The Crossing Keeper’s Cat

The Crossing Keeper’s Cat

Paul Salveson

You’ll have travelled through here if you were on your way north. Oxenholme is a little place on the West Coast Main Line between London to Glasgow, in the old Westmorland. These days a lot of the expresses stop here though back in the day most of the important trains, like ‘The Royal Scot’ and ‘Caledonian’ would hurtle through at a fair old whack. It’s a classic railway village though you don’t see much of it from the train. You can change trains here for Kendal and Windermere, that’s partly why it became an important railway junction from as early as 1846. There was another reason: it was at the start of the long climb northwards over the fells – up to Grayrigg and on to Shap Summit.

Back in steam days, when I was a young fireman, many freights and some passenger trains required assistance up to Grayrigg – and some stayed coupled to the train over Shap Summit and through to Carlisle. That required a locomotive depot to service the ‘bankers’ as well as the branch to Windermere. In the old days, when a train required an extra loco from Oxenholme, the signalman would tell the driver of the train ‘you’re puttin’ a sock on’!

By the 1920s well over a hundred railway workers were employed in this railway village, mostly men but some women looking after the station buffet. The railway company – the London and North Western Railway – built dozens of houses for its workers: all are still there today: Natland Terrace and Helmside Cottages. There was the Railway Mission and a ‘Railway Reading Room’ was also provided. The pub – Station Inn – was some way up the hill, a fair old walk on a winter’s evening, but at least it was downhill when you were coming back after supping a few.

The story I want to tell you is about a railway family – and a cat. I was told it by an old driver, Harry Fothergill – he’s long gone now – in the mess room when we were waiting for a job. I’m too young to have known Jack and his wife Madge but the story has been passed down, probably with a bit of embroidery along the way.

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Jack Thornburrow started at Oxenholme shed as an engine cleaner in 1910, at the age of 14. He gradually worked up the ranks to become a passed cleaner, fireman, passed fireman and finally a driver. That took 25 years, but it could take much longer at some sheds.  He lived with his parents on Natland Terrace – dad was a signalman and mum worked in the station buffet, so they were entitled to a railway house. No running water until well into the 1930s, but it was comfortable and cheap.

He was lucky to avoid the carnage of the First World War. He was in a ‘reserved occupation’ – by then a fireman – so wasn’t sent off to fight. He more than did his bit by working long, gruelling hours firing  locomotives on the ‘Jellicoe Specials’ taking coal to the fleet at Scapa Flow. They were named after Admiral Jellicoe, First Sea Lord and Commander of the Fleet, so I’m told.

Jack found time to have a social life and started courting Madge Benson, daughter of Harry and Dora Benson. He was a Special Class Relief Signalman based at Oxenholme, and a near-neighbour in another railway house on Helmside Cottages. They’d known each other since childhood – they could hardly avoid it, going to the same school and chapel. Madge worked at Cropper’s factory in Burneside from when she was 13, getting the branch train every day to and from work.

The Bensons were strong Methodists, as well as socialists. Jack was chairman of the Kendal branch of the Independent Labour Party and branch secretary of the National Union of Railwaymen’s branch. Dora was in the ILP and vice-chairwoman of the Women’s Co-operative Guild in Kendal. Madge could hardly avoid being ‘political’ and used to push socialist literature into Jack’s pocket when they went on romantic strolls on summer evenings.

“Come on love, give us a kiss,” Jack would say, only to be countered with something like “Not until you’ve told me about your impressions of that Philip Snowden speech we heard in Kendal…” or  “only if you help me with those leaflets on Saturday…”

But he got his kiss; and, after a while, more. Soon they were married, in 1918.

Harry had put a word in to the stationmaster that Jack and Madge would be looking for a house of their own, and asked if the company could help. A two-bedroomed terrace came up on Helmside Cottages, with Harry winking to Dora that the young couple might be needing that extra room.

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The footplatemen at Oxenholme were all members of ‘the Society’ – the Associated Society of Locomotive Engineers and Firemen (ASLEF). The branch had 75 members by 1920 – not as big as Carnforth or Carlisle, but big enough. The monthly meetings, held in the Station Inn, would attract a good 40 members, with others sending their apologies due to the demands of shift work.

Fred Armistead was branch chairman. He’d started as a cleaner, like Jack, back in 1900 but came from local farming stock. A gentle giant, many called him –  a tough negotiator with management but always considerate towards his firemen. Jack attended the society meetings when he was on earlies or rest days and was elected as a delegate to the union’s annual conference, the AAD, as one of the youngest ever attendees, in 1922.

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The early 1920s were relatively prosperous. The war became a distant memory, though many returning soldiers – mostly railwaymen – were badly disabled and never returned to their old jobs. ‘Green card men’ were offered what were regarded as soft jobs, giving them a wage to live on.

Yet there was trouble looming. Strikes flared up in 1921, only to be followed by a much bigger conflict in May 1926 – the General Strike. The nine day strike was in support of the miners who were facing wage reductions. The railwaymen and the miners were almost the same family – they stuck with their brothers in the coalfields. Oxenholme men didn’t have much contact with the miners but had work to Wigan, taking coal empties to the local pits and bringing back loaded coal to Kendal and Burneside for the factories. The strike was solid. There were no little rich boys around who wanted to play trains for a few days like in some of the cities and university towns. Nothing moved.

Some of the unionised ‘white collar’ workers – a minority of stationmasters and clerical workers – were loyal to their union, the RCA, and came out – many ended up getting sacked or ‘reduced in grade’.

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The late 1920s and 30s saw a steady improvement on the railways – the old London and North Western Railway disappeared in 1923 with the formation of the ‘Big Four’ companies. The London, Midland and Scottish Railway came into being, the biggest joint stock company in the world. It was the era of the pre-war ‘Coronation Scot’ with handsome streamlined Pacifics hauling the London – Glasgow expresses. They came streaking through Oxenholme going all out to get momentum for the climb to Grayrigg.

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Jack was booked as a driver in January 1932. It meant he was on a decent wage with a job for life. He’d become a well-respected union man, in no small part thanks to Madge’s encouragement. When Fred Armistead retired, Jack was the obvious successor.

They had two children – Walter and Marie. Walter was encouraged by his parents to further his education and went to Kendal Grammar; he got a junior clerk’s job at Cropper’s.  Marie left school and got a job on in the shoe factory in Kendal. Madge was a full-time housewife alongside her activities in the Co-op Women’s Guild, Labour Party and the local W.I.

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When war was declared in 1939, Walter quickly volunteered. Madge had been a pacifist as a young girl in the First World War but was in no doubt that the Nazis had to be fought; she and Jack were intensely proud when they waved Walter off at Oxenholme station, on his way to Fulwood Barracks to join the Lancashire Fusiliers.

Jack got the most responsible jobs at the shed, including fast freights over Shap to Carlisle and occasional passenger jobs to Preston, Crewe and Carlisle.

That year, 1940, the usual lull around Christmas didn’t apply. The main line was operating at full capacity with troop movements as well as coal, coke, iron ore – and ammunition trains.

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Jack and his fireman George Wilson signed on at 2 a.m. on Christmas Eve to pilot a heavy goods train through to Carlisle where they’d be relieved by ‘Caley men’ to take it on to Scotland. It was booked to take water at Oxenholme at 2.30 and ‘put the sock on’ – one of the shed’s new LMS Stanier-designed tank engines, 2464.  They weren’t given details of the load but the guard told both footplate crews that it was highly explosive and hush-hush –  so asked them to keep the sparks down to the minimum going over Shap so they wouldn’t be spotted by enemy aircraft.

The train pulled in to the Down Loop at about 2.15. The Carnforth fireman, Dick Grainger, jumped out to ‘put the bag in’ and fill the LMS 8F’s tender, ready for the climb over Grayrigg and Shap. Carnforth and Oxenholme men knew each other well and got on, despite plenty of banter between the sheds.

“I hope you’re going to do your share tonight Jack, just for a change,” the Carnforth driver, Joe Fothergill shouted as they hooked on to the train engine.

“Aye, we’ll be pullin’ thee over Shap and tha can mek the brew when we get to Carlisle,” Jack responded.

The signalman at Oxenholme No. 2 box cleared his signals for the train to set off and re-join the main line. The two engines barked powerfully as they got their train moving through the station. It was an exceptionally heavy load, about 700 tons and it needed both locos to get the train moving. Two good crews, two well-maintained locos – they cleared Grayrigg summit at just over 35 mph and Jack eased off for the level stretch over Dillicar water troughs. No need to put down the scoop on either engine – both had been filled up at Oxenholme – but old habits die hard.

“Won’t do any harm just to get a bit more in, to see us through to Carlisle,” Jack told his fireman.

The train accelerated to 45 as they went through Tebay, with both drivers opening up the locos’ regulators for the long slog to Shap Summit.

Taking several hundred tons over Shap was always a big challenge for a footplate crew, however experienced. An additional hazard in 1940 was the danger of being spotted by the Luftwaffe on the bleak moorland between Tebay and Shap, particularly with the fireman opening and closing the firehole door as he shovelled coal into the hungry firebox. The gleam from the fire would have been like a magnet to any marauding fighter jet.

What actually happened wasn’t as dramatic – but equally disastrous. They reached Shap Summit with speed down to 15 mph. Then, the train accelerated as they dropped down towards Penrith, with the heavy load pushing the train to a higher speed; they soon reached 45 – the limit for the train.

Footplate crews were trained to regularly look back down their train to check for a ‘hot box’ – an over-heated axlebox on one of the wagons. It was a common thing on those old four-wheeled wagons, made worse by the wear and tear of wartime use. Jack felt a pull on the engine which was a good indication of the guard at the back of the train putting his handbrake on and off to tell the men in front that ‘something was up’.

Jack, and his mate Joe on the rear engine, both looked out at the same time and saw a wagon towards the front of the train with the tell-tale flames coming up from the wheels.

“Fuckin’ hell. Hot box. We need to get that fire out, or we’ll all be goin’ to heaven for Christmas,” Jack shouted across to his mate.

They slowed to a stop at Thrimby Grange box and looked at the affected wagon. Jack shouted across to the signalman: “Hot box mate, we’ll stop at Clifton to detach…..and stop anything comin’ t’other road…” The signalman nodded back and immediately got onto his mate at Clifton, the next box.

“Harry, stop anything on the Up and get a few fire buckets ready for this goods on the Down – and get your tin hat on just in case.”

They approached Clifton’s outer home signal at a snail’s pace and the signalman, Harry Langton, pulled off his signals to move the train forward.

The plan was to get some water from the box and try and extinguish the fire, or uncouple the wagon and shunt it into a siding out of harm’s way. Not easy as the box didn’t have any running water and there was only a  couple of fire buckets.

They stopped beyond the signalbox and both drivers jumped down onto the ballast and ran back to assess the situation. By now, the wagon, the third one behind the locos, was well ablaze and the flames revealed the warning on the wagon sides: ‘Danger – High Explosive.”

The signalman came across with two buckets of water which might have done the job half an hour ago, but by now the flames had taken hold.

“Right Joe, I’ll get in between and hook off, draw down to the starter and get the signalman to put you in the old siding road,” Jack said.

“Bobby, can you do that for us and we’ll try and get it clear?”

The train moved forward with the road set into the siding, long out of use, but serviceable.

“George, you look after the engine. When we’re inside I’m going to get that burning wagon uncoupled and then move as far down as you can get so it’s isolated.”

“Jack, it’s my job to hook off as fireman – tha’s the driver!”

“I know that lad but you’ve got kids and that lovely young wife o’thine,” he responded. “I’ll tek the risk.”

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It was when Jack hooked the wagon off in the siding that the explosion happened.

He’d just waved the two locos to move forward when it went up. It was reckoned that the blast was heard in Carlisle and the flames could be seen from Penrith.

The men on the two locos – the Carnforth men and Jack’s fireman, George, were thrown out of their cabs by the force of the explosion but suffered nothing worse than a few bruises. Every window in the signalbox was shattered but Harry Langton managed to duck behind the frame and escape with nothing worse than a few cuts.

There was one casualty. When the wagon blew up Jack took the full force of the explosion. He didn’t didn’t stand a chance –  men from the Penrith P. Way depot had the heart-breaking job of picking up his remains, scattered across the tracks and surrounding fields, when it got light the following day.

I say there was one casualty, in fact there were two. The signalbox cat was killed by shards of glass from the shattered windows.

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The following morning a policeman, accompanied by Fred Pattison, the stationmaster at Oxenholme, went to see Madge.

“I’m terribly sorry Mrs Benson…Madge…it’s about your Jack…..”

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News quickly got round the village. The Westmorland Gazette ran a story, guarded in its details but announcing “Christmas Eve Tragedy: Loco Driver killed in serious accident near Penrith.”

The press was strictly controlled back then, during the wartime emergency, but as the full story of what had happened emerged Jack was feted as a hero whose bravery equalled anything that had been shown on the Front Line. He’d saved the lives of his three mates – but if the whole train had gone up, it would have taken a lot more with it. He was awarded the George Cross, posthumously.

His funeral was attended by everyone from the village, with representatives from the union from head office, as well as men from the surrounding loco sheds – not least Carnforth. Joe Fothergill broke down in tears at the graveside – not a man to normally display emotion. His tears were shared by many of his mates. The whole village was in mourning.

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Madge kept herself busy the following days. Walter and Marie stayed with her but after a few days she asked them to give her some time alone.

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Jack’s  death presented a headache for the local management. The normal arrangement, going back to the early days when a ‘railway servant’ transferred, retired – or died – was for the railway house to be given up. There was a long waiting list for railway houses at the time and Madge knew that she’d have to move.

Sparing the stationmaster the embarrassment of asking her to leave, she walked down to the station on a Monday morning and knocked on his door.

“Madge, love, come in – I’ve been meaning to call in and see you since the funeral…”

“Aye, I know, I’m being evicted – don’t worry, I can go and stay at my sister’s in Kendal, I’ve already asked her…”

“Well, in fact I was going to offer you something else, if you’re interested…we’ve a vacancy for a class A signalman and crossing keeper at Hayrigg Fell. It’s a single shift and a nice little cottage goes with it. What do you think? You’d have to join the union, mind…”

“Oh, that’s a bit unexpected….can I have a think? And you know me, of course I’d join the bloody union!”

“Only joking…and of course. Don’t take too long though I want to get that box covered. You’ll get four week’s training and then you take over. It’ll free up a relief man for other vacant boxes that are busier. You’ll be doing an important job, though you’ll not be pushed for work!”

“Well I’m used to hard work Mr Pattison. I’ll take it. When do I start?”

Madge did her four weeks training at Carnforth, with the local inspector, Joe McGrath, explaining the basics of the railway signalling system, Rule Book, and a crossing keeper’s duties. The box wasn’t busy and only opened a single shift. If it hadn’t been for the war, the LMS would have closed it. It was just a block post to provide extra capacity on the climb up to Grayrigg, with an occupation crossing used when one of the local farmers needed to get across to his fields.

She passed with flying colours and received a letter from the District Superintendent at Carnforth telling her to present herself for duty on March 15^th, 1940. She’d be given two days ‘on the job’ training with Alan Protheroe, the relief signalman who’d been covering the vacancy, and then take charge on the Wednesday.

She was told to vacate her house on Helmside Terrace by March 12^th and the keys for the crossing keeper’s cottage would be available when she surrendered her keys for Helmside. There was a hand-written note from the station master added to the type-written letter to say that he would arrange for one of the company’s vans to collect her belongings and move them to her new home.

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She arranged her move for the previous Friday; she’ no shortage of help from her neighbours in getting loaded up. Several cakes had been baked as a farewell. Marie took a day off from work to help her unload.

The cottage was in good condition.  It dated back to the 1840s, when the Lancaster and Carlisle Railway was built, but had been kept well by its previous tenant Bill Lonsdale, who had died a year or so ago. Running water, and even gas. There was a small vegetable garden at the back which had become overgrown.

“Well, it’s clean enough,” Madge said to Marie, but it lacks a woman’s touch. Let’s get cracking. Old Bill hadn’t cleaned that cooker for years!”

Furniture was brought in and set down; pictures, including a wedding portrait of her and Jack, were displayed, and other homely touches added. Marie set to work getting the fire going; it drew well and was soon roaring away.

They sat down for a cup of tea, with a fine choice of neighbour’s cakes, when they heard a noise from behind the front door.

“What’s that?” said Marie. “Sounds like a cat in distress. I’ll go and look.”

She opened the door and – without so much as a by your leave – a large black cat bounded in and placed himself in front of the fire, which was going nicely by now.

“So where have you come from then?” Madge asked her visitor. “You look like you belong here…”

There was no collar to give any indication of its name or home.

“Well, you’ll be needing a bit of company mum, I’ll go and get it some milk…I think you’ve got a lodger! What are you going to call it?”

“Well I had a friend in our Labour Party branch who had two cats, called ‘em Lenin and Trotsky, daft sod. But I’m going to call him ‘George’, after George Lansbury – a great socialist and champion of the workers. And of course our Jack got his George Cross.”

Madge and George settled down to a comfortable life at Hayrigg Fell. Her main job was to open the gates two or three times a day to let the farmers through, seldom delaying any traffic on the line. She wasn’t short of visitors and she was able to cycle down to the village, or even Kendal, for union and Labour Party meetings, and the odd bit of shopping.

With her new found friend ‘George’ some of her friends joked that she was turning into a witch – ‘Madge, the Mad Witch of Hayrigg Fell’ – a name she quite liked.

“I might start making lotions and potions and sell them on Kendal Market on my day off,” she mused.

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It was about six months after she had started when Harry, one of the local farmers, had a big load of hay to get across to the farm. He turned up at the crossing and Madge said she’d get him across in a minute, just had to check with the signalmen on each side that there was nothing important coming through.

Oxenholme No. 3 box told her there was only a light engine on its way from Carnforth to Tebay, it wouldn’t be a problem to stop him at the crossing while the farmer got across.

It turned out the driver, who called in the box to say hello and ‘sign the book’, was Joe Fothergill, the driver who’d been with Jack on ‘that night’.

“I heard you were here so I told my fireman I’d come up and sign the book for him while we were stopped here – and see you Madge. Well, you look very comfortable…”

“Aye, it’s nice. I like it. Have you seen my new friend?”

At which point George came slinking up the steps into the box, purring loudly.

“Well by the heck Madge, that’s the strangest thing. That cat is the spitting image of the mog at Clifton and Lowther box that was killed in the explosion.”

“Give over Joe, there are plenty of black cats around. Are you telling me he’s a ghost cat?”

“No, I don’t believe in any o’that sort o’ thing….. you’re probably right Madge, just sayin’….we often used to go inside at Clifton and have a brew with the bobby. A black cat was always there and the story is that he made a whining sound when summat was worrying him – like on that night….he’d been wailing and whining a few hours before our train arrived with that wagon afire and…well, you know what happened….”

“Get back on that engine you daft bugger, I’ll get you away to Tebay.”

Joe got back on his engine, Madge shut the gates and pulled off her signals for the engine and away he went, with a friendly toot on the whistle.

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Madge looked at George a bit differently after that story. She’d always thought he was a bit odd and was occasionally given to making weird wailing sounds for no apparent reason. But he was a loving cat and kept the mouse population down.

Next time he starts his wailing, she thought, I’ll see if there’s been anything going on…

A pattern did begin to emerge. George would start wailing when a railway accident had happened, or was about to happen. News was still tightly controlled during the war but her regular paper, the Daily Herald, would report on some railway accidents, up and down the country.

He seemed to go completely crazy one day in June, 1944. Madge couldn’t find anything in the papers but it later emerged that an ammunition train blew up at Soham, in East Anglia, in circumstances very similar to what happened that Christmas Eve near Penrith. The driver and fireman were both killed as they tried to move a burning train out of the station and surrounding village. Like Jack, they died as heroes whose bravery had saved many lives.

George continued to act strangely around the time of major railway accidents. Madge didn’t mention this to anyone else in case they’d think she’d gone mad after the loss of her husband. And anyway, a good socialist like Madge didn’t go in for all this ‘supernatural nonsense.’

George continued to have ‘one of his do’s’ as Madge called them to herself, and she would usually find out there had been some railway accident involving fatalities.

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It was on the evening of October 7^th 1952 when he had his worst attack. From tea-time he spent hours whining and wailing, scratching the furniture and running round the house like a demented beast. This carried on throughout the night.

The following morning, about 8 a.m. she woke up to find George lying dead on the carpet.

Later that day the news started to come through about an horrific crash at Harrow and Wealdstone, in the north London suburbs. Three trains had collided. The morning Glasgow – London express had passed through red signals and ran into a local train stopped at the station. Another express, heading north, ploughed into the wreckage.

A total of 112 passengers lost their lives, including a retired signalman from Penrith, Harry Langton, on his way south to visit his daughter in London.

Madge buried George in a makeshift grave next to the line. The box – and Madge – are long gone but the grave is still there, looked after by the local farmers.

December 16^th 2024

Note:

This story is a work of fiction. Madge, Jack – and George – are fictional characters, as are all the other characters in the story. I’ve tried to use local names as far as possible. The story of the ammunition train blowing up near Penrith did not happen – though the serious accidents at Soham and Harrow and Wealdstone, are facts. There was no Harry Langton involved in the crash. Hay Fell signalbox closed in 1949 and nothing remains, including ‘George’s Grave’!

In March 1945 there was an all-too-real incident when a train conveying naval depth charges caught fire near Bootle, Cumberland. The driver, Harry Goodall, was killed in the explosion whilst trying to detach the burning wagon. I was not aware on the incident when I was writing the story, which is a bit strange in itself given the similarities.

Acknowledgments

A big ‘thank you’ to Bob Waterhouse, Ken Harper and Tony Parker for their very helpful comments.