Mrs A''s Indian Gentlemen

by Neil McCallum

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

‘I think attention is going to be drawn no matter what,’ Billy pointed out. ‘We’re three – well, two and a half – Indians walking through a town that hasn’t seen a foreigner since they hanged a monkey 150 years ago thinking it was Napoleon.’ In 1943, as war rages across Europe, Britain’s Great Western Railway (GWR) Works’ labour force is comprised of a few men too valuable, old or infirm for active service and thousands of recently recruited women. With critical skills in short supply, the British government looks to the empire to provide vital expertise in the run up to the D-Day invasion. And that is how railway engineer Imtiaz ‘Billy’ Khan, logistics supremo Vincent Rosario and maths prodigy Akaash Ray find themselves in Swindon, lodging with the well-intentioned Mrs A, hilariously navigating bland food, faulty toilet cisterns, secret assignments and a mutual distrust of each other. Sparkling with wit, Mrs A’s Indian Gentlemen is a rollicking tale of misadventure that delightfully portrays what happens when cultures collide.

Release date: December 15, 2019

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 376

Sample

1

‘Mr Rosario? Mr Ray?’

As the newsreel camera was being packed away, two figures walked cautiously down the gangway from the ship. The voice that had called their names had barely been raised above the conversational yet it cut through the fuss and bustle of disembarkation as effectively as a bellow. Well-modulated, overweeningly confident. It was a voice that they had both heard a thousand times back home in India. The pretence of exaggerated indifference. The voice of assured authority. The voice with a yawn in it.

The speaker matched the voice. Tall, thin and with a long face capable of only three expressions: faintly amused, vaguely disappointed or studiously bored. ‘Ah, there you are. Not the “First of the Few”, more the “Last of the Lot”. The name’s Dawlish,’ he drawled, raising his hat but not offering his hand. ‘India Office. You two are presumably well acquainted after weeks at sea, what? No? Gosh, you surprise me. Well, Mr Rosario, of the Bombay, Baroda and Central India Railway. Mr Ray, of the Presidency College, Calcutta. Welcome to England.’

‘It’s doctor, in actuality,’ said the smaller and younger of the two new arrivals, looking down and removing his spectacles to clean them on his handkerchief. ‘Dr Ray.’

‘Really?’ said Dawlish, raising a doubtful eyebrow. ‘Well done, you. Now, there’s things that need to be done before we can send you on your way. Customs. Immigration. Tedious stuff, but there we are. Landing chits all properly filled out? Good. No one’s got any contraband I suppose? No? Oh, well. That’s a shame! Ha! Right, let me have your papers. Dump your bags and hang on here a tick while I see if I can pull a few strings and get you through the Services channel. I’ve got railway warrants for each of you – afraid both are for “Mr”s, Dr Ray, but never mind…’

As Dawlish strode off the two men studied each other. Rosario, the older and taller of the two, looked warily at his companion: so young, earnest and seemingly brimming with confidence. The younger man reached out a hand. ‘Akaash,’ he said with a smile. After a brief pause, the two tentatively shook hands. ‘Rosario,’ said the older man with the briefest of nods. ‘You didn’t want to be part of that circus either?’

‘The filming? No.’

‘Nor me.’ They looked at one another. ‘A doctor?’ Rosario asked doubtfully.

‘Of philosophy. Mathematics, really. But it’s a PhD. Thus, a Doctor of Philosophy,’ the young Bengali replied.

‘I know what a PhD is,’ Rosario assured him. ‘It means you’re not a proper doctor.’

Akaash Ray bristled. ‘I suppose that depends how you define proper. For a mathematician, proper has a whole range of meanings. There are proper subsets for example, but I assume you neither knew nor meant that. Then there’s proper fractions… Maybe you’re using the term “proper” to mean real or genuine? In which case, I have to correct you. I am a proper doctor. I even have a very beautiful piece of parchment to affirm the fact. If you narrow the term to its colloquial use to describe a medical practitioner, then no, I’m not, in your limited and inaccurate terms, a proper type of that doctor.’ He looked around. ‘It’s certainly not Bombay, is it?’

‘No,’ agreed Vincent Rosario, irritably. ‘It certainly isn’t.’

Their journey had been a steady progression from technicolour to monochrome. There had been times in the North Atlantic when it had been impossible to tell where grey sea became grey sky. Now, a transition arrival at Southampton on a dull autumn morning completed, drizzle hung like damp gauze in the air and the sea, oil-slicked and torpid, heaved itself against the harbour wall with a greasy slap and a tired sigh.

The two men glanced out across the harbour as the destroyer which had shadowed them from Gibraltar sounded three cheery klaxon blasts and hauled off for Portsmouth. There was both fond farewell and self-congratulation in the rising cadence: another convoy escorted home without loss. They returned their gaze to the buildings and activity around them, the cranes and warehouses, the hoses and ropes criss-crossing the puddled dock, the barrels and tea chests stacked and shrouded in stained tarpaulin. The damp morning air reeked of oil, salt, paint and fish and echoed to hammering, the whump of sacks in net slings dropping onto awaiting trucks, shouted instructions, an alerting curse and the crash of wood against stone. Overhead, like white slashes against the grey, gulls screaming like souls in torment jinked, swooped and dived around bovine barrage balloons slowly turning on their mooring cables to each shift of the freshening morning breeze.

‘So, what do you do?’ Akaash asked.

‘I’m a railwayman,’ said Vincent Rosario. ‘A proper one. And I don’t need a piece of paper to prove it.’

Akaash looked the older man up and down. ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’ he sneered.

There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only when another disembarking passenger approached. Taller than both Akaash and Vincent, the new arrival was bearded and expensively dressed. His hands were thrust into the pockets of a tweed overcoat and he wore a paisley patterned silk scarf and brown trilby hat. ‘Did I hear someone say railwayman?’

Vincent and Akaash turned to the beaming man. They had both seen him from the ship – he had been one of the first to disembark, and was only too happy to pose, posture and perform for the camera. In fact, his generosity with cigarettes and general bonhomie led to a late script change and the (Ministry of Information approved) addition of the line, ‘Although this cheery chappie seems to be making himself pretty much at home already!’

‘Khan, Gwalior State Railway,’ he boomed. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen a fellow called Lockyer around anywhere?’ His voice was deep, enriched by an expensive education. ‘Bugger was meant to be meeting me.’

Dawlish returned with permission to clear them through the Services channel. He studied the third man with a lazy eyebrow raised. ‘And this is?’

The Gwalior man introduced himself once more. Dawlish frowned, his attention seemingly fully engaged for the first time. ‘Not one of the Gwalior Mansoor Khans by any chance?’

The tall man chuckled and thrust out his hand. ‘Younger son of a younger son, so a mere rude mechanical, but that’s me. I’m impressed.’

‘Breeding will out,’ the Englishman purred. ‘Dawlish. Roddie. I was in Ujjain. ’36 to ’38.’

‘A pleasure, Roddie. Surprised we didn’t bump into each other. Call me Billy. Everyone does. Don’t suppose you can help a chap out here at all? The Maharajah’s man Lockyer was meant to meet me but…’

‘I’ll do what I can. Where are you headed?’

‘Swindon. On loan to the Great Western Railway, no less.’

‘As are these fellows. I tell you, lack of coordination will be the death of us! I suppose HH forgot to mention your coming to the Res?’

‘Don’t think so. The Residency was immensely helpful…’

‘Excuse me,’ said Vincent. ‘Our papers?’

‘Yes, yes,’ sighed Dawlish peevishly. ‘Here you are.’

Vincent took the papers impatiently thrust towards him and glanced through them. Dawlish looked at him askance. ‘They’re all there, I assure you.’

‘I check everything,’ Vincent replied, scrutinising the stamps and signatures.

‘Good for you. Once you’ve satisfied yourself, take your bags over to the customs shed and join the line nearest to the dockside. No saaman, Billy?’

Billy Khan jerked his head back, indicating a porter standing a respectful distance away with four suitcases and a hat box stacked on a sack truck.

‘Want me to sneak you through the Services channel too?’

‘Decent of you, old man, but no need. I think someone’s clearing me as we speak. Just need to sort out onward transport.’

‘There’ll be someone at the station who can handle that for you.’

Billy smiled as they watched Akaash and Vincent drag their bags towards customs. ‘Interesting pair,’ he observed. Taking out a gold cigarette case, he flicked it open and offered a cigarette to Dawlish.

‘Turkish?’

‘Balkan. There’s an Armenian in Bombay who can still get them. Lord knows how.’

‘Best not to ask.’

‘Absolutely.’

They lit their cigarettes, drew on them contemplatively and exhaled. ‘That really is fine tobacco. You must give me his details. So, the Anglo,’ mused Dawlish. ‘What do you reckon? Semi or Demi?’

Billy Khan sniffed. ‘Oh, at a guess, I’d say Demi. Yes, definitely Demi. You?’

Dawlish nodded. ‘You have to feel for them. Neither fish nor fowl. Salt of the earth, most of them. Couldn’t run the railways without them, that’s for sure. And their women can be very fetching. Blue gums, you know? If only they weren’t so bloody…’

‘Absolutely. Say no more.’

‘And the Bengali? Dr, supposedly, Ray?’

‘Brahmin would be my bet. Mind you, they all say they are. What are they here for?’

‘No idea, old chap. Here to help the war effort, apparently.’

Billy Khan frowned. ‘The best we breed, and all that? Things must be bad.’

Dawlish raised a significant eyebrow. ‘Keep an eye on them for me, would you? Especially the Bengali. I need to get back to town.’

‘Am I my brother’s keeper, as I think you fellows ask?’

‘Are they your brothers, as I think you fellows say? Just try to make sure they don’t actually make things even worse, there’s a good chap. We’ll speak again.’

2

‘I tell you it is just not physically possible to get that number of trains across that number of points in that amount of time. It simply can’t be done,’ insisted the Head of Movements. Teeth gritted and face contorted with anger, he flung the sheet of statistics contemptuously on to the table.

‘And I’m telling you for the umpteenth time it is,’ the Chief Mechanical Engineer chairing the meeting replied, exasperation exaggerating his rich, west country accent of extended vowels and over-emphasised consonants.

These meetings and this tetchy exchange were a depressingly frequent occurrence in the board room of the mighty Swindon Works. This morning the mood was particularly sour. Ten pale and ageing men in baggy suits sat on either side of a long table, at the head of which sat Hartshorne, the Chief Mechanical Engineer and senior company man. His secretary, Miss Jennings – the only woman in the room – was at his side to take the minutes. Most of the men were smoking cigarettes. Those that weren’t sucked on pipes, mostly unlit. A hazy fug hung over the table on which well-filled ashtrays smouldered like bomb craters. All the windows, criss-crossed with brown tape, remained firmly closed.

‘With respect, Chief,’ snapped back the Head of Movements, his tone anything but respectful, ‘I’m speaking from over twenty years of experience of not building engines but managing train movement. Something of which, again with respect, great engineer though we all know you are, you have no experience. And I say again, it can’t be done.’

‘By you.’

‘By anyone. It simply isn’t possible.’

‘Care to put a bet on that? Because we’re going to put that refrain of yours to the test. Tomorrow morning I’ll be introducing you to a Mr Vincent Rosario from the Bombay, Baroda and Central India Railway.’

There was a groan. Hands thrown up in disgust. Shaken heads and a murmur of dissent. ‘And he’s supposed to be able to do what?’ the Head of Movements asked with a sneer.

‘The impossible, according to you,’ said Hartshorne airily. ‘As Movements Manager at Victoria Terminus in Bombay, this chap gets more trains in, unloaded, reloaded and out over a complex web of junctions quicker and safer than anyone else, anywhere else in the empire. As far as we know, faster than anyone else anywhere in the world. I’m told he’s got a particular flair for shifting personnel and materiel from harbours and docks,’ he added, with a raised eyebrow and a significant look unfortunately lost on the Head of Movements, who was fully absorbed in sighing and staring at the ceiling.

Hartshorne took out a pair of half-moon spectacles, unfolded them and carefully curled the temple tips around his ears. He held out his hand to his secretary, who passed him a thin folder. In the voice he usually reserved for reading the lesson at Christchurch on Sunday morning, Hartshorne read out from the folder the statistics on the throughput and turnaround times of BBCI trains during morning and evening rush hours. The tonnage of goods unloaded in Bombay docks. The mean and median number of hours for their post-customs clearance transportation. He put the folder down and looked around. ‘Do I need to remind you of our current performance figures? I thought not. This man Rosario is here to help us achieve something like what he seems to have been able to do in Bombay. We all know tens of thousands of American troops are arriving at OUR docks in South Wales every week, being transported on OUR passenger trains to holding camps in OUR region. Yet more ships are offloading hundreds of thousands of tons of their equipment and munitions that OUR freight trains need to move. And when the invasion happens, perhaps a million men – Americans, Canadians and our own lads – and all the materiel a great army requires will need to be shifted in an impossibly short amount of time to ports, docks and harbours all over OUR region. All while we continue to run a full passenger and freight service whilst being bombed by enemy aircraft. What we are going to have to do is far beyond anything we or any other railway company has ever done before. And every single day this man manages to achieve far nearer to what we need to than any of you have ever done. So I’m bringing him here to show you how to do the impossible.’

There was an unhappy silence. Then a bald, short man sitting towards the bottom of the table said, ‘Bombay’s one thing. The GWR network is quite another.’

‘He has the same engines, same rolling stock, same points and crossings, same signalling equipment, same permanent way,’ recited Hartshorne, counting the similarities off on the fingers of his left hand. ‘He also has more extreme weather, more difficult terrain, far higher passenger numbers and much tighter frequencies.’

‘But he knows nothing of how we do things here! There’s a combined knowledge around this table of well over two centuries. He’s come from the other side of the world and he thinks he’s going to get to tell us how to do our jobs? Jobs we’ve done all our lives?’

‘From the other side of the world…just like the Americans, who, at this very moment, are unloading their own engines at Cardiff Docks and threatening to run them over our tracks if we can’t do better. Would you prefer to see that happen?’

‘The government would never allow that!’

‘Care for another bet on that?’

There was a mumbling around the table as several conversations sparked up about special circumstances, unique challenges, sacrosanct practices. The importance of maintaining standards. There being a proper way of doing things. Miss Jennings looked up from her note-taking but no one seemed inclined to speak on the record.

‘But he’s an…an Indian!’ a grey-haired pipe smoker with a strong Welsh accent spluttered above the muttering. ‘A native!’

‘Anglo-Indian, apparently, Mr Dadge,’ Hartshorne corrected him. ‘From several generations of railwaymen, just like your good self.’

‘Well, I’m sorry but I think that distinction will be lost on the men. We’re meant to be telling his lot what to do, not the other way around! My lads will never take orders from a coloured man. Or a half-caste. No self-respecting Englishman would.’

‘A Welshman might,’ murmured the Head of Movements under his breath, prompting a couple of smirks from those nearest him and a baleful glare from Dadge. ‘No offence, Taffy. Just kidding,’

‘They won’t need to,’ said Hartshorne, not hearing, or choosing not to hear, the exchange. ‘He isn’t here to give orders. He’s here to study, learn, suggest and advise. He’s to have free run of the place – except obviously the out-of-bounds parts handed over to the War Office – and full access to all files, registers and stats. On his arrival, Mr Rosario will be appointed GWR Chief Traffic Control Advisor. And he’ll make suggestions and he’ll give you advice. And you will be very well advised to accept and act on both. Because if anyone chooses not to do so I will want to know why immediately.’

‘Do we have any choice at all about this? Is there really no alternative?’

‘I thought you’d ask that, so I checked. And, yes, the Ministry of War Transport does have an alternative.’

‘Which is?’

‘To bring in the Movements Team from the London, Midland and Scottish Railway to replace the lot of you.’

Cries of disgust greeted this announcement.

‘Jesus Christ! Better a wog than the bloody LMS!’ declared Dadge. ‘Sorry, Miss Jennings,’ he mumbled contritely as Hartshorne’s secretary treated him to an icy stare. ‘Forgive my blasphemy. Forgot there was a lady present.’

Hartshorne leaned over and rested his hand lightly on Miss Jennings’ arm. ‘I think we’ll minute that last comment as “the meeting looks forward to Mr Rosario’s arrival and wishes him well in his new role”.’

‘Hopefully there’s no more of these “advisors” on their way?’ asked the Head of Movements.

Hartshorne smiled. ‘One or two more. But they will have nothing to do with you, so you just make sure this Mr Rosario gets everything he needs and let me worry about the others. Any other business? Thought not. Tomorrow, then.’

The disgruntled Movements men stood to a scraping of chairs on the wooden floor. Hartshorne took off his spectacles and folded them away. ‘What’s next, Miss Jennings?’

‘Elsie Coggins, Mr Hartshorne.’

‘Again?’ He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. ‘Is she represented this time?’

Miss Jennings nodded. ‘By young Cynthia. Although her father said he’ll come over if you’d prefer.’

‘No, I’m sure young Cynthia will do fine. There’s no need to call Abbot all the way over from the Carriage and Wagon side. There’s only one way this will end… I don’t suppose we could have a cup of our special tea before they arrive?’ he asked tentatively.

Miss Jennings frowned. ‘They’ll already be in your office. And it is only 9 a.m.’

‘You’re a hard woman, Miss Jennings.’

‘Hard but fair, Mr Hartshorne,’ she said with a tight smile as she gathered up the files that lay on the table in front of them both. ‘Just like you.’

3

At the dockside railway station in Southampton, sappers, miners and engineers from across northern India rubbed uncomfortable shoulders with retiring colonial administrators returning with broken health. Resentful widows grumbled to cashed-in box- wallahs. The offspring of the Heaven-born, destined for good boarding schools, were honing their arrogance on the hungover squaddies and matelots heading inland on leave. Three women in capes led a crocodile of small children, paired up, neatly labelled and holding hands, through the crowd. Tired people, flushed and troubled people and many who looked, just like their surroundings, worn out and somewhat ground down.

Akaash looked around at the stonework station. Even the posters were grey: he saw one with a monochrome image of a booted foot driving a spade into soil, proclaiming ‘Dig for Victory’, and another with a head-and-shoulders photograph of the prime minister in a hat and coat, chin thrust out resolutely against a background of a flight of Hurricane fighters and advancing tanks with the words ‘Let us go forward together’ in Times New Roman typeface superimposed. He was struck again that so few of those entering the station with him appeared at all interested or even aware of others around them. They seemed unwilling to engage with anyone or anything but themselves and their immediate requirements. How placid, anaemic, damp and really rather small everything appeared. He paused, feeling homesick and suddenly somewhat intimidated by what might await them. He glanced across at Vincent and wondered if he was feeling the same thing.

‘You gonna stand there all bleedin’ day?’ asked a grizzled porter struggling with Billy Khan’s luggage. Of Billy himself and Dawlish there had been no sign since they’d left the customs shed. Akaash looked around, surprised to find there were several other people behind the porter who had also come to a sullen and resentful halt, waiting silently for him to move on.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled and moved forward, wondering why they didn’t just squeeze on past him if they were in such a hurry.

‘I should think so,’ grumbled the porter. ‘These people haven’t spent weeks dodging U-boats and dive-bombers to gawp at a bleeding railway station, mate, even if you have.’ He looked around for support and approval but met only blank stares. ‘Acts like he’s never seen one before. Arsehole,’ he added, under his breath.

A man in his fifties with a salt-and-pepper walrus moustache and thick white eyebrows under a black bowler hat approached them. He carried a battered attaché case and had a newspaper tucked under his arm. Akaash had spotted him earlier, striding up and down the lines of arriving passengers, stopping hopefully beside every vaguely foreign-looking individual.

‘Destination Swindon?’ he asked, as he raised his hat politely. On confirmation he sighed with relief and shook hands vigorously with both of them. ‘Now, there’s meant to be three of you? Khan, Rosario and Ray?’

‘I’m Rosario,’ said Vincent. ‘Khan’s luggage is on the sack-truck behind us and this is… Ray.’

‘Excellent! I’m Mr Keenan, Deployment Supervisor, Great Western Railway. We’ll just wait for Mr Khan and then we can be on our way…’

Billy Khan arrived a couple of minutes later, smiling and waving a ticket. Dawlish was nowhere around. They followed Keenan in silence onto the platform, beside which stood a black 4-6-0 engine at the head of a train of a half-dozen brown carriages out of the steamed-up and grubby windows of which pale, tired faces gazed. Behind the carriages stretched a long assortment of freight wagons, each proclaiming their owner’s name and business in faded lettering. Vincent wandered along the platform, jotting down notes in a small book he took out of his jacket pocket until Keenan frowned and shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be seen doing that if I were you. People might think you’re one of them fifth columnists.’ Vincent had no idea what that meant; some sort of undesirable trainspotter, he assumed. He looked around and indeed several people were watching him with evident suspicion. With a shrug, he put his notebook away. Billy had headed off in the opposite direction, towards the engine. He was staring at it intently. ‘King Class,’ he muttered, almost to himself, as the others caught up with him.

Keenan nodded, smiling proudly. ‘No. 6021… King Richard II.’

‘Not a very lucky king, if I recall my schoolboy Shakespeare. Swindon-built?’

‘Naturally.’ Keenan looked along the platform, frowning at the motley collection of carriages and wagons. ‘Not seeing any of this at its best, I’m afraid. Those carriages are crying out for a refit and a lick of paint. This beauty should be in gleaming GWR company colours, not wartime black. Looks long overdue for a full Shop A strip down and rebuild too. But that’s what Make Do and Mend is all about, I suppose…’

Billy frowned. ‘Those driving wheels? Standard size?’

‘Well spotted!’ said Keenan, clearly impressed. ‘Two and a half inches smaller on the diameter. Allows a bigger boiler in this loading gauge and thus greater tractive power, although I’ve never been convinced personally. But then, what do I know? We’d better get on board…’

‘Was any of that even English?’ Akaash whispered to Vincent as they climbed into the first of the carriages and eased their way along the corridor in search of an unoccupied compartment.

‘If you’re a railwayman, yes,’ Vincent assured him with a superior smile, although he too hadn’t followed much of the conversation. The guard blew a sharp double blast on his whistle and raised the green flag he’d had tucked under his arm. Doors slammed along the length of the train, the engine sounded two throaty blasts and the first great whump of steam announced their imminent departure.

They found an empty compartment, once plush but now with threadbare seats that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and damp upholstery.

‘This is first class?’ said Vincent uncertainly.

‘I’ve got GWR rail warrants for all of us,’ Keenan told him, misunderstanding his disappointment for concern about their right to occupy the compartment. He flung his attaché case up onto the luggage rack and slumped into a seat by the window with a contented sigh. ‘We’ll have to up sticks if any paying first-class ticket holders get on. Otherwise, it’s all ours.’

Billy offered his ticket to Keenan. ‘That’s me! I’m a paying first-class ticket holder. Just bought it.’

Keenan sighed. ‘You want us to move?’

‘Good Lord, no! I was just saying…’

‘Shouldn’t have wasted your money, Mr Khan. Still, never mind. At least no one will be kicking you out. Right. All tickety boo?’ With that, he spread his newspaper out carefully on the seat opposite him. He then put his feet up on the paper, tilted his bowler hat forward over his eyes, crossed his arms and promptly went to sleep.



Three silent women sat in the Chief Mechanical Engineer’s office awaiting the conclusion of his acrimonious meeting with Movements. The oldest, Mrs Deakes, was a frequent visitor. She was in her early fifties, the widow of a GWR draughtsman who had been a contemporary of Hartshorne and had perished at The Somme. Her grey hair was pulled back in a tight bun; her face – with just a hint of powder – stern. She sat upright, knees together, hands resting on a Manila file on her lap, staring straight ahead. She wore a white blouse, black skirt and sensible shoes. Charged with special responsibility for the sudden influx of large numbers of female employees, Mrs Deakes was – sometimes several times a day – calling on the Chief Mechanical Engineer to raise issues of welfare, suggest adjustments to procedures and in general to promote the efficient use and best interests of this new and, to Hartshorne, wearisome group of workers. Hartshorne regarded their meetings with wary gratitude. A confirmed bachelor, he found women in general, and those in his Works in particular, a source of constant mystification. The memory of Mrs Deakes’s euphemism-rich attempt to explain to him the labour deployment implications of menstrual cycles would remain with them both for a long time to come. In Hartshorne’s world, machines were central, men necessary (although he dreamed of a day when that might not be true) and women, with the sole exception of Miss Jennings, creatures to be avoided if at all possible. In the present circumstances, they were a temporary intrusion into his empire – to be tolerated, managed and, as soon as possible, politely dispensed with.

And in any list of all the women in the world he would most wish to be rid of, Elsie Coggins would feature above all others.

Elsie sat now in the middle, like a prisoner escorted to court: Mrs Deakes on her left and her Union representative on her right. Elsie had wounded truculence down to a ‘T’. Although unspeaking, she couldn’t resist offering up the occasional, hard-done-by sigh, a resigned shake of the head or a disgruntled tut. She sat with her arms folded, her face a picture of resentful victimhood. Like her Union representative, she wore the steel-capped boots, overalls and headscarf of the women employed in the Sheds and Shops of the Works. She was secretive about her age, and looking at her it was hard to tell if she was in early middle age but had led a tough life or a much older woman, well-preserved. There was certainly a knowing world-weariness about her; she appeared as both an angry victim and a belligerent fighter. Indeed, it was that final trait that had once again led to this appearance before the Chief Mechanical Engineer.

On Elsie’s right sat Cynthia Abbot. In her early twenties, Cyn Abbot was not only granddaughter, daughter, niece, cousin and sister of Swindon GWR men but also the newest, youngest and only female Shop Steward in the Works. She was no more fond of Elsie Coggins than was Mrs Deakes, but knew her responsibility as a National Union of Railwaymen official to a member in trouble as well as her duty to her class. She was also keenly aware that she too was on trial today at this, her first Disciplinary. Her dad, a convenor on the Carriage and Wagon side, had quietly suggested he handle this for her and when she’d refused, had offered to come along just to give her moral support. She’d declined, telling him that the Engines side looked after its own. She’s been rather proud of that. Secretly, so had he. Later, dewy-eyed over a second pint of Arkells 3X, he’d shared the tale, boasting of his little girl as a true trade unionist and a proper socialist.

Elsie, sensing that the thoughts of the other two women were wandering and that she might not be the