Member-only story
Lise’s Branch Line
a railway fantasy
The Tennyson Pennyweight chuffety-chuffs its way along the tufted branch line Mr Beeching crossed out on his clipboard more than half a century ago. Tearing up dandelions with its iron teeth like nobody’s business, its relentless coupling rods whipping the wrong kind of leaves into a flurry of ecstasy.
Four-legged locals look on in ruminant surprise as this choo-choo chimney strapped to copper barrels rattles along the burnished rails. Wivelsfield is a blur of moss and concrete, while Ham and Egg Worthy with its village pond and old ducking stool — just a bad memory.
Note for Trainspotters This engine is an Austerity Class 2–8–0 hauling four Push-me-Pull-you carriages in what used to be called caterpillar syncopation. It’s also English through and through, so lacks a cowcatcher iron grate, unfortunately.
Inside the dining car everything is buffed to the nines. The pristine white tablecloths ready to have coffee spilt on them by the oyster-eyed steward in charge of the pot, who used to work the Stamboul train in its glory days. He still dreams of seductive houris entwined in blue cigar smoke.
The conductor is inching his way through the sinfonietta of coach number three, pausing to inspect tickets using a pair of opera glasses as he’s exceptionally long-sighted. He leaves a trail…
