Stories Needed About Railroads and Railroading

[NorthBrit]

As we have a thread on poems and railroading, stories needed on railroading.

OUR DREAM HOUSE

Oh, the joy of owning the dream house. Not just a house but an old railway station. It was a dream of mine for a very long time. It was an old North British Railway Station; one of many that had been sold off and converted to houses . Our offer to purchase was accepted and we moved in. The station building still had a lot of it old charm. Very little had been altered in the fifty odd years since its closure; even the signal box at the end of the platform still had its signal levers and bells etc… Off course they no longer worked, but such a joy to see.

The track had long since gone; probably used elsewhere. What fun to have a length of track laid and an old carriage on it? Purchases were made. An old British Railway Mark 1 carriage was painted in North British crimson. Afternoon tea with friends in the carriage, such a delight.

I cannot remember when we first began to notice it, but we had a feeling someone was on the platform. We looked yet nobody was there. Same time; every day nobody there. It wasn’t scary just an uncomfortable feeling.

We enquired in the local village “Did anything strange happen at the Station?”
Eventually we were told a story.

In 1914 Mrs Ramshaw had seen her son, Bob leave on the train. With tears in her eyes she heard her son say “I’ll be home by Christmas.”
Mrs Ramshaw waved and waved as the train vanished from view. Some people say she stayed there long after everone had left the platform. Even Tom Rickleton, the Stationmaster tried to reassure her “Bob will be home before she knew it.”
Tom guided her to her house along Station Lane.
They say Mrs Ramshaw prayed every night for a safe return of her son and waited for a letter from him.

When the letter arrived, it wasn’t from her son, but had OHMS on it. The postman did not deliver it, Mr Rickleton delivered it. He stayed with her as she read it “We regret to inform you …”

The following day Mrs Ramshaw walked down to the station and thanked Mr Rickleton for his kindness, then stood on the platform gazing down the line, listening to the wind and seeing the silver rails curving away and out of the village.

She came the next day and the next, Mr Rickleton watched from his office wndow, Mrs Ramshaw stood alone, keeping a solitary vigil. Day after day she came. When the war ended in 1918 she still came; in all weathers, always alone, same time, transfixed.

In 1955 Mrs Ramshaw died at the age of 76 and shortly the line closed.

We had been in the property some eighteen months. It was November, a light snow falling. Logs and coal were in for the fires. Dawn had a pan of broth on the stove and about to serve. The sound of a train approaching? We looked at each other. Impossible!!! Trains had stopped running nigh on seventy years. We both looked out on the window. An old woman, oblivious to the falling snow stood there. As if the train had arrived (though we could not see it), a man, a young soldier in a peaked cap, carrying a slung rifle.

By the time I got to the door, Dawn said, “They have disappeared.”
Sure enough, not a soul to be seen. Only two sets of footprints slowly disappearing in the falling snow.

David

[Woke_Hoagland]

[NorthBrit]

Oakworth Station? A few years since I was last there. I used to visit when the Keighley & Worth Valley Railway was fledgeling Heritage Line.

David

[NorthBrit]

A story based very loosely on Dawn’s first visit to my house

Shall I Go Or Shall I Stay?

"What shall I do? Shall I go or shall I stay?
Oh! He is charming and a gentleman. Off course being at our house with mum and dad he would be.
This is different. I have only known him two weeks. Twice he has come to see me. Both times they have been wonderful. Both times he has treated me as someone special. Now he has asked me to his house. I have said ‘yes’, but am I doing right?

Waiting here at the train station. Waiting to go. There is a challenge in that the train is running late. Is that a sign to stay? It was here outside the station we first met. I thought he was lost. He said he was deciding to go into town or down towards the river. We walked down towards the river. As we talked, he said he was visiting the area. A tourist. We see many. Along by the river I felt a breeze getting up. Gently he put an arm around my shoulders. It felt natural to the point of snuggling into him.

That’s how it began. Now I am apprehensive. Am I rushing things? I hardly know him; but then does anyone know a person no matter the time. My last relationship was a disaster. He had a ‘string of girlfriends’. I was lucky though. I found out two of them had children by him. How glad I am that I didn’t sleep with him.

It’s the main reason I am wondering should I go or stay. Oh! I want children, sure I do. I want to be married first. Enjoy married life, going to places and holidays just the two of us. Then have children. Is that too much to ask? If I go it will be for five days. What will he expect of me? Will he respect my wishes? Shall I go or shall I stay.

Oh! The train is arriving. Am I doing the right thing?"

David

[NorthBrit]

AN IMPORTANT JOURNEY

Oh! I do like to stay at the North British Hotel at Waverley Station in Edinburgh. A hotel that believes itself to be not only the best in Edinburgh, but all of Scotland. The standard of service never seemed to diminish. Easy check in. Porter service. Comfortable bed. Excellent Scottish breakfast. What more could one wish for? Maybe another night perhaps? Not today though a journey to partake. An important journey indeed.

Now standing on the platform in my warm overcoat, a small suitcase by my side. A newfangled one with wheels to pull along. No more lifting and carrying, struggling; the wheels doing the work. The train arrives. Not a train with a name. The days of ‘The Elizabethan’, The North Briton’, ‘The Highlander’ long gone. It appears the Management have no pride in railways. Today’s not the day to argue the rights and wrongs of railways, the importance of the journey is at the forefront of my mind as I board the train.

I sit in First Class, a single seat, a table in front. There is another seat opposite. Nobody is occupying it at present. I see a ticket saying it is reserved from Perth. I settle down and watch the suburbs of Edinburgh pass by. A stop at Dalmeny and I see one or two passengers who board the train. Within a minute of departing we were crossing the River Forth. The bridge still as splendid as the day it was built. A ship was sailing up the river, but we were in the Kingdom of Fife and heading north.

A stop at Ladybank. I do love that name. I wonder how it was chosen? One day I shall enquire. It is here at Ladybank we take the single line to Perth. The line is rather unkempt. Long grass along the trackside. Branches from the nearby trees smack the side of the carriages. One day perhaps the trees will be cut back, but for now leaves would brush the carriage sides and every so often a branch would ‘thwack’ the sides. Some gave a fear that they would break a window.

Arriving at Perth a gentleman in business attire sat opposite me. From his briefcase he took out a book on management and began to read.
A lady in a British Railways uniform arrived with a tea trolley. Funny how it is a tea trolley, but only has coffee? A coffee and sandwich purchased I looked out the window. Snow had fallen. Not a lot, but was there more further north? I smiled to myself. I always had my overcoat for the journey. Pitlochry, Newtonmore, Aviemore all passed. The downward ride to go; Inverness.

Out of the railway station I saw Dawn and her parents. Pushing her way forward past the oncoming passengers, Dawn gave me a loving hug and a kiss oblivious to the remaining passing either side of us. With my arm around Dawn we made our way to her waiting parents. Embraces made we talked as we walked to their car. A month since our last meet, I missed them all.
“We’ll walk home,” Dawn said as her father took my suitcase. Her mother was going to mention the weather, but I guess she knew Dawn and I wanted to be together. We said our goodbyes and headed onto High Street.

The paths were partially clear of snow. No need to clear it all, after all more was forecast. Holding hands we looked in the window of ‘The Tartan Shop’. Mrs Douglas is a part owner of the store. She is in the same Clan as me. At the bridge we turned left along Castle Road. Inverness Castle on the hill to our left, the River Ness on our right. Walking along Castle Road we looked at the river. Sunlight shining on the snow and sandy riverbed gave an impression of hundreds of glittering diamonds floating downstream.

Along Ness Bank with not a care in the world we slowly walked and talked. Instead of turning left, Dawn led me along Ladies Walk. Usually a gravel path, snow covered the way. A small wooden bridge. A waterfall to our left within touching distance.
Dawn reached out her hand, touched the waterfall and with the icy cold water touched my forehead. With a startle I looked at her and we laughed.

Oh! What the heck! Not what I planned, but the time seemed right. “Will you marry me,” I said.

She never let go of me as we walked to her parents house.

David

[NorthBrit]

ONE WINTER’S EVENING

One begins to remember waiting for a train on a cold Winter’s evening. Snow is falling. The dim station platform lights a blur. The train is not due for another twenty minutes. The Waiting Room beckons. Ah, a roaring fire throwing out heat. One is mesmerised by the crackling of the logs. How close does anyone go? Is there time to undo the overcoat.

It is bitterly cold now. The snow is falling fast and furious. The fire has gone out. It stopped burning , what, some fifty years now. The Waiting Room is still there. I say still there; not the original one built in 1849, but some metal monstrosity that has strong plastic sides for windows to see the train arrive. A howling gale blowing through the gap at the bottom freezing the feet.

A couple of buttons are undone. The heat warming the throat and chest. The feet are warm. A feeling of relaxation. Bells ring. It is the Non-stop Express. A couple of minutes to go.
The Local Train is in sight. The fleeting memory bubble is burst. Step out of the ‘useless bus style shelter’ and onto a ‘Nodding Donkey’

A ‘Nodding Donkey’.

David

[NorthBrit]

THE COAL TRAIN

It was 1985 in an old mining village. I say mining village, but the mine had long ago closed. No more would miners make the journey down the pit cage. No more did a little 0.6.0 steam locomotive make the long 1 in 37 climb up the hill from the ‘main line’ with empty wagons, then descend the hill with full ones with coal.

Now the village has brand new houses with families that have moved in from elsewhere. The only remnants anyone would know of the village’s former self is the pit wheel housing and its wheel; chocked so it doesn’t move. The building is now a small museum of mining artefacts.

One evening, three wives had a ‘party’ at one of their homes. Some wine and a little food and talk. Just three ladies enjoying the evening. It was a good evening. So much so the clock on the wall ‘raced’ to eleven thirty. It was time for the two guests to leave. One left ten minutes before the other. She lived two doors down. The other had further to go home, so the host’s husband began to take her home.

They hadn’t gone twenty yards when they stopped and listened. What was the noise? Mr Clark from across the street was walking his dog and also stopped. The sound was of a steam engine hard at work. “Schuff, Schuff, Schuff.” The sound continued for a number of minutes. “Schuff. Schuff. Schuff. Schuff. Schuff.” Then as if a train was on easier ground the sound was more relaxed. Then the sound of clanking as if a train came to a halt. The sound of uncoupling and a locomotive running round to more wagons. Coupling up, then the train, no longer labouring, as it made its way down the hill.

Mr Clark asked “What was that?” as there was nothing to see. All three shook their heads in disbelief and amazement. Mr Clark entered his house and the two people continued on towards the ladies house. As they passed the pit wheel housing they turned and saw the pit wheel turning.

David

[NorthBrit]

A story some have read previously, But a story getting lost in time.
A story involving a journey by rail and sea.

Teddy
Some stories are handed down through families and as time passes things are omitted and others added. Not maliciously I add. Just that time erodes the true story.

Before that happens, here is my story.

My name is Chris. My younger sisters, Elizabeth and Ann and I stood on Leeds Central Station. The three of us held small brown suitcases, with a change of clothes, in our hands. String around our necks with labels hanging down. On the labels, our names, address, religion were written. We could have a small toy. I had a little notebook and pencil in my suitcase. Elizabeth had a pencil and small drawing pad. Ann held a small brown teddy with a red and yellow scarf around its neck.

Where were we going? It is June 1940. We and a number of other children were being evacuated to Canada or Australia. Maybe South Africa, the U.S.A. even. To escape the bombing and possible invasion by German troops. Mum was on the platform to see us leave. I could see she was holding back the tears as she spoke to Mrs Forster, our Escort. The train was waiting patiently, yet urgency was needed.
Mum did not have time to give us a hug. I just remember saying, “Behave yourselves. Love you all.”

There were seven of us children and Mrs Forster in the compartment. Although it was still early and daytime, the blinds in the compartment were pulled down. No lights to be shown out. We knew about that at nighttime, but this after nine o’clock in the morning. The journey was long, tiring and tedious. We seemed to travel a few miles, then stop a long time before moving again. Elizabeth was sitting next to the window and every so often she would move the blind a little and told us what she saw. She saw mostly fields and hedges. When she said we were in a town hopes rose. Is this where we get off? No. Onward we continued, stop, start, stop, start.

Eventually the train drew to a halt. The end of the journey. Grabbing our belongings we stepped onto a platform. Where? We did not know. It was dark. No lights shining. Station nameboards removed, so spies would not know where they were? We were shepherded off the platform and out of the station. I looked back. Liverpool Lime Street faintly engraved in the brickwork above the station entrance.

We walked a few streets of Liverpool to an old hall. There we were given food and a drink and a makeshift camp bed. That night we slept a restless sleep. For the next two days and nights we stayed in the hall. I wrote a few notes in my notebook, Elizabeth drew some pictures, Ann held her teddy tight.

“Ready, children,” the Escorts said with authority, “Time to go.”
We began to walk the streets of Liverpool once again. We looked in awe at seeing ‘The Dockers’ Umbrella’ as we passed.
“Come on children. No dawdling.”

Then, there she was, dark blue and white. Huge. Our ‘home’ to wherever we were going. We boarded and were shown to our sleeping berths. Elizabeth, Ann and I were very lucky. We had a room to ourselves; a bed and bunk beds. Other children were in dormitories of fifteen or twenty. Mrs Forster was a couple of rooms away from us.

We soon settled into the ‘Lady of Montrose’, 17,500 cargo/passenger ship A large open deck at the rear. The restaurant was buffet style with plenty of food. In fact we hadn’t seen so much food before. Luxury indeed. Our Escorts did not eat with us. They had meals with fare paying passengers in the main restaurant, three decks down from the Promenade.

Eventually after being berthed in Liverpool for nearly two days we sailed. A convoy of twenty two ships and eight warships for protection. It looked a wonderful sight. We sailed past Northern Ireland and into the vast North Atlantic Ocean.

It was then we were told our destination was to be Montreal, Canada. Canada. We have never been there. Off course we have never been there. The furthest we had been before this journey was see our Great Grandmother in Castleford. Canada. I wonder what the people are like? Will they like us? Will a family take all three of us? Will they try and split us up? No. Not if I can help it. Surely Mrs Forster would not allow it anyway.

Whilst we played on the open deck, the convoy headed west. The warships busily on the lookout for German ships and submarines. At one point three warships scurried off, possibly something was seen. They returned without firing a shot. A cargo ship was slowing us up. Engine trouble we were told. “Nothing to worry about.”

Some time on the fourth day out the warships turned round and returned home. We twenty two ships were alone. Still an impressive sight, but alone. We heard some of the crew saying we should go full speed. Others said it was better in a convoy. Whatever, a convoy we remained.

Throughout the journey parties of eight children were allowed to look around the ship. Today was our turn. We were taken upstairs and on to the Promenade Deck and into the Smoking Lounge. There we saw luxurious, dark brown leather settees and armchairs. Mahogany tables sparkling clean and shiny you could see your face in them. The cocktail bar and lounge. I had never seen such opulence. One day I shall be in such a place.

After supper we were tired. Bedtime. Ann soon fell asleep on the top bunk. Elizabeth and I talked about today.
THUMP!! THUMP!!!
The ship shuddered and seemed to lift up out of the sea. Alarms rang. I sprang out of my bed almost colliding with Elizabeth as she did the same. We heard shouting, crying, screaming. Quickly we put on our clothes and dressed a sleepy Ann. She grabbed her teddy, her precious teddy. The door opened partially as we tried to leave. Both Elizabeth and I pulled with all our strength. The door opened some more; just enough to squeeze through.

Which way? “This way and up,” we heard someone shout. We followed along with others.
Somehow we were on deck.
“Two more in here,” a seaman shouted grabbing Ann whisking her into a lifeboat.
“There are three of us,” I shouted.
“Only room for one more,” came the reply looking at me with fear in his eyes.
“You get in, Elizabeth,” I shouted.
I watched as the boat lowered into the water.

As I made myself to another lifeboat, the ship shuddered causing me to slip and fall. I heard an explosion somewhere inside the ship. I tried to stand up, but the ship would not let me.
I heard Elizabeth scream, “Chris. Chris. Christine.”
The ‘Lady of Montrose’ slowly turned on her side. I tried to hold onto something. Nothing was permanent. I bashed my shoulder and head on something hard. I remember nothing else.

---

This is Ann

The ‘Lady of Montrose’ managed to get a signal off regarding the attack. The other ships in the convoy were fearful of being attacked by the submarine and did not pick up any survivors and continued there journey.

Four lifeboats were launched and over two days the people in them were rescued. We returned to Glasgow never to see Canada.
The teddy. Oh yes! The teddy. I still have it. It still has its red and yellow scarf around its neck. When my cousin David lived with us he used to cuddle it when he was a little boy.

David

[amflyer1]

David great story’s loved them, sorry I have no story to ad right now, but I almost bought an old B&O caboose to put in my back yard just cost to much to move it , it is cool you live in a old train station .

Chuck

[NorthBrit]

Thank you, Chuck. Glad you like the stories.
Majority of what I write are of the sea and ships. Much longer than the ones posted here.

David

[amflyer1]

Well I love them you post them and I will read them every time.

Chuck

[NorthBrit]

I shall see. Will the moderators accept non-railway stories?

David

[asardaro]

Northbrit, i like reading your stories too.
Al

[amflyer1]

Well David you at least got two

Chuck

[NorthBrit]

One non-railway story.
Don’t let your life become just a dash. Write a little about it, because someone somewhere is interested.

THE DASH OF LIFE

A walk around any cemetery you find the same. Gravestones; some old, some not so. All have the same on them. The name, date of birth and date of death. Between those dates is the Dash of Life. The Dash of Life, the most important part of the person buried, yet very little, if anything, is known. What did the person do in life? The ups and down of life; tears of sadness, the tears of joy. Knowing of other births, other deaths. The daily life, birthdays, Christmases, a myriad of emotions. The Dash of Life now forgotten, just a date of birth and a date of death.

See. Here is one. Born 1924, died 1947, a young woman just 23 years of age. See also a baby is there also. A baby girl born and died not the same day, but three days before her mother passed to the other side. Did the mother die because of complications of the birth of the girl. Nobody knows except a few. The Dash of Life doesn’t tell us.

Those that know know the woman was born in the U.S.A.; Pennsylvania so it has been said. American born father Scottish born mother, two older sisters and a younger brother her immediate family. Nothing is known of her childhood. Those that knew never told. Those that didn’t never asked.

Whatever, her father worked on the railroad and died suddenly. Her mother and children. left the U.S.A., their destination England. They settled in the county of Northumberland. Her two sisters and brother married locally. Their own stories are their own Dash of Life.

The Dash of Life of the young lady was coming to the end, though of course she did not know it. The Second World War began. Once again the Dash of Life is but a dash. Little is known of what she did in the war, but as the saying goes ‘She did her bit’. Sometime near the end of the war she met the love of her life. They married after the war ended. Just a local ceremony in a Registry Office. A child is expected; no it is twins.

It is said, a difficult birth. Difficult is an understatement. A girl is born then a boy. What was joy to the lady began to turn to despair. The girl died within two hours, the boy suffered a stroke and has a hole in the heart. He was not expected to live long. Twenty four hours passed, then forty eight the boy still lives. Then everything changes.

The story goes, the lady began choking. What caused it is unknown, but other patients began calling for a nurse to attend. The nurses were having a tea break and ignored the pleas for help. Eventually a nurse did attend after her tea break, but it was too late.

THE DASH OF LIFE of a twenty three year old. 1924 - 1947

David

[NorthBrit]

Back to Railway Stories

The Train Journey

Let’s take a trip back in time. Dust the cobwebs and think back. -----------

Being an orphan from three days old I lived with an Uncle and Aunt and two cousins until I was three years of age. Therefore it was at that time. (When I was four I lived with my Grandma and Granddad.)

If I was three, then it was the Summer of 1950. Aunt and Uncle decided to take us to Bridlington for the week.

It was a Saturday morning. Suitcases were packed. The excitement of going on holiday.

As my Uncle had to work Saturday, he was to follow us the following day. (Six day working days were the ‘norm’ then.

I remember how dark, dingy and very smoky the area around the ticket office at Leeds City Station was. My two cousins (Jean, 7 yr old and Margaret, 5 year old) and I watched as my Aunt bought our train tickets. Carefully she placed them in her handbag.

With having two suitcases a Porter was needed and one was immediately on hand. Loading the cases on his hand barrow he asked “Which train.”
“Bridlington,” Aunt replied. To which we scurried after the Porter to our waiting train.

At last we boarded the train. Aunt lifted the suitcases on to the luggage rack above and we settled down in our compartment.
Looking out at the platform, a huge Station Clock gave the time of 08.56. Aunt smiled as our train was not due to depart until 09.37.
Another elderly married couple joined us in the compartment.

Aunt looked out of the window and saw, not twenty yards away, a lady with a tea trolley. The clock said 09.04. Plenty of time.
“There isn’t a queue I shall get some tea,” said Aunt. Jean pleaded with her not to go, but Aunt assured her all was okay and alighted from the carriage.

No sooner than she had bought the tea, she turned, saw and heard the engine take the strain an began the Schhuff, Schhuff, Schuff. The time was 09.07.

Pandemonium struck in the carriage. Three of us screamed “Mam.” Tears streaming down our cheeks

We were some way out of Leeds by the time the other couple in our carriage managed to calm us down.
The Ticket Inspector arrived. Off course we had no tickets. Aunt still had them in her handbag. The Ticket inspector was dubious to our story, but we stayed on board.

Finally we arrived at Bridlington. The elderly couple had their own suitcases, but they also helped us with ours.
At the ticket barrier, the Inspector allowed us through to the other side, but had to wait there until the next train from Leeds arrived. The elderly couple waited with us.

Thirty minutes later, the train from Leeds arrived. Amid tears of joy, Aunt thanked the elderly couple.

The 09.07 departure to Bridlington from Leeds was a ‘Duplicate’ and not in the timetable.

The week in Brid was great.

David

[GabeTehGameh]

I’ve got a story from a friend who used to work at BNSF. Some of you may have heard it before.

BNSF and the poopomotive

BNSF 1676 had arrived at the DSF (Diesel Service Facility) and had an SFS (Sand Fuel Service) done, and other things done to it to make sure it was good to go and had No defects, but still showed up to the roundhouse for service. One of the labourers called him before it went to the shop (the labourers are in charge of cleaning the locomotive), and the labourer said that the unit’s toilet was full, so the dump cart was hooked up and nothing came out, so it headed to the shop and well the units nose was full of poop (I mean literally filled with crap), no one knew were the waste went (this was over their radios too lol) and she arrived at the round house, a pipe fitter was called it to look (told him the whole thing), and the pipe fitter pulls the toilet, The dump pipe had fallen off into the plenum, so the floor of the area was removed (well cut out) revealing the cavity under the restroom or plenum technically, but the pipe fitter goes into my friends office and says he needs to go and look at the nose and he’s not fixing it (he has earplugs in his nose lol) and they both go to 1676 and go into the nose and my friend was slapped In the face with a really bad smell (not wearing earplugs in his nose to protect him from the smell) and he walks down the steps of 1676 into the nose and the plenum (its about 18 in deep) and it is a lake of crap (most of the waste has been there for YEARS) and the issue was written up to management, then they call a waste contractor (the only reason why 1676 was never written up for a defect was because it was the pair for a remote control unit and had stickers on the front saying ‘PASCO HUMP UNIT’ and ‘YARD USE ONLY’) but the waste contractor arrives in a Ford Mustang and they were shaking off sleep saying that his management called him on his day off and he was told he need to look at a toilet, he’s told its more than a toilet and he’s got to get a look at it, they go to 1676 and he says I’m going to need backup. An hour later, the waste contractor’s backup arrives, and well they bring a vacuum sucker truck and an issue comes up, the hose is too short, and well they have to go clean it by hand, 4-5 hours later, they finish up and as a part of the waste contractors billing process they weigh the waste and its over 2,000lbs of human waste a literal (not going to say the word)-ton, the unit goes into the shop and is cleaned out and all the things are put back in place the floor is welded back in and 1676 re-enters service the following day.

[zugmann]

Yeah, that was a story told by Hyce.

[amflyer1]

Great story’s both of you and yes David I loved THE DASH OF LIFE story even though it’s not railroad related.

thank’s both of you ,Chuck

[NorthBrit]

A story a little different. Not about a railway, but rails underground.

Victoria’s Bell

“What is this bell?” asked Andrea picking it up from her mother’s dressing table, the bell giving a little ringing sound at the sudden movement.
“It is Victoria’s Bell,” her mother replied. “It is very old and and has been handed down through the family. It used to belong to your grandmother and her mother before her.”
“Who is Victoria?”
" A pit pony that lived underground in a mine."
“How come we got the bell in the first place?” asked the now inquisitive Andrea.
“Ah! Now that is a long story. We shall ask granddad at the weekend. He knows the story well.”

---

“Granddad. Tell me the story about Victoria’s Bell,” asked Andrea. “Mummy says you know the story well.”
I looked at Elizabeth as I knew she knew the story just as well. She gave me a knowing smile.

As Andrea sat on the floor against my feet she listened to the story ----

Many years ago down a mine, Victoria and her pit pony friends worked along the pit coal seams. They would pull wooden tubs of coal walking between wooden rails to the pit shaft. There the tubs would be hauled to the surface; the coal sorted and sent onwards to factories and houses.
Meanwhile the ponies would take empty tubs back to the miners to be refilled. To hear the ponies as they pulled the tubs, a bell was worn around their necks. Each bell had the name of the pony engraved on it. The ponies stayed underground every day and night. Young boys of around eight years of age would feed them and give them water to drink.

The mine where Victoria worked closed in 1953 and the ponies were brought to the surface. They had to wear blinkers with shades to protect them from the daylight. The field they were in was a large, enclosed triangular shape. During the day people would come and see them; the bells ringing as the ponies grazed. One of the people visiting them was your grandmother’s mother.

Every day she would visit. Ponies would wander over, bells ringing and she would stroke them. The man in charge of looking after the ponies noticed this going on. As time passed less and less bells rang, still grandmothers mother came to visit.

Eventually the bells rang no more.

The owner saw the visitor for the last time, tears in her eyes.
“Here,” he said handing over a small metal object. “This is from the last one to be alive.”
She looked at it. A bell. The inscription on it said ‘Victoria’.
With tears rolling down her cheeks she thanked the owner and slowly walked home.

David