The Railway People

There was an earthquake in England last month. It was a small one, but our biggest in a quarter century, so it caused due commotion. It woke my friend in town, and in her half-sleep she thought the wind had got up and was buffeting her house.

It woke me too, I remembered later. “It’s just a train,” I told myself, but was troubled by how long it was, and how very silent. My semi-conscious decided it must be a ghost train, and (most disturbingly of all) I went back to sleep. Funny how the mind takes pains to account for unusual things, but only in familiar terms, however implausible.

I almost didn’t arrange a viewing for my current home when I was house hunting; on the map it’s practically on the railway. I think it was always meant to be mine though, and the trains have become my fond neighbours.

Rusted bunkers of coal squeak and trundle by, fringed with graffiti, open to all weather. InterCities slither past in festival colours. They all grind on the railway seam, and some send the houses shivering.

This time of year, like a migrant bird, a different visitor returns, chased by a plume of steam. Its breathing makes me smile and stop my work. Huff, huff, huff, more like a giant dog at play. The plume, bright white, tumbles by the window, and I must get up to watch. No one can remain uncharmed by a steam train.

All seem solemn in electric trains, whatever the class of their carriage. Heads are usually down in a book or paper, rarely peering through the window’s grime to wonder where they are. The trains hoot like they’ve heard a bawdy joke: high-looooow-high. They are hot inside. There’s lots of plastic, coloured grey so you can’t tell if it’s clean or not. The air is full of stale coffee and fragments of loud discussions on the phone. Thoughts are always fixed on the destination: What’s for supper? Where shall I meet you? I’ll be late, can you feed the cat?

Not so with steam trains, though they use the same tracks. The windows, invariably open, are full of faces, and madly waving hands. The carriages shine with dignity. The tables have lamps and lace. The driver sends their arrival ahead with a sweet sound, much longer than necessary, like one huge panpipe in the sky. I dare say he has a smile like his cargo, strong coaly hands and a blue cloth cap, but I never reach the window in time to see.

Dads and windswept youngsters, pensioners in walking gear, all beam alike. Where do they go? It seems they don’t much mind; the journey is the thing to them. Will they hide their faces in a paper come Monday morning, sprinting between cities on electric trains? Or are they an entirely different breed?

• More on the steam trains of North Yorkshire Moors Railway at nymr.co.uk. (Image from the same source)