It was turning out to be a heck of a day. Dot might have called it a hell of a day, except that her dear mam had forbidden her children to use the H word under any circumstances, and by crikey, was Dot seeing some circumstances today. First off, she arrived at Victoria to find it extra busy because the early trains had given way to whatever trains had to give way to these days – troop trains, munitions wagons. Anyroad, it meant she had to push her parcels trolley at a snail’s pace so as not to bash anyone as she made her way through the crowd.
‘You took your time,’ sneered Mr Bonner when she drew to a halt beside the guard’s van. ‘I never have this trouble with real porters.’
‘Good morning to you an’ all.’ Dot kept her voice cheerful even though she felt more like spitting in his eye. She had to be polite or he might report her.
When she had loaded her parcels, Mr Bonner quickly checked the various piles of packages and boxes, as was only right and proper, but it still galled her because of the long-suffering way he did it, which suggested that if she hadn’t made any mistakes, it was more through luck than competence.
Mr Bonner’s despairing air changed to one of triumph and Dot felt herself shrink inside. What had she done wrong?
‘This box,’ Mr Bonner declared, ‘should be with those over there. No.’ He held up a hand, as through stopping traffic, as she stepped forward to rectify her mistake. ‘I’ll move it. It is essential it ends up in the correct place.’
He couldn’t have handled the crown jewels with greater attention. Mr Bonner set down the box with extravagant care and turned to her. She braced herself. This was the moment for him to indulge in some serious gloating.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bonner,’ she said.
But instead of gloating, his attitude was dismissive, which was somehow worse. She felt two inches tall.
‘It’s only what I expect from a porterette. Kindly return to the parcels office. I believe you’ve left something behind.’
‘Pardon me, but I haven’t.’
He was already turning away. ‘If you say so.’
Dot dithered, but only for a moment. If she really had left something behind – which she knew she hadn’t – but if she had, and she didn’t go back for it, she would be hauled over the coals good and proper. She might even be sacked. So she had no choice but to ease her way back through the crowd to find out.
There were grins all round as she walked into the office. Was she the victim of a silly joke? Then one of the senior porters appeared, leading a pair of goats. Goats! Round its neck, each goat wore a loose rope collar, from which a stout piece of string acted as a lead. Dot’s mouth dropped open, but her hand automatically extended to receive the leads even as her thoughts struggled to catch up.
‘They’re goats,’ was all she could say.
‘They’re parcels, Mrs Green. Pets and livestock are parcels.’
‘Get them two settled,’ called a cheery voice, ‘then come back for the rest.’
‘Take no notice,’ said the senior porter. ‘It’s just these two. Here are their luggage labels. Make sure they don’t eat ’em.’
‘Eat anything and everything, goats do,’ someone added helpfully. ‘They’ll go through yon guard’s van like a flamethrower, if you don’t watch out.’
Dot stared at the animals. They had short-haired white coats, with tufty little tails. At least they didn’t have horns, but those horizontal pupils weren’t exactly endearing. With laughter echoing in her ears, Dot led her charges to the platform, passengers making way with grins on their faces. As she passed through the barrier with them, the ticket collector couldn’t have laughed any more heartily if Harry Champion had popped out from behind a pillar to sing a rousing chorus of ‘I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am’. What a pity it wasn’t that nice ticket collector. Yes, he would have had a chuckle, but he would have said summat encouraging an’ all. She could do with a spot of encouragement.
The goats weren’t keen to get on the train, but finally allowed themselves to be tugged aboard. Maybe they were fed up of being laughed at. Lord knows, Dot was. Hey, what was the matter with her? It wasn’t like her to be grumpy. This was funny, really … or would be when she looked back on it one day in the dim and distant future. She let her head fall back in relief when the goats allowed themselves – and she had no doubt that their consent was involved – to be led inside the parcels’ cage. She couldn’t have them running riot, could she, so she used the Southport boxes and parcels to build a wall in a corner and penned them in. Crikey, it felt like she had done a day’s work already.
Mr Bonner appeared just as she was mentally patting herself on the back. Talk about impeccable timing.
‘Here are our special passengers.’ She gave Mr Bonner her most dazzling smile. Not for anything would she let on how fraught things had been.
‘They’re parcels, not passengers, and if they make a mess, it’s your job to clear it up.’
She locked her smile in position. ‘Lucky for you, you’ve got a porterette on board. A man would be squeamish about such things. Me, I’ve changed more mucky nappies than you’ve had hot dinners, and a bit of goat mess is nowt.’
If she’d imagined that that was the hardest part of the journey over and done with, she was wrong. The train was full, with plenty of passengers standing in the corridors or sitting on upturned suitcases, which made it tricky for her to get her parcels to the correct door before arriving at each station, especially as folk kept asking her questions about arrival times and connections. After Salford Central, where she got the last of her parcels to the door by the skin of her teeth, she reckoned the only way to cope was to start shifting parcels as soon as they pulled out of each station. What with that, and keeping an eye on the goats, she didn’t have a moment to sit down.
At last the train pulled into Southport. Dot swore the sky was bluer here. The train doors started banging open before the train came to a halt at the buffers. Passengers streamed out, some in a purposeful hurry, others getting in their way by pausing to look around for whoever was meeting them. The air was filled with the sharp-sweet smell of steam.
Miss Lofthouse, one of the parcels porters, had positioned her empty trolley in precisely the right place to receive the Southport deliveries from the guard’s van. She was a sturdy woman of a certain age, whose previous working life had been spent in a laundry, heaving sopping sheets out of giant coppers and turning the handles on industrial-sized mangles, all of which meant she had developed a strength that a man wouldn’t be ashamed of. Parcels were nothing to Miss Lofthouse. No matter the size or weight, she heaved them about with an ease that filled Dot with a mixture of admiration and sorrow. By, but this woman had had a hard life. You could say what you liked about Reg, but he had always provided for her and her boys.
Miss Lofthouse peered inside. ‘What’s them?’
‘Goats.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Though why somebody is sending goats from Manchester to Southport, I don’t know,’ said Dot.
With no discernible difficulty, Miss Lofthouse picked up a box that had brought Dot out in a sweat when she’d loaded it onto the train. ‘Perhaps they’re on a day trip and you’ll be taking them home again later.’
‘Don’t even joke about it,’ said Dot.
She had to admit, though, that her unusual parcels had been good as gold all the way from Victoria. Transporting animals wasn’t so bad after all. As the wall around them vanished, Dot grasped their leads, letting Miss Lofthouse finish the unloading. Finally, she led the goats from the train. Having baulked at getting on, now they weren’t keen to get off, but a good tug got them moving. Miss Lofthouse set off with the trolley, Dot following with the goats. This time, she enjoyed the curious looks and the smiles. She returned the smiles, feeling proud. Jimmy and Jenny would love hearing about this.
Maybe it was her own fault, maybe she was too busy revelling in the moment, but next news one of the goats put on a spurt and its lead slipped through her fingers. She stared in horror as the goat headed off at a smart clip, like a POW making a bid for freedom.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ Miss Lofthouse roared.
Dot thrust the other lead at her.
‘Stop that goat!’ she yelled down the platform. ‘It’s a parcel!’
She gave chase. By, but there were some things a lady her age shouldn’t be called upon to do, and zigzagging around startled passengers in pursuit of an independent-minded goat was one of them. Most of the passengers stood there like a load of lemons, aye, and the staff an’ all, but fortunately one fellow in a tweed jacket and trilby had the presence of mind to stamp his foot hard on the trailing lead and brought the goat to a standstill.
‘Yours, I believe.’ He handed her the lead as she puffed up to him.
After a brief tug-of-war, which Dot was in no mood to lose, she persuaded the goat to return to where Miss Lofthouse was waiting. Dot took the other lead and, winding the pieces of string several times round her wrists to prevent further mishaps, led the animals down the platform and straight to the parcels office. She couldn’t hand over the dratted beasts fast enough.
A straightforward journey home was what she needed now, but the swell of the crowd in the station suggested it was a forlorn hope. After her break, she took a minute to fuss the station cat, who was spark out on top of a pile of wicker hampers, before she set about loading the guard’s van for the return journey. The train was even fuller going back, making it harder to get the parcels to the various dropping-off points in the carriages.
After unloading Appley Bridge’s parcels, she made her way back to the guard’s van, squeezing through the jumble of passengers inhabiting the corridors. As she smiled and excused herself through one corridor, a pretty girl in her twenties, dressed in a lightweight wool suit and a lacquered straw hat, murmured, ‘Excuse me,’ in such a soft voice that Dot barely caught her words.
‘Can I help you?’ She had already answered umpteen questions about the timetable and where to change for Bolton and she was all set to reel off a quick reply when she twigged that the flush in the girl’s cheeks wasn’t due to the warmth of so many passengers crammed in together. Instinctively she leaned closer. ‘What is it?’
The girl’s gaze shifted from side to side. She put her mouth close to Dot’s ear and whispered, ‘Someone, one of these men, touched me.’
‘It is rather packed in here.’ Dot was about to apologise for the crush.
‘No, I mean he touched me … on the derrière.’
‘On the what?’
‘On my … on my BTM.’
The dirty bugger! She managed not to exclaim it aloud. Her gaze flashed round. The rotund gentleman with the bowler? The young fellow with the acne-pitted cheeks? The spivvy-looking bloke with the fag dangling from his lips? To her astonishment, she felt – so softly that she could almost believe it wasn’t happening – a whisper of a touch on her derry-whatsit. She sucked in a breath, but it wasn’t air that poured down her throat. It was sheer disbelief.
For a moment, she didn’t move. Then – she would get one chance at this, and one only – she whipped her hand behind her back and seized a wrist, clamping her fingers round the cuff.
Yanking the wrist up into the air, she demanded loudly, ‘Whose hand is this?’
Everyone stirred; everyone looked. Conversations stopped. The rotund gentleman in the bowler hat turned puce and tried to pull free of her. He didn’t manage it on the first attempt, but he did on the second.
‘How dare you?’ he spluttered.
‘How dare I? How dare you, you mean. Touching ladies in a public carriage.’
‘I did no such thing. It’s jam-packed in here. I admit I may have brushed against you accidentally.’
‘Oh aye, accidental, was it, that your hand ended up in a place I won’t mention, which is where I pulled it from? And not just me, neither, but—’ She reined in her tongue to spare the girl’s blushes. ‘Another lady has complained an’ all.’
‘This is outrageous. I shall lodge a formal complaint—’
‘You do that, matey, and see where it gets you. Up before the beak for indecent behaviour, that’s where.’ Crikey, where were these words coming from? Her pulse was hopping all over the place. She addressed those closest. ‘I suggest you move your wives out of the way, because this one’s got hands like a flamin’ octopus. You come with me, love,’ she added quietly to the girl. ‘You can sit in the guard’s van. Mind out, all, please. Coming through!’
Mr Bonner wasn’t best pleased at having a member of the public invade his private kingdom.
‘This lady is feeling faint,’ said Dot. ‘She couldn’t stop in that corridor, on her feet all the way to Victoria. Sit on this trunk, love.’
‘Don’t call the passengers “love”,’ hissed Mr Bonner.
‘Everyone’s “love” when they need a spot of looking after.’ It was tempting to add ‘Even you,’ but she mustn’t push her luck.
When they pulled into Victoria and the doors burst open, the girl got up, giving Dot a self-conscious smile.
‘Thank you for … you know.’
‘You’re welcome, lass – I mean, miss. If us women can’t look out for one another …’
The girl hesitated. For a moment, Dot wondered if she was about to receive a peck on the cheek, but the girl just nodded and stepped down onto the platform.
By the time Dot had ferried her parcels to the office to be sent on the next stage of their journeys, she felt like she had been flattened in a stampede. Aye, it had been one heck of a day and no mistake, what with goats and the packed train and that dirty old man, but you know what? It had been a bloomin’ good day an’ all. She had coped, maybe not always with dignity, but she had coped, and she couldn’t wait to tell her friends in the buffet.
Dot Green, railway girl.
Normally Dot went up and down to Southport three times in a day, but today, for reasons that weren’t explained to her, she spent the rest of the day ferrying sack trolleys of parcels outside for loading onto delivery vans and Scammell Mechanical Horses, the sight of which put her in mind of her first day. Although she was proud to have done something so important as help deliver foodstuffs in case of invasion, she couldn’t prevent a loose, wobbly feeling in her tummy when she thought of the implications. The struggle for Trondheim was under way. She had never thought of Norway as being a near neighbour. Well, you didn’t, did you? You thought of France and possibly Belgium. But right now, Norway felt like it might be at the other end of the East Lancs Road.
Wheeling her empty sack-barrow back inside, she glanced at the clock. You were never short of clocks to consult when you worked in a station. They were an essential piece of equipment for staff and passengers alike. She was due a break, but couldn’t take it until all the parcels for Withington and West Didsbury had been loaded. She lived in Withington. Had she perhaps loaded a parcel that was destined for one of her neighbours? The idea tickled her, gave her a sense of being more than just a housewife from Heathside Lane.
Just a housewife? Blimey, housewives and mothers were the backbone of the country. Look at how women had answered the call when their menfolk went away; women who worked jolly hard all day long and then clocked off and started all over again in the house.
When she took her break, Dot didn’t go into the mess. She didn’t feel like sitting down. If her aching muscles were anything to go by, she might not be able to get up again without a lot of heaving and groaning. Being a railway girl – ‘railway old biddy’, said Reg’s voice in her head – wasn’t altogether easy, especially after a physically taxing day like today, and she didn’t want anybody feeling they had to make allowances for her. It could be difficult enough being female, and therefore considered to be of dubious competency, without being a poor old duck an’ all.
Perhaps she would find a quiet spot on the platform near the ticket barrier, out of the way, and watch the world go by while gently rolling her shoulders so they didn’t seize up. As she settled down, a porter pushed an empty trolley with a squeaky wheel down the platform, stopping at what looked like a random place, though Dot knew it would be exactly the right spot for the unloading of all the parcels. Two minutes later, she saw the puffing of approaching white clouds and heard the familiar rhythmic chuffing sound as a train approached. Both stopped as the train coasted alongside the platform. A sharp hissing sound emerged from the top of the engine as the train headed towards the buffers. The brakes screeched, followed by a clunk as the vast machine was brought to a halt. Already doors were banging open and passengers were spilling onto the platform, hurrying on their way, clutching bags, newspapers and rolled umbrellas.
Sitting in her private spot, Dot observed the bustle and hurry, grateful to have a few minutes to herself. Presently, the platform quietened again.
‘Afternoon.’
‘Oh – good afternoon,’ said Dot.
It was that nice ticket collector.
‘I think this is the first time I’ve seen you without a goods trolley or a sack-barrow,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘Make the most of it. I’ll be shifting parcels again at the end of my break.’
‘Not having a cuppa?’
‘Not today. I thought I’d hang about here and watch the world go by.’
‘Ah, a bit of thinking time. I can understand that. I won’t disturb you.’
‘I’ve just been sitting here looking at yon train. My young grandson is very interested in planes and has his aeroplane-spotter’s book, but it’d be nice to be able to talk to him about trains.’
‘Allow me to help out. That’s the engine at the front. It’s a handsome brute, isn’t it? And behind it, that’s the tender, where the coal and water are stored. The driver and the fireman work on the foot-plate – there, see? The fireman shovels coal into the fire-box.’
‘There’s still a bit of smoke and steam coming out of the funnel.’ She wanted to show she knew something, however small.
The ticket collector smiled. She knew, just knew, he was about to correct her, but she also knew that he would do it in a kindly way. He wouldn’t jeer at her like Reg would.
‘You only get steam when the train is on the move. Anything that escapes when the train is stationary is smoke and hot gases.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘We have to make sure you know what you’re talking about so you can impress your little lad.’
He looked at her, as if hoping for a signal to continue, but ready to withdraw if he didn’t get one. He was pleasant company. Besides, Jimmy would be interested. Dot nodded.
‘This long cylinder here, that’s the boiler. There’s water inside, and lots of tubes from one end to the other. When the fireman stokes the fire-box, hot gases get sucked through the tubes.’
‘Like when the air draws on the fire at home.’
‘Something like that. That’s how the water is heated, and it’s why you get both smoke and steam pouring out of the funnel. This round part at the front of the boiler, like a clock face without the numerals, is where the smoke-box is. Ashes build up inside there. At the end of the working day, or more often if the engine has had to work especially hard, the clock-face is opened up for the ashes to be removed.’
‘Like emptying the ash-pan at home.’ Dot smiled. ‘Only with a lot more ashes.’ She would enjoy telling Jimmy everything.
The ticket collector took a step backwards. ‘I do apologise. Here’s me saying I won’t disturb you and what do I do but blather on about tubes and smoke-boxes.’
‘You aren’t disturbing me,’ said Dot. ‘After the day I’ve had, I’m glad of a friendly face.’
He smiled and his eyes crinkled. ‘Been difficult, has it?’
‘Interesting.’
He nodded. ‘Good for you.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Making the best of it. Not complaining. Believe me, I know how much there can be to complain about at the end of an interesting day.’
The stiffness dribbled away from Dot’s shoulders. A pleasant warmth, incorporating a suggestion of rejuvenation, infused her body. Rejuvenation? How daft. As if a few kind words could buck you up like that. But it was heartening to be complimented. And that was daft an’ all. He didn’t mean it as a compliment. He was just commenting.
‘I shan’t be offended if you say no,’ he said, ‘but I’m due a break now and I’d like to hear about your day, as long as you don’t complain about it, of course,’ he added with a twinkle. ‘Here comes Miss Johnson to take over from me. Charming girl. I trained her.’
‘How do, Mr Thirkle.’ Miss Johnson was all rosy cheeks and confidence. Very jolly hockey sticks.
Thirkle. That was an unusual name. Mr Thirkle smiled and nodded to Miss Johnson as he and Dot walked away.
‘Let’s walk up and down the concourse,’ she said. ‘We might actually be able to do it without tripping over anyone’s luggage.’
‘That’ll make a change, after the crowds earlier.’ He fell in step beside her, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘You possibly heard Miss Johnson call me Mr Thirkle.’
‘And I’m Mrs Green.’
‘Pleased to meet you properly.’
‘Likewise,’ said Dot.
They ambled past the long wood-panelled ticket office, with its elegant curve at either end and the line of windows where passengers queued to purchase their tickets from the booths. Above the centre of the office was a panelled wooden arch with a clock in the middle. Dot described her crowded train and the problems of shunting her parcels about, then went on to her adventure with the goats, chuckling along with Mr Thirkle.
‘Thanks for being understanding,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid Mr Bonner will tell everybody what a hash I made of it.’
‘It doesn’t matter if he does. All the best railway stories involve animals. “Stop that goat – it’s a parcel!” That’s a classic, that is.’
‘Is it?’
‘Good enough to be a catchphrase on It’s That Man Again.’
‘I love listening to ITMA on the wireless. Who’s your favourite character?’
‘Excuse me.’ It was a harassed-looking young man. ‘Can you direct me to Lost Property, please?’
After that they were asked about platform tickets, taxis and Left Luggage.
Mr Thirkle smiled ruefully. ‘So much for having a chat.’
Dot looked at the clock. ‘Time for me to start again.’
‘I’ll walk back to the parcels office with you, if I may. How are you getting along with Mr Bonner?’
‘I take it you’re aware of his opinion of women working on the railways?’
‘He isn’t the only one, Mrs Green. There’s a lot of ill-feeling about it, which, given the circumstances, is unfortunate, to say the least. What you have to remember is that Mr Bonner – well, no, it isn’t my place to talk about him. But to become a train guard takes, I don’t know, twenty-five or thirty years maybe, starting out as a lad-porter and working your way up. It’s the same to be a ticket inspector, though you’d do that through ticket work, not portering. And now, all these ladies have come along …’
‘And we’ve been put straight into jobs that men had to work up to,’ said Dot. ‘But that’s not our fault. There’s a war on.’
‘I know, Mrs Green. I remember the sterling work that was done by ladies in the last war. But I can also see why it’s hard for some railwaymen to swallow what’s happening now.’
‘They should think a bit less about their pride and a bit more about what their country needs – oh, I’m sorry, Mr Thirkle, I don’t mean to snap at you. In fact, I ought to thank you for bothering to explain to me.’
‘My pleasure. Is Mr Bonner making things difficult for you?’
‘Not really. I know my job and I do it. But …’ Yes, she would say it. ‘I don’t feel I could turn to him for support.’
Mr Thirkle nodded, but didn’t encourage her to expand. She liked him for it. He wasn’t nosy.
‘Has he explained to you Rule 55?’ he asked.
‘Rule 55? What’s that?’
‘That means he hasn’t. Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t in the rules that the parcels porters should be able to follow it, but I think, in our present circumstances, that they should be trained. But that’s just me.’
‘What’s Rule 55?’
‘It’s to do with keeping the train safe if it has to stop unexpectedly.’
‘I’ll ask Mr Bonner to show me,’ said Dot, immediately following it with, ‘No, maybe not. It’d only get his back up.’
‘I could maybe find a guard who’d show you.’
‘Really? You’d do that?’
‘Like I say, I think it should be automatic that you’re trained. Just in case, you know.’
Someone walked over Dot’s grave. Just in case.
‘Thanks for the offer,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it, but I’d rather sort it out for myself. No offence.’
‘None taken. You’re an independent lady, I can see that. But if you can’t find someone to show you, come back to me, won’t you? Don’t be proud.’ Mr Thirkle stopped. ‘Here we are.’ They were a few yards from the door to the parcels office. ‘Thank you for your company, though I’m afraid most of the company was courtesy of members of the public.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Helping folk is part of the job. They weren’t to know we were meant to be having a break.’
‘Well, it was nice to see you, anyroad.’
Dot gave him a nod and went back to work. Mr Thirkle’s insight had given her something to think about and, later on, she talked it over with her friends in the buffet.
‘… so, you see, that’s why some of the blokes aren’t pleased to have us here,’ she finished.
‘You’re not telling us you’ve softened towards Mr Bonner,’ said Joan, ‘after the way he’s behaved?’
‘No, I’ve not softened, but I’m glad to have an understanding of his point of view. I’m not saying the way he treats me is right. I’m just saying I can understand it better.’
‘Well, I think that’s very magnanimous of you,’ said Alison, ‘and far more than he deserves. So what if he worked for donkey’s years to achieve his position? The country is at war, for heaven’s sake.’
‘He should be glad of the help,’ said Mabel, ‘and so should all the other men.’
‘Especially those that are working alongside someone like you,’ Lizzie added.
Dot was warmed by their support and made a point of giving each of them a special smile as, one by one, they left to go home. Then it was just her and Cordelia at the table.
Cordelia smiled. ‘They were certainly fierce on your behalf, weren’t they?’
‘I hope I haven’t turned them against their male colleagues.’
‘They’re sensible girls,’ said Cordelia. ‘They know that most of the men are perfectly decent.’
Aye, Mr Thirkle was, for one. What a shame they hadn’t had the chance for a proper chat. Dot sensed they would get along.
The next day, as she was hurrying out of the station to head for home, she passed him standing beside the war memorial. She stopped. He seemed to be reading the names. She bit her lip, undecided. Then she went to stand beside him.
‘Evening,’ she said softly. ‘Tell me if I’m intruding.’
‘Good evening, Mrs Green. No, you’re not intruding. I’m just … well, I like to spend a bit of time here now and then.’
Dot looked at the lists of names. A wave of emotion coursed through her. Her own boys were far away. Would she ever see them again? Oh, please, let them come home safe. This tablet is erected to perpetuate the memory of the men … Her knees felt no more solid than trifle with too much sherry in it. Would Archie’s and Harry’s names one day be commemorated like this? She couldn’t bear it.
‘Mrs Green?’
And here she was, with emotion rolling around inside her, when this was Mr Thirkle’s special time at the memorial. She should be supporting him.
‘Did you know any of them?’ she asked. Pte Colman, W A … Pte Commons, J … Pte Conlan, T … Sgt Connolly, B J … ‘Eh, I’m sorry.’ She threw her hand across her mouth. ‘Hark at me, asking you that like it’s a piece of gossip.’
Mr Thirkle let his fingertips rest briefly on the bronze. ‘I did know some of them. I think of our boys going off now to fight in a war that was never meant to happen. The war to end all wars: that’s what we were told about the last one. And here we are, with another generation of men heading off to war, already there, most of them.’
‘Oh, Mr Thirkle.’ Dot felt a need to put her hand on his arm, wanted to show him that she understood, but of course she didn’t touch him. ‘Folk of our generation carry such sorrow, don’t we?’
‘I look at all these names listed here and feel as if I knew every single one of them.’