downhill all the way. In fact, once we were clear of the pointwork, I allowed the train brakes to rub most of the way to bridge 303. The bridge parapets were not so easy to spot in the whiteout but as soon as I did spot them I made a fairly severe brake application to bring our speed down to a crawl. I allowed Ben to blow them off again but was ready with a short burst to bring the train to a stand with my loco just over the bridge. I didn't want the officers clambering about at the side of a moving train so I told them that we would wait until we saw them safely down to the roadway. They clambered down with difficulty but soon gave us a wave from below. "Ready Ross?" I queried. He turned in his seat and looked back. "Clear this side," he reported. I clicked the loco into "FOR." and released the airbrake (it was usual to use the vacuum brake for stopping the train, but to swap it for the air brake once we were stopped), clicking the controller to "ON". This time, however, with the 1 in 100 climb ahead of us, I continued opening it until we were in notch three. The diesel engine roared at the countryside. A glance back told me that Ben had decided to assist on this bit. Possibly he was having trouble keeping his engine quiet and was availing himself of an excuse to open his regulator. Normally, I'd have selected notch four at the foot of the incline, but that wasn't necessary if Ben was going to push. Either way, we roared through bridge 304 with no difficulty and I shut off as soon as we were out of the cutting. A few moments later I saw the steam engine's exhaust disappear. We were running downhill at a goodly rate and I rested my hand on the vacuum brake handle. "There's a signal ahead and it isn't up," Ross told me. "A yellow one?" "Yes," "That's to tell me to slow down for Sheringham. Thanks for telling me about it." Gently I moved the vacuum brake handle enough to make the brake blocks rub, then moved it back again. Soon the signals at Golf Links Crossing came into view. The brakes came into full play now and we crawled the rest of the way into the platform. We made two more trips to Weybourne and back. I eventually shut down the diesel at the East end of Platform one, shut in by the coaches. There was no point in releasing it as we didn't know if it would be required again. The sun was setting as Ross and I climbed out of Sheringham to reach the Norwich road. Once more, the main roads were relatively clear, but the back roads were interesting, to say the least. We were just about to join the A140 at Roughton when the snow began. It drifted lazily down. A little later it got heavy and was laying, even on the main road. My wipers were just about coping with it, but only just about. Unlike our morning journey, this time there were other cars on the road. There weren't many and they were all dealt with the same way. That was that both cars approached each other warily, came almost to a stand and then cautiously edged past each other. Once past Aylsham our speed was down to ten miles per hour. From what I could see through the windscreen, that was good going. Occasionally we had to cross the road to negotiate abandoned cars. It was a laborious process. It was ten to seven when we turned off the Cromer Road into Manor Road. The first section we negotiated with little difficulty but then there is a T junction where Manor Road runs parallel to the A140. On this stretch the drifting snow had stacked up against the trees that fringe it. We were over our axles and making no more than a mile per hour. By half past seven we had reached the end of Newton road and I attempted to make the right turn. It took another ten minutes and the snow was deeper on this section. What finally finished us off was a mound of what looked like virgin snow. I guessed that a parked car was underneath that lot, and there was no way that I could steer round it. I forced my door open against the snow and stepped out. "You'd best come out this side," I told Ross. "You won't get that door open." He clambered over the handbrake and came out head-first, relying on me to help him get upright. "What now?" he asked. "I'm getting back in to shut down the car. Then we take our flasks and handlamps and the shovel from the boot, and we walk. We've been driving at about walking speed anyway, though we won't be able to walk fast in this. Still, we can't drive at all now, so we might as well go for it." He shrugged. So we did that. It took about another thirty minutes to make our way to our driveway. Garret's car was completely buried, but that was how every other car we had passed was. Garret, who had been sick with worry, had stew ready, and an immediate cup of tea. You know that feeling you get when things have been really hard for a long time, really frightening, really uncertain and suddenly you're safe and warm? You probably don't but, in that case, you'll have to take my word for it. It was good.