Railway Life Part Two

Railway Life Part Two

But down at the running shed: All is different!
Hustle, bustle and red-hot tumult:
Fill the tender! Water the tank! Empty the firebox!
(Cough on the dust, choke on the fumes, burn your hands.)
Smash the clinker! Draw the firebar! Sweep the pit!
(Hot sweat pours down night-cold skin.)
Rake it out! Open the damper! Push it through!
(And rush outside for a lungful of frost-fresh air.)
Clear the smokebox! Four whole wheel-barrows filled!
Race against time! Steam-pressure’s falling! Something’s awry!
Repair the brick arch! Firebar setter! Boiler tube cleaner!
Where’s the fire kindler?

Dreaming he was a fitter
In the quiet order of the fitting shop,
Or a roster-clerk, dozing after tea
But there’s no escape, even in dreamland
From the foreman’s peremptory demands:
Cover the inkwells! Use both sides of blotting paper!
Save on lighting! It’s a full moon!

Or perhaps he was dreaming of the footplate?
That long, long, lifetime ladder
From cleaner to fireman to driver,

Starting out with rag and oil and grease,
And soot and paraffin and tallow fat,
And sulphur and ash and blistered hands,
Unpaid overtime, and a seventy-two-hour week.

But now he sits, chatting and listening,
Drinking tea with the tired eye drivers,
Who now sweep the floors and clean the lavs;
And they sit, tired eye, and declining,
Remembering their footplate days,
Slipping and sliding from mainline shifts,
To shunting and siding;

And as they doze, they recall their footplate youth,
Walking in the driver’s shadow and footsteps
(Behind his black box, overcoat and rule book),
Proud of a brand-new billy can and new blue serge jacket
(No cleaner’s overalls now),
Arriving early to prepare the engine,
The boiler pressure, the water level, the firebox, the fire,

And, of course, the driver’s seat.