heatwave-in-the-city-28

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Subject: Heatwave in the City Chapter 28 This is a work of fiction. Everybody in it is entirely my own creation. Don’t even think of suing me for putting you in a story, because I haven’t. If you happen to be resident in one of the places mentioned, or to belong to any of the institutions mentioned, don’t even think about telling me I haven’t portrayed them accurately. Work of fiction. The name of the institution only occurs because it is common knowledge so I couldn’t get away with pretending it was otherwise. If I’ve borrowed your Church, school, police station, laundrette – I haven’t. I’ve merely used the name on the building because people walk past and see it every day. Work of fiction. None of the people in the story exist, so none of the things that happen in the story can have happened to them. The world, however, is the one exception to this – the world which has in it so many wonderful people that writing fiction of this sort becomes an obligation – for me; not for everybody. You’ll have found your own place in the scheme of things, and can be wonderful in your own way. This is a story of love. It isn’t a story of sex, though that might get mentioned. There is no pornography here. Some of it is cross-generational, but it isn’t about perverted love either. Some is what nowadays is termed “gay”, but the same applies. If you think you might be offended by that, the time to go and read something else is now. Still reading? Then enjoy, and remember, you don’t pay to read these stories, but it does cost Nifty money to bring them to you. Please consider donating to Nifty at fty/donate.html Heatwave in the City by Jonah Chapter 28 Back in Elizabethan times a law was passed in England. It was made illegal to eat meat on a Friday. Don’t ask me how they thought they were going to enforce that, because I don’t know. The law was passed to try to protect the livelihoods of our fishermen. The law was later repealed (probably because they couldn’t enforce it) but the custom was enshrined in the practices of some religions, and many Englishmen adopted it voluntarily. By the mid twentieth century its main exponents were schools, because they couldn’t know what, if any, religion every one of their pupils embraced. The day became known as “Fishy Friday”. On a particular Fishy Friday seven people slumbered peacefully. At half past five one of them rose and prepared to go out. Once he had gone nobody stirred for several hours. It had happened again. I was alone in the bed. The alarm clock said 0915, but it said it silently. I’m not even sure I would have awakened then if Luke hadn’t brought me a cup of tea. “Who made that Luke,” I asked. “Kori.” I murmured a quiet ‘thank you’ to the Deity. “Where’s Jake?” “Gone to the beach with Peter and Liam. I didn’t want to go, and Kori said he’d got things to do here.” I sipped my tea then rose and showered. I discovered that Kori’s “things to do” amounted to cleaning in the kitchen and making breakfast for me. “Got to leave the place as we found it,” he told me. I couldn’t disagree with that admirable sentiment. “Fair enough. I’ll just get my breakfast things washed up, then we’ll be off down the railway. The others can come with us, if they’re back, but I don’t suppose they will be.” “Yippee!” said Luke, siezing his sketch block. Thinking back, I can’t recall a single occasion that week when Luke didn’t have that sketch block with him. Depending on what he was wearing he would also, usually, have two half-pencils either in his pockets, or wedged behind each ear. I think he sleeps with the sketch-block under the pillow. Certainly I’m never allowed the opportunity to see what’s in it. My supposition proved correct. There was no sign of the others when we headed down to the station, so I left a note to tell them where we were. The station looked relatively active. I left Luke on the footbridge, making pencil sketches. Kori stayed up there to look after him, so I wandered round to the shed yard. “Plenty for you to trip over this morning Jonah,” said Big Jim. “Mind where you’re stepping. He’s over on the 9F.” He wasn’t wrong about any of that. The class 4 was the centre of attention and there were hoses and water bowsers all around. Several people were on her footplate and in her smokebox and a great deal of lively conversation took place as well as some hammering and banging. The latter proved to come, not from the class 4, but from the 9F on the adjacent road. Her footplate was a long way up, so it was difficult to see up there. I gave a shout and Simon’s soot-caked face trabzon escort appeared at the cab window. “Hiya,” he said. “They’re busy washing out the class 4’s boiler. This one’s due for that tomorrow, so I’m getting the plugs out of her.” “Noo yore not – yore standing there yapping,” said a gruff voice somewhere behind him in the cab. I took the hint. “Dinner at six,” I told him, and departed. Back on the station the B12 had arrived from Holt and was patiently awaiting the arrival of the class 37 diesel from Sheringham. I didn’t recognize the B12’s driver, but he had Ben Pigeon firing for him. Ben had stepped down onto the platform for some fresh air. “His last day today then?” he said as I walked up. “He’ll be back,” I responded. “I talked to him last night, he seems quite keen. I’ve just got to find a way to make it happen.” “He want to talk to Tom Glaze about booking a place in the sleeping car at Sheringham,” he said. ” I’m sure Bob would bring him up sometimes.” “I’m sure we can sort something out,” I agreed. At that point the class 37 put in an appearance so further conversation had to be put on hold. I watched the B12 depart and then joined my two on the bridge. “Want to get some different sketches?” I asked Luke. He nodded shyly. “Tell you what then,” I said. “You do the sketching and I’ll get the photos. I waved my phone. “Hey, I’m taking photos too,” said Kori, waving his own phone. “Good,” I said. “I just need to talk to Big Jim. We’ll probably have to give the pocket rocket and the 9F a wide berth though. They’re a bit busy round them this morning.” Well Big Jim was very helpful, showing us the best places to work without anybody tripping over us, or dropping anything on us. We spent a profitable hour and a bit photographing and sketching. When we finished at the shed we were across to the signal box, where we were greeted with the usual courtesy. Jake, Peter and Liam joined us over there so we planned to go down to Sheringham on the next train. The B12 was next in that direction so we rode down behind her. Now, if you’ve been paying attention so far, you’ll know that there is no shortage of fish and chip outlets in Sheringham. Well we didn’t go to any of them. The Sheringham Station buffet does a good range of quick and affordable cooked meals, including fish and chips, so we were happy to stay there and eat. Most of the station staff eat in there too, so there was plenty of lively chat. The buffet is light and airy, having been built under a part of the old glass canopy, and being liberally provided with glazed areas in the frontage (in fact all of the frontage above waist level is glazed). Best of all, since the buffet doubles as a sort of staff canteen, it provides a very commendable cup of tea. Having fed the inner man (or boy in some cases), we pottered about the station and it’s environs and took copious photographs, while Jake and Kori set off down the High Street in search of crabs. Our DMU driver from our previous visit was over on platform two touching up some paintwork on one of the coaches in platform 3. Luke recognised him and said hello. “Haar’ ya doing Bor?” the man said apparently addressing himself to all of us, so clearly not expecting a direct answer. I smiled at the thought of us all answering, “very well, thank you,” in unison, but instead only said, “Good to see you again.” “”One o’ you seem to ha’ got a lot younger since last time.” he commented. I noted that he hadn’t said he’d changed colour too. I pointed to Liam. “That’s one of our American friends who’s visiting with us. The other one’s volunteering now. I last saw him on Weybourne shed taking wash-out plugs off the 9F ready for washing out tomorrow.” He laid his paintbrush across the top of the can and stood up. “Well now, if you’re visiting you’ll want to see in the East signal-box.. I reckon that’ll be alright, since you’ve got a VIP with you. ” He winked at Liam who graced him with a Liam smile. When you get one of those, you know you’ve got it. We followed him to the Cromer end of the platform and off the end toward the signalbox in question. “We usually only open this box when there’s trains to come over the level crossing – special trains like – but I know it’s unlocked at the moment ‘cos Phil Coull is in there painting some o’ the levers.” We climbed the steps to the box, whose door stood wide open. Inside a middle aged, bearded gentleman was applying paint. “Hallo,” he said. “Has Tom brought you to see how the other half live?” “Yes we’re going home tomorrow, but my other foster son tunalı escort has just started volunteering.” “Is that Simon?” Tom asked. I confirmed that. “Warl I need to see ‘im afore he goes tonight,” he said. “He’ll be looking for somewhere to stay when ‘e’s down ‘ere.” “Ben Pigeon said he was to see you about the sleeping car,” I said, quickly putting two and two together. “There’s a compartment he can have in there for four pound a month. That make it his compartment and he can leave his stuff there, so long as he stick to the rules – keep it tidy, no smoking, or drugs, or booze. Food in the locker in the mess room, not in the sleeping berth ‘n so forth. Do you say he’s at the shed?” “On the 9F,” I confirmed.” “I better stick the lid on that paint tin and go up and see him.” “”I’ll give you four pound now then, because he won’t have it on him.” “Well that’s fine. It would have kept, but, if you want to do it that way, I’ll take him a key up.” “That should make his day. There’ll be no living with him tonight.” “How old would he be?” “He was fourteen last month.” “Oh,” he said. “That mean I’ll have to take responsibility for him if he come down without you. I’ll have to get you to fill in a form for that. How’s he getting down.” “We’d thought about asking Bob to give him a lift.” “Well if Bob want to do that, that’s his business and he can be responsible while he’s bringing him but, on the railway it have to be someone with a DBS, and you have to name that person on the form.” “If you’re prepared to do that for Simon,” I said, “there’s one other thing you ought to know. Simon’s gay.” “Well now,” he replied, “I don’t see as that’s any o’ my business but, if somebody else want to make it their business, well they’ll have to deal wi’ me fust.” “I’m glad to hear that.” “Well I’d better go put the lid on that paint tin, and pick up a key and a form for you to fill in. Stay you here with Philip.” Philip was eager to explain the workings of this unusual signal-box – how it worked, when it was open, to Sheringham West, by something called the absolute block system, but worked to Trowse Swing Bridge, on Network Rail, the other way. I knew that Trowse Swing Bridge was in Norwich because we had passed it on the way up. Tom popped his head round the door and handed me a form. “You don’t need to fill it in now,” he told me. “Just hand it in at the office in the morning. Don’t forget to seal it though, ‘cos that’s confidential information.” I thanked him then, catching sight of Jake on the platform, we took our leave of Philip. “Hiya! We got what we wanted,” said Jake. “I think we did too,” I replied. “Does that mean we’re off back home? There’s a train in ten minutes.” “Tide’s out. I thought the boys might want to swim.” “Their trunks and towels are back at Weybourne, and the tide will be out there too.” I replied. “Shucks, you’re no fun at all,” he complained. “Nope,” I said. “Let’s get that train.” Well the train was got and the B12 with her four varnished teak coaches could be seen across the fields – though not by us of course. The big green engine with her train must have been a magnificent spectacle as she climbed the 1 in 80 and on the adjacent road cars were stopping as their occupants admired it. Even on bridge 303 we looked down and saw traffic stopped on the roadway below, with the exception of an ambulance which was taking advantage of the traffic pulled up on the verge by overtaking it, its blue lights flashing a warning and its sirens screaming. We pulled into Weybourne to find the ambulance – actually a paramedic car – parked in the car-park and the paramedic on the platform. The paramedic waited on the platform until an elderly man stepped from the next compartment but one to ours and raised his arm. The paramedic ran to him, the passengers instinctively clearing a path. I was surprised to notice the signals already cleared for the train and, leaving Jake in charge of the crew, I sauntered along to the signalbox. “Are you travelling sir?” asked the signalman, walking back from the locomotive where he had just handed a token to the driver.. “No,” I replied. “Isn’t there a down train?” “She’s waiting at Holt for this one. That paramedic’s going up with her as soon as we can get all these doors shut.” he added, slamming another one. At the back of the train the guard slammed shut the remaining two doors and then blew his whistle. With a toot from the B12 the train was in motion. It transpired that an elderly lady with a heart condition had been taken ill on the train. Her tunceli escort husband had put out an emergency call on his mobile phone and the ambulance service had dispached a paramedic to Weybourne and an ambulance to Holt. As soon as the paramedic arrived at Weybourne he had told the station staff what he was doing. They had told the signalman who had immediately arranged for the class 37 and her train to be held at Holt so that the B12 could leave immediately and run into the other platform. I have to say I was somewhat surprised at the resource and the flexibility that these amateur railwaymen were able to display in an emergency. They – on the other hand – were going about their business as if it was all in a day’s work. Jake had taken the boys back to the cottage and I got there in time to find them all piling into the Kia. “Coming down the beach with us?” Jake asked. “Yes indeed,” I replied. “Have I got time to get my swimming trunks?” “Sure have. We’ll wait for you,” Jake replied. Ten minutes later we were all in the sea. The boys were playing a game of “tag” which it is nearly impossible to play when your movements are impeded by water. That, of course, only made it more fun. The heat of the afternoon sun was somewhat alleviated by the cool water, and it felt good. That British and American boys were playing in the water as if they were next-door neighbours, of course seemed natural, but I suddenly wished that all nations could resolve their disputes in this fashion How much senseless bloodshed could have been avoided if Neville Chamberlain had said, “I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been recieved, and therefore, this country is starting a game of tag with Nazi Germany.” Crumbs, for nearly two years America thought he had done. Whaaaat?!? I suddenly had a faceful of water, I was on my back beneath the waves. Two little rug-rats had swum up sub-surface and pulled my legs from under me. I was so surprised that it took me a few seconds to recover and the rug-rats concerned were already swimming away. I caught the nearest one. “Liam,” I said sternly, “I would have thought you would have known better. How would you like it if I…..” By that time he was flying through the air and with a delighted squeal he plunged head-first-backwards into the water. He was back on the surface in seconds shouting, “Do it to Peter. Do it to Peter…” too late as Peter splashed down beside him. At that moment, as Peter surfaced, Simon tagged his brother and swam away. Liam was quick to swim away too, with Peter on his heels. The sound of childish laughter echoed around the beach and God looked at it, and saw that it was good. Dinner, that evening was another enormous seafood salad, since everybody had enjoyed the last one. Again it was eaten on the patio,and afterwards, we played card games until bedtime. Now. you know our boys. I’m pretty sure you know them well enough, so I don’t need to tell you that only one card game is likely to interest them. Perhaps I also don’t need to tell you that both Jake and I put our foot down. Actually that wasn’t particularly difficult. Nobody was wearing more than a pair of boxers anyway. How can you play strip-poker when everybody’s already undressed.? The heat of the day had died down to a pleasant warmth, and that wasn’t the only thing that was pleasant. “You know, I don’t often envy people,” I told Jake later, “but I envy you going home to rural Ashfield, while I’m stuck in London.” “Do you really hate London?” “No. It’s a place to live, and it’s been a good place. It’s given me my boys, and I wouldn’t change that. It’s just nice when I get the chance to get away from it for a while. These last three weeks has been good for all of us..” “Yes, but I’ll still be glad to go back and see Jacob before we go home,” he replied. “It’s hard to believe that that young man is the same person as the tiny baby I held up and smacked the bottom of.” “Why’d you do that? He hadn’t done anything.” He ignored that. “It’s always good to see friends, and we’ve got some good ones here in England. Makes you feel kinda blest.” I knew exactly how that felt. TO BE CONTINUED If you’ve enjoyed this story, you’ll probably enjoy other stories in this series by the same author. This is the latest in a series that includes “A letter from America”, “Stranger on a train,” “Marooned”, “the Boston Tea Party”, “Immigrant,” and “A Cantabrian Operetta”, all the foregoing are on Nifty’s Adult/Youth site. “The Pen Pals” is on Young Friends. You might also like “A Neglected Boy”, by Jacob Lion, also on Adult/Youth. You can find links to all these stories, as well as some illustrations on Jacob Lion’s website bly/jonah-stories.html My thanks go to Jacob for providing this facility as well as for his kind and generous support without which I would never have written any of them.

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