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19-06-2021, 11:02 AM
1

The Silent Whistle

Part 1


Mary Bishop was fifteen years old, and loved her grandad dearly. This Saturday she had decided to ride her bike over to see him where he lived in a retirement village at the nearby Sandford Station site. She wanted to surprise him and spend the day with him, and he was delighted to see his youngest granddaughter. He always went to the on-site restaurant for lunch, accompanied by a carer, and immediately Mary arrived, he had invited her to join him, telling the cashier to add his granddaughter’s meal to his bill.

They picked a table next to the huge wood framed arched windows that had once been the entrance to the goods-shed where the old goods siding entered the building. The massive sliding door was some five metres high, three wide, and had been restored and set permanently in the open position as a feature.
The walls were covered with reproduction GWR posters advertising things like the English Riviera, as well as railway memorabilia and paintings of steam trains.

They gave their order to the waiter, then Mary sat back ready to enjoy another one of her grandad’s stories of his adventures from his youth.
Suddenly she heard a whoosh, and felt a wind blow past her as if she was standing next to a road as a van or lorry drove by. She could see her grandad’s mouth moving, but couldn’t hear him above the roaring wind that felt as if it were blowing her long hair about, even though she knew it was perfectly still.
At the same time, she heard a train whistle, and thought perhaps there was a recording of train noises being played over the restaurant speakers, or perhaps it was something going on at the station building next door, but looking around she saw that nobody else seemed to be reacting to this strange phenomenon.
Then it stopped as suddenly as it had started, and she could hear her grandfather speaking again.
“Had she been daydreaming?” she thought. Well, she must have been. Nothing else made sense.



Mike Moreton pushed his Mum in her wheelchair around the beautiful grounds of the Sandford Station retirement village gardens. Set amongst Somerset’s rolling hills, bounded by a local cider company’s orchards on one side, and fields full of sheep and cattle on the other, it was quiet and peaceful here.

He had complained a while ago that the path around the gardens was only partly tarmacked, the rest being hard impacted stone and gravel. Pushing a wheelchair across the latter was hard work, and the vibrations sent through the wheelchair were most unpleasant. Considering the cost of living here, Mike thought the least the landowners could do was to make the whole site wheelchair accessible.

Now all the paths and snickleways between the buildings were covered in fresh, smooth tarmacadam, and Mrs Moreton was delighted with her tour of the gardens with her only son. When they got to the bench seat opposite the old station building, Mike set the brakes and sat next to his Mum, both looking out across open fields towards the hills beyond.

Unbeknown to either of them, they were sitting on the exact site where a signal box once stood.
Suddenly Mike jumped at the sound of several explosions followed by an overpowering acrid stench of cordite. His senses were next assaulted by the sound of a steam whistle, so loud it almost felt like a scream, then he began to detect a different smell like wet dog. No, not wet dog. Wet steam that in turn was replaced by the sweet smell of anthracite smoke.

Then … nothing, except the sound of birds and insects, and the gentle rustle of leaves as a light breeze blew through the shrubs next to where he was sitting. He looked across at his mother, but she was half dozing, completely oblivious to anything other than the peaceful scenery around her.
“Had he been daydreaming?” he thought. Well, he must have been. Nothing else made sense.


Clair Michaels enjoyed her days volunteering with her husband at the old Sandford Station visitor centre. She liked chatting to the residents who came by, their friends and relatives, as well as the people walking or riding the former Strawberry Line who broke their journey to have a look around.
Walter Bishop had walked by a few minutes earlier, one of the carers supporting him on one side, and a young girl on the other who the old man had proudly told Clair was his granddaughter, Mary.
They were off to have lunch in the old goods shed next door, but promised to call in for a chat on their way back.

Mrs Moreton was in her wheelchair opposite the station, looking out across the fields with her son who she remembered was called Mike, sitting on the wooden seat next to her.

There were several loud clunks from the milk churn by the waiting room door as a chap in his sixties dropped some coins into the collecting box. He had been there an hour and spent half of that time talking to Clair’s husband about railways and the Beaching cuts.

She said goodbye to the man as he walked down the ramp to cross the road that ran past the residential apartments, then she turned to take his mug and plate into the former lamp-hut to wash them up, and perhaps steal a piece of cake for herself.
Well, it wasn’t really stealing since she had made it and brought it in herself, but she still felt guilty because it meant one less slice could be sold to fund the museum.

Quietly humming to herself as she bent over the tine sink, she felt a presence behind her, and somehow knew there was someone standing behind her in the tiny building that was no bigger than a small garden shed.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she called over her shoulder, but then all at once she was overwhelmed by feelings of fright, then unbounded sorrow.
Turning, she saw a man dressed in an old fashioned GWR uniform, just like the one in the glass display cabinet in the station waiting room. He had an oil lamp in one hand, but his other arm was raised with his forearm across his face, palm outwards, as if warding off a blow.
Now she could hear a shrill whistle blast, followed by a shout of terror that lasted a fraction of a second before it was cut off.

Then the man was gone, but she was sure she could still hear a train whistle gradually fading into the background noises around the platform.

Migda, one of the residential carers, was talking to the man who had just left the station. For some reason he had stopped in the middle of the roadway.

Mrs Moreton and her son were still sitting opposite the platform, both looking across the fields, and she could once again detect the lovely smells coming from the restaurant that had convinced her she needed to eat a piece of cake.
“Had she been daydreaming?” she thought. Well, she must have been. Nothing else made sense.



Pete Wasdale loved trains, especially steam trains, and everything related to them. His long-suffering wife had given up all hope that one day his interest in them would fade, but after forty-two years of marriage, she knew her husband was never going to change.
She loved him dearly, and she knew he loved her just as much, and had done so ever since they were teenagers. In her own way, she loved his love of trains as well.

Today, Sarah Wasdale had dropped her husband off in Cheddar so he could walk part of the former Strawberry Line back to where it used to join the main London to Penzance line at the little Somerset town of Yatton. He would then take the train back home to Wiltshire whilst she would spend the day with their daughter and son-in-law before driving home later that day.

Pete had his camera, and took pictures across the beautiful Axe Vale as he made the gentle climb to the old Axbridge station, still standing but now privately owned. Then on down and under the A38 before curving round to Shute Shelve, stopping to look at the replica wooden barrow and spade, and read the plaque about the construction of the tunnel that he had just walked through.

On down to Winscombe now. The platform had been left but the buildings were all gone, save the brick and sandstone façade that had been laid flat as a reminder of what the old station had looked like in its heyday.
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19-06-2021, 11:03 AM
2

Re: The Silent Whistle

Part 2


The descent to Sandford was a very shallow gradient now compared to the route from Axbridge to Winscombe. He approached the old station with excitement and anticipation. When the railway land had been sold to a local businessman and railway enthusiast, the new owner had made sure the old buildings were kept in good order.

Now the site had been cleared and a brand-new state of the art retirement village with dementia unit and nursing home had been built. The charity that had built the site were charged with maintaining the historic station, and according to the brochure he had seen, they had made an excellent job of it.
Volunteers had turned it into a museum and visitor attraction, complete with a small section of track next the old platform, and installed a coach in GWR colours along with a pair of open wagons, and most recently, a small Sentinel quarry engine.

As Pete approached the site, he looked around for the track that used to service the local quarry. It was not well maintained, or particularly obvious, but he nipped up the narrow footpath where the track had been to be met by the sight of a cider-apple orchard with hundreds of trees in full bloom.

Scrambling back down to the old branch-line, he walked the short distance to the tarmac paved road running through the retirement village. Stopping briefly, he admired the stone goods-shed that had now been converted to a residents’ restaurant, before making his way onto the platform.
Once upon a time, local produce, including the famous West Country strawberries along with clotted cream would be brought here from the surrounding fields before being transported all over the country. Closing the branch-line in the sixties had put many local smallholders out of business. Doctor Beaching had a lot to answer for as far as the people around here were concerned.

Now he was at the station, and stood admiring the beautiful stonework, the intricate gingerbread woodwork on the gable ends, and the fancy locally made clay ridge-tiles.
He spent an hour in and around the building, walking through the carriage, watching a video, looking at the side-tipping narrow-guage quarry wagon and associated quarry tools, including two widow-makers, the “new-fangled” pneumatic drills that would shake a man’s bones and loose the flesh on his chest from his ribs.

Inside the waiting room, he admired the block-working machine that allowed trains to operate on a single-track line, bought a facsimile platform ticket from the booking office, and chatted with the volunteers before purchasing a slice of most excellent home-made cake and a steaming mug of hot chocolate that he consumed on a folding chair in one of the open wagons.

Waving a cheery goodbye, he dropped several coins into an old milk churn that was being used as a collection box, before heading across the road towards the gate leading to the pathway for the next leg of his journey to Congresbury.

Halfway across the former track-bed, he was seized by a sudden inexplicable feeling of dread. Transfixed as if he was being held in the grip of some unseen force, he was suddenly transported back through time and space to find himself standing in the middle of the permanent way, with a rapidly approaching steam engine bearing down on him. He tried to shout, tried to run, but it was no use as he was forced to watch a terrible scene unfold before him. There were loud explosions and flames under the engine’s wheels that spewed sparks from the brakes as it hurtled directly towards him.

Four open wagons, each bearing ten tonnes of stone destined for the nearby Portishead Docks construction, jumped their sprags in the local quarry, and broke away before running downhill to the nearby station. The trucks passed unhindered through the open quarry gates before rumbling across the thankfully quiet village road, then steadily picked up speed before screeching round the final curve where they forced their way through the goods-siding points, and with a rush of air, rocketed through the open door of the goods shed itself.

The buffers at the end of the building were meant to stop slow moving wagons, not a group of fully loaded trucks travelling at forty miles an hour. Slowed by the impact, but not completely stopped, wagons and the remains of the buffers careered through the end wall of the shed before rearing up the platform ramp and smashing into the small lamp-hut where they eventually came to a stop.

The signalman had set the home signal to all clear, and waited diligently for the through-train to pass. He was conscientious, and good at his job. Standing with his pen ready to log the precise moment the train passed his signal-box, he was distracted as movement caught his eye, and for just a moment he was confused by what he was witnessing, but only for moment.
The train was travelling at twenty-five miles an hour, and was already past the signal, so the railwayman jumped across to pull a lever that shot three sets of detonators onto the track before grabbing a red flag and waving it furiously from the steps of his domain.

The wagons were rapidly overtaking the train as they screeched round the final curve, spilling rocks that bounced down the embankment, threatening to smash into the train carriages. At the same time, one of the wagons tipped onto two wheels and the signalman was sure it was about to leave the rails, before it was miraculously pulled back onto the track by the lead wagon.

The driver heard the explosions as the front wheels of his Panier Tank engine struck the detonators, and immediately rammed the throttle shut before pulling the chain for the steam whistle and then slamming shut the handle of the train vacuum brake.
Suddenly, he saw the wagons pass him on his right before they disappeared into the goods shed. His fireman and best friend since school had each married the other’s sister, and were very close. The second-man had already started frantically winding the engine brake wheel just as the wagons burst through the end wall of the shed, throwing stone blocks and steel girders into the air and across the track.

“Jump, Sid”, bellowed Stan Mason, “JUMP!” but Sid ignored his friend and heaved harder on the brake wheel. Stan couldn’t bear the thought of his beloved sister losing her husband, so without thinking of himself, he grabbed his brother-in-law by his greasy overalls, and heaved him off the footplate onto the grass bank beside the track, a fraction of a second after Sid had thrown his coat over the boiler sight-glass.
It was an old engineman trick. Rain or shine, the footplatemen would hang a coat on the spectacle plate latches. If the water sight-glass broke, shards would shoot out under the force of scalding high-pressure steam ready to rip and tear anything in its way. The coats weren’t there just to wear, they were there to absorb the impact and stop the jets of murderous steam in an emergency.

Before Stan had time to brace himself, his engine struck the debris left by the runaway wagons. The track buckled and the train derailed, the wheels spewing chunks of ballast like a wave of stone as it screeched to a halt. Buckeye couplings had been around for decades, and thanks to them the whole train stayed upright before finally coming to a rest.

Pete stared in fascinated horror as he helplessly lived through the carnage and destruction. Just as the train buffers were about to hit him full square at his waist, he heard an anguished cry that was instantly cut off, then just as suddenly as it had begun, he found himself standing in the middle of the retirement village road again.

“Are you alright sir?” Confused, Pete discovered he could move again, and turned slowly towards the speaker who had an Eastern European accent, only to find himself staring at an eerie black figure standing stock-still on the end of the platform next to the now intact lamp-hut.

The woman who had spoken was one of the full-time carers who visited resident in their own apartments. She turned to see what this man was looking at, then shuddered as she turned back to him again.
“Is statue of Station Master, but I don’t like. I am Polish and he look like Stalin. I try not to look as I walk by.”
“Is everything okay, please?”

As Pete’s mind cleared, he swayed a little before recovering. “Oh, yes I am fine thank-you. It’s a little hot and I think I should get into the shade for the rest of my walk from now on.”

Up until then he had waved or said hello to nearly every walker or cyclist that he had met, but now he couldn’t get the strange visions out of his head, and remembered very little of the last part of his walk, or of the train journey home.

His wife was quite concerned when she got home to find him staring at his laptop, waiting for a web-page to load. Normally he would be bubbly and enthusiastic about his walk, but would always ask her first about her day. Not this time though. He was quiet, morose almost, giving only monosyllabic answers to her questions until she asked him firmly what was wrong.
Suddenly he couldn’t shut up, and told her about his strange episode at the station.

“Hmm,” replied his wife. “I think you must have been out in the sun too long and didn’t drink enough. Are you sure you didn’t nod off whilst you were at the station?”
“Well, I suppose I could have, but it felt so real, as if I was actually there at the time.”
“Had he been daydreaming?” he thought. Well, he must have been. Nothing else made sense.


Just as he closed the lid of his computer, the web site he was searching for finally finished loading. Had they looked, the pair would have seen the details of a fatal accident at Sandford Station in the 1920s, exactly 100 years ago to the day, when a set of quarry wagons broke free, careered downhill, smashed through two buildings, and killed a porter who was filling oil lamps in the station lamp-hut.
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19-06-2021, 01:40 PM
3

Re: The Silent Whistle

A good supernatural tale.

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19-06-2021, 08:38 PM
4

Re: The Silent Whistle

Like many of my stories, there is an element of truth behind it. Sandford Station was sold off to a local businessman some years after it closed, and then later became the centrepiece of a retirement village where my parents spent the last few years of their lives.

In the 1960s, wagons broke away from the local quarry and hurtled down to the nearby station before it smashed through the goods shed and destroyed the lamp hut.
Unlike my story, there were no fatalities or even any injuries.

Here is the goods shed that is now a most excellent restaurant, with the doorway that has now been turned into a picture window.




The goods-shed door and window from the inside of the restaurant.





The station master's statue that my Mum's Polish carer didn't like because she thought it looked like Stalin.





The side tipping narrow gauge quarry wagon, with a brace of "widow-maker" drills.





Shute Shelve tunnel.





Part of Winscombe Station frontage now laid flat on the platform.





The station buildings with carriage, trucks, and quarry engine. The small building on the right is the lamp-hut that was destroyed by the runaway wagons. The quarry owners were made to pay for the rebuilding of the hut.


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22-06-2021, 12:50 PM
5

Re: The Silent Whistle

This was enthralling thank you
 

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