h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Gentleman Bill, that was the name given to Billy Pilling by the lads of the shed. The reason being that he spoke quietly, and slowly, with his own affected version of BBC type English, until it slipped of course which was quite often, especially early in the mornings. This was the time when he was most likely to revert back to his common, or garden English as spoken railway fashion. I had yet to be given the privilege of firing for Billy, but I already knew that he was the master.
It was common knowledge that he could drive a steam engine with a feather light touch, unknown to the common man normally in charge of the steel, brass and copper monsters. Off he would go, conveying his passengers with an efficiency and safety that lesser mortals could only dream of. Time and time again he would return to the shed and back his engine up to the coal stage, and when the staff saw Billy they knew that this engine would only need half as much coal as the others. The pride of unique workmanship and respect for his employers (The Company) still remained firmly implanted in this man, despite Nationalisation and all of its problems.
As a result it was heaven help the fireman who wasted materials, or coal and water in his presence. Even the locomotives themselves seemed to understand that they were in the control of the ultimate, the perfect driver who was able to get the best out of them at all times. Like most perfectionists, Billy was also a Prima Donna in every way, yet despite this failing every youth wanted to fire for him, but there was one snag, seldom would he take an unproven youth on a passenger train, especially an express.
Billy had none of the endearing, patient qualities of Harry Smith and a few of the other drivers. If his fireman was ill or late for early morning shift, Bill’s English would deteriorate as he discarded firemen one after another. The passed cleaners would prove difficult to find under these circumstances, and the toilets would be unusually engaged by the few who did not know about the secret compartment under the bunker of the l90’s.
To be perfectly fair, everyone really wanted to go with him, but no one wanted to suffer the indignity of a refusal from the Master himself. One early morning it happened, about five am the foreman Ernest Yarwood came to me and he said, “ A nice little job for you this morning and a bit of overtime in it, passenger train to Rochdale and then work an express passenger train to Southport and return. ” There was no mention of the driver at all, and the grape vine was not yet buzzing.
I should have been a little more suspicious, but having risen from my bed about two am for a three am start I was not quite at my best. My only information at this time was the engine number 199, and the number of the shed road where she had been stabled overnight. Gathering my working materials, one bottle of cold tea for warming on the hot plate, a fibre food box containing sandwiches, and a handy looking firing shovel provided by the foreman, I set off to find my engine.
There was no doubt at all, Ernie was desperately trying to make me look professional as only the more experienced men actually had their very own firing shovel. I was on winged feet and cloud nine, until climbing up onto the footplate I saw him! Billy was just sitting there on the driver’s seat waiting to leave on time, and impatiently tapping his feet on the wooden floor.
The engine footplate was as clean as a new pin and so too was the driver; he was wearing very highly polished Brown boots and Brown kid gloves. Never before had I seen such finery on a driver. His first words of greeting gave me very little confidence, “ Have you ever fired a passenger train before? ” “ A few times, ” was my not very confident reply. “ Ever fired an express.” “ No I! ” “ Well you aren’t going to do today neither,” as his English slipped a bit.
He was off the footplate even quicker than I was at getting on, and away he went to see the foreman. The usual language flowed from Billy, and finally I heard Ernest say to him, “ He is the best we can find at this time of the morning, take him or the job is cancelled.” Now this hit Billy where it really hurt, and he came back to the footplate where I had remained firmly attached to the fireman’s seat.
“ No disrespect to you but an express needs experience, I am the driver, I drive; I do not, repeat do not shovel coal or make the steam, I just use it. If there is any lack of steam pressure at all I shall demand that you are replaced en- route.” Not a very good start to our working day or our working relationship either, but we had one of our beloved 190’s and she was in lovely condition. Down to Bacup Station, quickly hooking onto the four coaches in the platform and we were away
It was a lovely summer’s morning and the heavy dew was still on the ground, as we made the first part of the journey, stopping at all stations to Rochdale, via Bury, Heywood and Castleton. Going downhill to Bury was easy and scarcely any coal was used at all. There was plenty of time to just sit on my seat looking out for the signals on my side, and really enjoying the scenery as the dawn awakened the night sky.
One could not fail to notice and appreciate, the smell of the countryside. A smell to linger forever, first the sweet new mown hay from George’s farm, accompanied by a crow and a few toots on the whistle as an early morning greeting, and after that dash through the Glen Tunnel, the smell of newly baked bread, Seville’s Bakery of course.
Then the not so pleasant but just as important to a driver in the Blackout, the smell of gun cotton as we shot by the factory, followed by the gas works at Cloughfold. Even further on, was the horrible smell of formaldehyde just before Bury Bolton St. Station. All were very important landmarks for a driver picking his way through the night or a fog, especially during the war. So was our path strewn if not with roses, some of it was equally pleasant in many respects

Billy had carefully taken notice and assessed my ability to maintain a good head of steam as we traveled up Broadfield Bank and onto Rochdale. Only many years later would I realize, that had the steam pressure dropped even slightly, Billy would have part exchanged the borrowed shovel and me, for the proper fireman working Rochdale Passenger Pilot.
I was certainly most impressed with the way he handled the engine, and I had never seen anything like it. There was scarcely a whisper from the chimney top as we ran perfectly on time. All I had to do was fire her ever so lightly, little and often and that was the only advice given by Mr Pilling. We were now about forty minutes into our long journey and we were talking. He asked a few questions, about work mostly, and he now seemed to be almost human.
I had placed the express passenger headlamps on the front buffers at Rochdale, and now we were really off. This to a sixteen-year-old, absolute novice, was pure magic, to be teamed up with the perfect little engine and the perfect driver as well, perhaps only a dream.
We were booked all stations to Wigan and then there would be the express part of the journey, Southport next stop, with a fantastic run through the beautiful countryside, spoiled only by a few peculiar smells at Wigan. There was Croid the glue works, with a long line of railway wagons containing old bones waiting to be unloaded into the factory.
A sight to behold and never forgotten were the Amazons, giant women wielding enormous shovels that dwarfed my little firing shovel. They were filling enormous wheelbarrows with bones and maggots, and then wheeling them up steep ramps into the factory to make glue. I had seen, and smelled these wagons of bones before at close range, but until now I had never seen them being emptied, never would I have believed that women could possibly be doing that job.
Just a little further on was the linoleum works, making some very peculiar strong odours as well, but also on the wind was the most enjoyable smell of freshly baked cakes, and above all the most memorable, delightful air borne smell in the world, Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls. As we shot through one little station just before Southport, Billy gave a crow followed by series of short blasts on the engine whistle. I looked out very carefully but I could see nothing untoward at all. At full express speed we hurtled through the little station and away, nothing to be seen as the station disappeared rapidly into the distance behind us.
Having topped up with coal and water at Southport we were very soon on our way back home, a stopping train to Manchester and then another one back to Bacup. First though I would learn the mystery, the reason for those short sharp blasts on the engine whistle as we passed at full speed through that little station. This was organization at its very best and an education for all of us.
Billy stopped his train in the platform of the same little station, exactly level with a little old lady, and she had a basket of beautiful cut flowers. “ You did say twelve bunches didn’t you Bill.” she said. “ That’s right, here is the twelve bob, ” said Billy. The lady had counted the exact number of times that Billy had whistled as we shot by the station, and she knew the exact time of his return. Yes, I know some one must be wondering what the heck has a crow got to do this story?
A crow is the reproduction of a cockerel crow on the engine whistle. It was used to draw the attention of a signalman to the fact that he was about to receive a message via the engine whistle. It was all coded so that he would know the way we wanted to go, all carefully calculated and easy to understand, the old lady also knew the system and she used it to everyone’s advantage. The remainder of the trip was uneventful but very pleasant, by now I would be more than a little tired and I would certainly sleep that afternoon.
Even with a driver of Billy’s calibre I would have shoveled more than four tons of coal, as well as doing all the other jobs of a fireman, such as hooking on and off the various trains that we had worked and filling the ever-demanding boiler with water. Yes quite a full but most certainly enjoyable day’s work for a sixteen-year-old youth.
By far the most important thing to me, was that I had passed his judgment with flying colours, for on arriving back at the shed, just before alighting from the footplate with his enormous bunch of flowers he stopped, turned to me and he said. “ Sorry to have doubted your ability this morning, I will take you any time now.” Walking back into the mess-room with, Bill! I could see that all of the late turn passed cleaners were waiting to find out the result, and there I was accompanied by the Master himself, still chatting just as he would have done with his proper mate.





























































.