BRITISH-ERA SIGNAL CABINS

Another masterly piece of research by RAJENDRA AKLEKAR, telling us about an early signal cabin in Dadar. Just look at the upper right hand picture; you can almost see cabinmen high up in this signalbox grabbing those levers and pulling with all their might, the clang--thud, and the points are reset for a train to pass. A steam train, of course. But that was a long, long time ago.  Thank you so much Raj. We look forward to more such contributions from you !!

BANGALORE'S FIRST TRAIN

Here’s an interesting bit of history sent in by Dr A. B. Damania telling us how the railway first came to Bangalore. We are told that a dedicated Magneto phone was in use on stations in those days without a number dialling facility on it. It would be great if any such phone could be found lurking around in some museum or railway heritage gallery ; if anyone comes upon such a thing, do tell us about it. And now over to Dr Damania . . .

Bangalore’s first train had a steam engine for its loco, and ran between Cantonment station and Jolarpettai in what is now Vellore district of Tamil Nadu, beginning 1864. The first train was called Bangalore Mail and was run by Madras Railway, one of the dozen or so companies incorporated to develop a railway network in British India.

The city’s first railway link to the outside world was a meter gauge line and 149 kms long. Cantonment station, where one end of the link lay, had two platforms on either side.

The backbone of the service was not only the narrow gauge line but also the non-dialling Magneto phone for communication between stations. A dedicated line of sorts, the phone was widely used by the railways in those days and had neither a dial nor a number pad. If a user at one end rotated the handle, it would ring at the other end.

The Cantonment—Jolarpettai railway line was extended to Bangalore City station 18 years later. The earliest route catered to by the City station was Bangalore Mysore. While the Cantonment—City link was serviced by Madras Railway, the other services from the City station were operated by the Mysore State Railway. Two years later, in 1884, Bangalore City—Tumkur—Gubbi services began operating and in 1889, the line was extended upto Harihar.

Dr. A. B. Damania 

GENE BLANCHETTE'S BLOG

ARVIND BALIGA has sent in a link to a lovely site where you will find material on the Raj, as well as the Railways of the Raj . . . . Turn to the following page and enjoy yourselves:

 http://geneblanchette.wordpress.com/category/railways/

HERITAGE SHORT STORY - I

THE HOMECOMING

By Ravindra Bhalerao

(First published in abridged and modified form in Indian Steam Railways Magazine, Summer 2007.)

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Prologue

CHARLES LANSON SAT THROUGH the evening service of St Bartholomew’s Church, his heart aching and grieving and wistful. As the parson preached his sermon, Lanson’s thoughts were far away. He was thinking : why do we have to be separated from our loved ones. . .  why are children orphaned . . .  and why do people have to die so far from home, unsung and uncared for? The thoughts came in unsought; Lanson sank into despair. It was all a great mystery for which he seemed to have no answer.

Lanson was here in India in 1961 on a heritage trip, hoping to find the place where a great aunt of his lay resting. He had grown up in England, the son of a corn merchant, living in the West Norfolk countryside. All his life, he had no reason to suspect he had a distant ancestor who had lived in India. Then one day he received a call from a remote cousin who said he had received information which gave him reason to believe that they had a distant ancestor, a great aunt named Isabel Thorpe, who was orphaned at an early age and was taken in by Brampton Children’s Home south of London.

Lanson set about making enquiries at the children’s home and various other quarters. By the end of the month he had succeeded in establishing that his great aunt after leaving the care of the children’s home, had gone on to study further, finally taking a degree in medicine. He followed up the trail making enquiries at the college where she studied. In the college archives, Lanson was shown a published medical thesis bearing the title: “An Investigation into the Traditional Medical Remedies Practised in the Indian Subcontinent.” The thesis was dated 1922 and was the work of Dr Isabel Thorpe, M.D.,  working under the supervision and guidance of Dr Edward Martin, Head of Bruce Memorial Hospital, Alampore, India.

Lanson was aware that this bit of information, vital though it was, did not conclusively prove that his great aunt was in India at the time of her demise. But neither could he trace any further information that would give him a clue as to Miss Thorpe’s whereabouts after her thesis had been published. He was working on his own, and knew that a trip to India was like a leap in the dark. Nonetheless, acting on a hunch, he decided to take the plunge; he set off for India and arrived in Alampore in the month March. He began by making careful enquiries at the Bruce Memorial Hospital. The records showed that a lady named Isabel Thorpe had indeed served here from 1918 to 1929.

Satisfied with the details he had procured, Lanson made further enquiries and was directed to St Bartholomew’s Church. This was the largest Protestant church in Alampore, and as it was located in the Civil Lines, Lanson knew it was the most likely candidate where he might find a clue.

He was received by the parson, the Reverend Isadas Masih, a kindly man in his late forties. The parson listened to Lanson’s story patiently. In the end, he shook his head. “We have no records with us prior to 1950,” he said in a kind voice. “What do you want to consult these records for? For dates of birth and death?” The parson bit his lips and thought for a moment. “I think I can do something better for you. If you like, I will accompany you to the Old English Cemetery here. It is not far from here. The Lord willing, we might succeed in finding the grave of your great aunt.”

Lanson accompanied by the parson arrived in the cemetery late in the afternoon. The graves, he found, were well spaced apart with a gravel pathway running through, the gulmohar trees in bloom spreading out their colourful canopy over the final resting place of these immortal souls.

The sun cast it last rays over the horizon, the sky was painted with crimson light. The young man had searched the cemetery for more than an hour when he heard a sharp cry coming from the far end of the cemetery. “Mr Lanson! Mr Lanson, please come here. I think I have found what you were looking for!”

Lanson hurried across to find Masih leaning over a gravestone partly obliterated by wild grass and scrub.

“You are lucky Mr Lanson,” said the parson to the young man as he approached. He cleared away the scrub and wild grass, revealing a tombstone crumbling and disfigured with age. The men stood reverently as they read the epitaph on the headstone:

In Loving Memory Of

Isabel Milverton

Born 16 March 1891; Died 7 September 1929

Of Bruce Memorial Hospital, Alampore

A Physician who served this land

With Unfailing Love and Zeal.

May She Enter into the Rest of the Lord.

In the fast diminishing crimson twilight, the tombstone seemed to glow almost with an ethereal beauty. The men stood silently studying the inscription.

“She died young; only thirty eight!” exclaimed the parson in a soft whisper.

Lanson stood still studying the words; he seemed to be in doubt. “There seems to be some mistake,” he pointed out. “The hospital records quote her name as Thorpe.”

The parson seemed as curious over the discovery of the tombstone as Lanson was. He thought for a moment and said: “That may be so; but look at the date. It matches your record exactly—1929.  Mr Lanson, your great aunt married here in India. This tablet is testimony to the fact, and perhaps the only evidence you’ll ever find !”

The young man looked impressed but still would not give in. “I find it strange that this epitaph makes no mention of her husband,” said he.

The parson walked over to one side to study the tomb from an angle. A moment later he was back to the young man’s side. He looked up at Lanson and said: “The inscription here makes no mention of your great aunt’s husband, as you say. These are questions which may remain unanswered. . . But I am pretty certain of one thing: this is where your dear aunt sleeps. It is inconceivable that there were two physicians each named Isabel working for the same institution who both passed away in the same year. If this were the case, you would most certainly find another grave here bearing the same name, you see?”

Lanson nodded slowly. He could feel his eyes grow moist. He knelt beside the grave, placed flowers on the headstone, and whispered a prayer:    

. . . Aunt Isabel, I am here to tell you how much we all love you. You served in this far away land without any of us knowing anything about it; how I wish you had grown up in a home with a father to care, a mother to love, and warmth and protection which a child can know only in the home. But you had none of these things. Today I have come with a gift of love for you. See, even the mynah on the branch above is singing a song of joy for you. The whole of God’s creation is your family . . .  Love and farewell, dear Aunt. . .

And with these words, the young man wept silently.

                                                                                                                          

He need not have grieved.

Unknown to him, Charles Lanson’s wish had been fulfilled nearly four decades before these words were uttered.

The Railway in Alampore

The Grand Trunk road passing through Alampore is a meandering strip of tar, wide enough to carry three lanes of horse- or bullock-drawn traffic, coming down through the plains of the north where it is flanked by great shimmering fields of rice and wheat. Here and there the road passes over a culvert or a stream until it begins to climb a bank that leads it right over the bridge on the Narmada, a pale blue expanse of water flowing placidly close to the town. Then in 1872 the railway came. A new bridge carrying tracks was built over the river. Townspeople who had never seen a train before stood at the river’s edge watching in great wonder the new marvel, a giant fire-breathing hulk rumbling over the steel girders carrying along a line of red carriages behind.

As the years wore on, the novelty of the railway began to wear off; the steam train which had created such a great sensation soon ceased to arouse wonder. The people of the town had ceased to marvel at the miracle wrought with steam. Feelings of apprehension that the smoke issuing from atop the devilish creature would bring harm to their cattle, their possessions, and their own selves soon gave way to feelings of resignation, followed by grudging acceptance, then finally appreciation. The steam engine was no longer looked upon as an alien. For the townsfolk had discovered that the railway brought with it blessings and conveniences they had never dreamed of before. It paved the way for brisk trade, it made travel easier and cheaper, and helped people to find employment. The railways, the civil cantonment area and various other establishments such as the District Courts and the newly set up Bruce Memorial Hospital had transformed the place from a sleepy little town into a city bustling with activity.

The railway was, beyond a doubt, pivotal in bringing about these developments. Alampore Junction was on the route to Bombay with a line forking to Jhansi. With the railway came a goods yard and a locomotive shed ; Alampore was from the start an engine changing station, a junction of first importance on the Great Indian Peninsula Railway.   

Roger Milverton, the head foreman of the engine repair shed at Alampore, put down his cup of tea with the air of one who has accepted defeat. It was the custom for loco foremen in those days to gather in the office for recreation after a major overhaul was accomplished. There would be a good deal of jesting and good-humoured raillery interspersed with cigarettes and rounds of tea. It was a time the men looked forward to with great anticipation each day.

The boys trooped into the foreman’s office. Milverton looked up, and from the way they fastened their gaze on him, he knew that he was to be the butt of their jokes today.  

“Ha! Whose turn is it today? Mamma’s boy, eh?” said one of the men sitting down with a grin. “Only a wife can save your skin today! When are you getting one, my boy?”

Milverton’s colleagues who were chuckling all along broke into guffaws; their victim looked away trying not to appear interested while nodding his head in mock assent.

“Gentlemen !” cried out another, rising as though he were making a speech, “let’s not be vulgar. It gives me great pleasure to announce that our man here has finally begun to partake of the joys of feminine company. I hear he entertains in his home a secret lady visitor practically each day!”

An applause broke out, cigarettes were lit vigorously; the men raised toasts craning their necks forward. “A secret lady visitor?” chorused one. “It’s a miracle. I’d give anything to have a glimpse of her. Let’s march into the boss’s home today and take a look for ourselves!”

Milverton waved his hand in disgust. These boys were crazy; they acted as if they had never seen a girl before. “You see, she doesn’t come to see me,” he explained. “She’s picked up a friendship with mother; and she is no secret visitor to my home as you say!”

“There again, mamma’s boy !” exclaimed someone. “I say, why don’t you marry? That’s your only hope.”

Milverton did not seem to relish these remarks. He never minded humour at his expense, but these fellows were making comments that bordered on the indecent. He was a slim man, thirty something, with a flourishing moustache, a bit awkward in manners, but well meaning and good natured. Women had attracted him ever since he was in school, but strangely, when he was around, women took to flight, he had noticed. God knows he had met ever so many of these creatures, but till date, his relationship with these ladies had been but platonic. An abiding relationship with a girl which would grow and finally culminate in marriage was a distant dream which he had little hope of seeing fulfilled.

Milverton tried to dismiss the thought of matrimony from his mind. He was here to do work and a locomotive shed was a place for serious work. He had put in more than fifteen years of service, first as a loco apprentice mechanic, than as a fireman, before taking over charge of shunting engines and goods trains. Seniority had brought one more promotion: in his sixteenth year he was put on the Khalilabad Passenger. He worked as driver for nearly a year before he decided to opt for locoshed duty again. Life on the rails had been a heady experience; he had tasted the adventure of speed. Now he wished to return to a quieter job, one that was less demanding. He was put in charge of the locomotive shed of Alampore. It was the kind of work he loved to do. He had lived amidst the smell of smoke all his life, and here he was, looking after six smart looking puffing billies, each of them eager to receive a pat of approval from him.

The foreman looked out of the window ignoring the stares of his men. “Boy, won’t you ever share your girl with us here?” the men demanded.

Milverton chuckled. “News travels very fast here, but believe me, I have yet to see the girl you speak about,” he said with a gesture of helplessness.

The men exchanged glances as they eyed the foreman gravely. “You fooling us . . .?”

“He says he hasn’t met her yet,” said one in mock seriousness, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Mort, don’t be too hard on him. Let’s spare him.”

An engine standing at some distance gave a short whistle, and began to back up on a line next to the locoshed. Milverton watched the loco approach and back away through his window, letting out blasts of smoke and steam. From the corner of his eye he could see the boys were waiting for an explanation. He considered the matter judiciously. “No, I haven’t met the girl yet,” he replied with a tone of finality. “In the meantime, why don’t you boys take a peek at what the Institute or Club has to offer?”

(Continued below)

SHORT STORY - II

Isabel Comes to Tea

Sarah Milverton drew aside the curtains of her living room and proceeded to plant a set of freshly picked daffodils in the flower vase. A cake had been put in the oven to bake, the flower pots watered, and it was time she could resume her knitting. Now over sixty years of age, the silvery haired lady still found her greatest joy in tending to her garden, doing knitting and stitching, and attend to a host of sundry things in and around the home.

The ring of a bell announced that a visitor was at the gate. Sarah peeped out of the window to find a young lady dressed in a blue pleated skirt and coat holding a bicycle. The girl smiled and waved, and Sarah waved back.

“Come dearie, come right inside,” said Mrs Milverton cheerily stepping out of the portico. “I have waited for you all along. Come this way!”

The young lady seemed a trifle nervous as she walked into the living room. Having made the girl as comfortable as she could, Sarah went around looking for her son. “Roger!” she cried, “Roger, come and see who we have got here!”

Milverton, who seemed to have prepared for the occasion, emerged in an evening suit and seemed to take some time taking in the sight of the exquisitely made young lady with golden brown hair and a smile which dimpled her cheeks.

“Ah, it is so very nice of you to drop in, Miss,” said Roger pleasantly as he took a seat opposite the girl. “How do you do?”

“She’s Isabel Thorpe, my newest friend,” blurted out Mrs Milverton excitedly as she sank into the sofa beside the girl, giving her a warm squeeze. “She’s newly joined Bruce Memorial Hospital. You haven’t heard her play on the piano, son!”

Isabel blushed at the compliments that were pouring and found it a relief when the maid stepped in bringing a trolley laid out with tea.

Roger began by passing around a plate of biscuits. “My mother speaks a good deal about you,” he said. “I believe you are here on—er—a medical assignment?”

“Oh, well – yes – it was a project I took up last year. I am here to do research on the medical cures practiced here traditionally, and study the complications that usually arise. It’s quite interesting, you know.”

“Splendid !” said Roger as he buttered himself a toast. “And it’ll serve a very useful purpose too. May I ask, how far have you progressed with your research?”

Isabel stroked her chin softly. The gentleman with the easy going manners seemed pleasant enough, but a bit awkward. Nice people, she thought to herself, nice to talk to, and nice to be with. “I have nearly finished with my work,” she said. “Dr Martin at Bruce Memorial says these findings are going to be tremendously useful, and could be published in the form of a thesis on the subject.”

Mrs Milverton who seemed keen on letting the young pair have some time to themselves had left the room on some pretext. Now she returned and stood in the doorway holding up a carton triumphantly.

“Here’s a new record, children. No evening can be complete without music!” she declared. And placing the record on the gramophone player she gently wound up the crank. The machine began to play the soft strains of Silent Night.

The conversation drifted to other topics. “Mr Milverton,” began Isabel, “have you ever thought of returning to England?”

“Why, no, Miss Thorpe. Why do you ask?”

“I thought you might want to return to civilization,” Isabel said tentatively.

“I like the civilization here,” said Roger. “It is quiet, life is never in a hurry, the natives are good natured folks. . .”

“Oh, yes.”

“You know, there are people back Home who dream of the romance of India. I like to live the romance. India has a kind of dreamlike quality.”

Isabel looked at Roger with a smile that soon gave way to a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Something like a latter day Livingstone exploring the jungles of Africa?”

“Er—not quite. Haven’t you ever had the urge to explore unknown lands?”

“I do,” returned Isabel. “As a matter of fact I have travelled quite a bit in India.”

“Then you will have tales of adventure to tell !”

Mrs Milverton looked fondly at the young pair as they laughed and talked away into the evening.  Beyond the open window, the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky with deep yellow and crimson, while the hills in the distance seemed to grow mellow and dusky. She had changed records and the gramophone was now playing Alexander’s Ragtime Band, her favourite piece of music. She rose from her chair and drew close to Isabel. Then taking the girl by her hand she said, “Come dearie, let’s dance with the music.”

The young lady looked up bewildered. “No, please, Mrs Milverton, you must excuse me,” she protested. “I hardly ever dance; I make a terrible hash of it.”

“So do I, my dear, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try, does it? Come!”

And soon the ladies had swept away, their arms entwined, swaying to the rhythm of the tune amidst squeals of laughter, while Roger Milverton, enthralled with the performance, took on the task of re-setting the gramophone record humming a tune himself while cheering on the pair.

Friends Forever

As in most other towns the small European community in Alampore found its recreation in the English Club where the sahibs and memsahibs would gather in the evenings for social intercourse and pleasure. Mrs Milverton had long been an active member, but in recent days she seemed to have grown tired of the social life offered by the club and her visits had declined. The truth was that there was something far superior, and far more valuable to be found in the home, for with the coming of Isabel Thorpe, Milverton Lodge had seen a change that would make its inhabitants look forward to each day with eager expectation.

Evenings in Milverton Lodge would see the sound of music when Isabel played some of the finest tunes she knew on the piano. Old Colonel Browning who lived next door called on Mrs Milverton. “Great music coming from over yonder. What is it all about, ma'am?” he wanted to know, and Sarah had told him about her newfound friend and her musical gift. Word quickly spread around, and neighbours began to pour in, eager to hear the young pianist play.

There was a time when Sarah complained of a lack of enthusiasm, a feeling that having reached the eventide of life there wasn’t much of a meaning left in anything around. Isabel who had listened patiently all along didn’t say anything, but when evening came, she returned with a bunch of brightly dressed kids gathered from the neighbourhood. They were soon scampering all over the garden letting out squeals of delight, some even persuading Mrs Milverton to join in the fun, and when she refused, they clambered on to her lap to receive a hug of love.

The children returned the next day, and the day after . . . it left Sarah feeling enthralled. The sparkle had returned to her eye, there was a spring her step. Life that had grown dreary seemed once again to have regained its former zest and meaning.

Then there were picture albums to browse through. The young lady from Bruce Memorial seemed to be equally skilled with a camera as she was with her stethoscope. She had travelled extensively all over the country, and recorded her findings in a series of notes jotted down in a diary, and a set of four neatly bound albums with hundreds of pictures stuck in. Roger and his mother spent many happy hours browsing through these albums with Isabel sitting beside giving a commentary on each picture. Going through these albums was like making a grand tour of the country ; they contained pictures of all kinds : pictures of forts and monuments, armies and regiments, official lodges and bungalows, shops and streets, hill stations and towns, natives and Englishmen in India, stations and ports . . . a breathtaking photographic archive created with nothing more special than an Ensign box camera which the girl had mastered, later graduating to a more expensive folding bellows camera of the same company.

Autumn brought with it a cool breeze coming in from the nearby hills and Sarah’s daffodils swayed in the wind as though to welcome the intrusion that had come in their uneventful life. With the weather growing mild, Mrs Milverton who had mostly kept indoors during the summer began to move out more adventurously, taking a horse-buggy to town or calling up on friends. During one of these excursions she seemed to have caught an infection and was laid up in bed. Dr Martin who was Medical Superintendent of Bruce Memorial Hospital was kind enough to call on the lady for an examination. He pronounced it a case of severe bronchial infection, advising immediate removal of the patient to the hospital.

Isabel who worked under Dr Martin made it a point to snatch every moment she could find to be with her elderly friend. She studied the temperature chart, checked the breathing, then sat down to examine the senior doctor’s prescription. Light diet, it recommended, but from her own experience as a physician she knew that on more than one occasion she had proved the text books wrong. She picked up her bag and hurried to the bazaar returning with tin of liver extract.

“There you are, Mrs Milverton!” said Isabel smiling brightly as she stood by the bed holding up a spoonful of the liquid for the old lady. “This should put you back on your feet soon!”

The liver extract worked wonders. Within a week’s time the old lady had grown strong again; the doctors attending on her pronounced her out of danger. She was soon strolling around and to everyone’s astonishment, in another four days she was discharged from the hospital.

And thus it went on, the young lady filling the home with a thousand shades of radiance till Roger and his mother began to find themselves positively looking forward each day to the girl’s visit. “Do you like her?” Mrs Milverton asked her son at the breakfast table once. Roger, gauche and awkward, and well over thirty, had rarely succeeded in engaging the attention of women thus far. He had reached a stage where he found it entirely futile even to conceive a wish that someone from amongst the gentle sex would cast an admiring glance at him, and yet here was a girl who was taking an exceptional interest in both mother and son. “She comes here to see you!” Mrs Milverton said teasingly, and Roger would murmur something in reply flushing with pleasure.

But it was Sarah who found the greatest joy and fulfillment with the arrival of the girl. Materially speaking, she was already well-off; she had a lovely home and a comfortable bank balance; she had worked prior to her retirement as headmistress of a school, a position which had earned her recognition and esteem. And now there was this young lady who had stepped into her life bringing with her a thousand little joys, and making her feel that she was special. With the passage of time they grew closer ;  friendship gave way to love so that at last they were like mother and daughter. The young lady was nearly a daily visitor to Sarah’s home. They sat together reading aloud poetry, they sang together, read the same books, tried out the latest culinary art. And how popular they had grown at the Club ! When Christmas came along, Sarah and her friend staged a play with a few others named ‘Broken Blossoms’ based on a short story by one of the writers of the time. ‘Broken Blossoms’ proved to be a runaway success; it made Isabel something like a celebrity overnight. So popular was the play that on public demand several more shows had to be staged ; on the fourth run no less a person than the Collector of  the District himself was amongst the audience.

Mother and daughter found perfect happiness in each other’s company. The two got on splendidly. They picked daisies together ; they rode together to the bazaar in a buggy ; and as they strolled about in the garden whispering to each other their inmost secrets, nature herself seemed to brim over with joy : the wind whistled a tune and the leaves rustled, while the crocuses gleefully nodded in the breeze, pleased at the thought of having two friends sharing a blessed communion in their presence.

(Continued below)

SHORT STORY - III

An Unusual Outing

St Bartholomew’s Church with its brickwork spire pointing skyward lies half a mile to the east of Alampore Cantonment. The Cantonment bazaar is served by one main street, always crowded in the evenings, leading by the polo ground, various government offices, finally taking a turn to the left before you come upon the vicarage, followed by the church itself, a magnificent specimen of architecture that was built by the Presbyterians a hundred years ago. Today on anniversary day the church was packed to capacity; the congregation sat in a hushed silence; but secretly each person looked forward to the parson’s benediction when they could join in the festivities that awaited them outside.

The sermon, a long and tiresome one on this occasion, finally ended. Many amongst the congregation, particularly those in the back pews, had sighed in relief. As the parson lowered his head in prayer an elderly woman dressed in a cream coloured dress got up and hurried out, followed by a younger lady at her heels. Outside the church the place was buzzing with activity with two rows of stalls offering games, lucky dips and a variety of delicacies. Mrs Milverton flitted from stall to stall exchanging greetings and picking up doughnuts, cakes, and cheese sandwiches which she stuffed into the wicker basket she had brought along.

They were soon trotting off in the buggy.

“Mrs Milverton,” Isabel asked, “don’t you think we should have stayed on till the end of the service?”

“I am afraid not, dear,” Sarah replied. “The service will last for half an hour more. We have more important things to do.” Roger, it turned out hadn’t attended the anniversary service on that day as he had opted for extra duty at the engine shed. He was to return late in the evening and Sarah was keen on making sure that Roger and his boys did not miss out on the goodies.

The buggy wound its way through the dusty bazaar streets of the old town, then took a side road leading to the station before it pulled up beside a dull brown structure.

The women disembarked from the buggy. “This is where my son works,” said Mrs Milverton beaming proudly. Isabel glanced at the place and did not seem impressed. It looked dark and dismal, something like the remnants of an old factory.

The women went in through the gates and lifting up their skirts began to cross a set of tracks glistening in the morning sun. Before them loomed the engine shed, while two locos joined end to end were standing nearby, letting out a discharge of hot water and steam. Isabel seemed to hesitate, but Mrs Milverton prodded her on. “Come on,” she urged taking the young lady by the hand. “It is not going to jump on us! Come this way.”

Roger who had turned up at the spot looked pleased. “Nice to have a pretty young lady here today,” he said with a grin. Mrs Milverton laughed and exchanged a wink with Isabel . The place reeked of grease and engine smoke. Men dressed in overalls hurried by, there was the clanging of metal and the steady hum of machinery, while a little way off an engine stood spilling out water making a great noise, the boys moving around with giant spanners in their hands. Quite a bit like a surgeon dissecting a cadaver, thought Isabel. The whole place carried a thick layer of soot everywhere. Isabel wished she hadn’t worn her best dress today.

Two men were seated at the table in the loco foreman’s office and seeing the women they rose and offered seats. Isabel looked around and found herself in a dull looking room with a heavy wooden table, a few chairs and heaps of files stacked away in a dismal looking half-open cupboard.

“Where are the boys, son?” asked Mrs Milverton looking around as she settled in a chair. “I have got  eats for you all tucked away in my hamper.”

Two young men in overalls peered into the office and seeing that Sarah was accompanied by a young lady, they signalled to the others. Soon a crowd of curious fellows had assembled in the room.

“Now just a minute, I didn’t summon any of you . . .” Roger began but he was cut short by Mrs Milverton’s booming voice. “Come on boys,” she cried, “come one, come all, join in the fun and help yourselves!” Cheers broke out; there was something like pandemonium in the foreman’s office. “Who’s the young lady ma’am?” cried one voice, while another yelled out “What have you got in the basket for us, Mrs Milverton?” Tea was ordered, and Sarah spread out her wares on the table: sandwiches, doughnuts,  cakes, croissants, mutton patties . . .  It was a surprise party for the boys, made even more grand by the arrival of a young lady. It was certainly an unusual occurrence, one that the boys would remember for a long time to come.

Percy the young apprentice seemed shy and reserved but he took everyone by surprise when he offered to show the young lady around.

Milverton sounded reluctant. “You wish to take her around?” he asked doubtfully. He had planned a class for the boys to explain the working of a steam injector.

“Very well,” he said at last, “but see that you are back soon. I am holding a class today, so make it a short trip!”

As Mrs Milverton settled down to have a word with Roger and his men, Isabel Thorpe and her young escort strolled out of the engine shed to explore. The warmth of the winter sun was delicious. Isabel felt relieved to be out in the open after spending nearly an hour shivering in the loco foreman’s office.

They walked past a row of engines stabled idly on tracks, each letting out steam softly as it waited its turn to be taken into the shed for adjustment and repair. Isabel glanced at these hulks, each with the letters G I P painted against the dull livery of the tender. Everything seemed so different here, it was a new world opened out before her. As Percy led the way Isabel found they were headed towards a large mound of coal. Close by a large beastly machine was making a loud throbbing noise.

“That’s the steam crane!” said Percy excitedly.

“Ah, a crane, is it?” said Isabel as she watched the bucket lower to scoop up coal from the heap below. The bucket rose, and stood motionless in the air as the operator turned aside to glance at the spectators. Then it rose higher up, swivelled to one side and turned over, emptying its contents into the bunker of the waiting engine.

“Miss, have you ever been to a engine shed before?” asked the young guide as they moved on.

“No Percy, I’ve never been to one. But it looks quite interesting. How long have you been here?”

“Over three years, Miss.”

“You didn’t go to school?”

“No. Never liked it.”

“That’s just too bad,” said Isabel scratching her chin thoughtfully. “You don’t know what you are missing out on.”

“But I like it here, Miss!” Percy insisted.

Engine smoke wafted across the yard, and Isabel held her handkerchief to her nose. “What does your mamma say—I mean, about your working here?”

“Mamma sailed back Home years ago. Couldn’t bear the heat here.”

Isabel almost felt sorry for the boy. Must be the son of one of those hard drinking fellows who does not mind putting his boy to work instead of sending him to school, she thought.

“Percy did you have cake?” Isabel asked kindly. “Come let’s return. Mrs Milverton’s got a basketful of goodies for us all.”

They had now reached the turntable. An engine was in sight, with two men pushing with all their might. One of the men spotted Percy and yelled out, “Lucky old boy Percy! Taking the missy out for a walk?”

Percy waved back, then turned to Isabel with a boyish smile. “Miss you won’t be cross if I ask you a question, will you?”

“Go on Percy, ask what you like.”

“The boys here said that you will—er—that you are going to become Mrs Milverton soon. Is it true?”

Isabel laughed out aloud. “I really don’t know Percy,” she said tossing her hair behind. “There are a good many things we don’t know about, aren’t there? Come let’s return to the office.”

“Goodnight Mrs Milverton”

Sarah pinned up her hair into a neat little bun while she studied herself in the mirror. For a woman of over sixty she had a good bearing ; her appearance was what men would describe as demure and ladylike; pleasantly plump, a shade sensitive, with a remarkable ability to make the most of what came her way. Today she had tried out a new recipe: bacon and coriander pancakes. While most people would prefer this at breakfast she found it was a welcome snack at any time of the day, particularly in the cold winter months when you loved to have something hot and spicy.

The winter air was cool and crisp. Isabel had taken a day off from the hospital and was here to spend the day with her friend. Mrs Milverton hummed a tune to herself as she drew aside the curtains flooding her living room with soft dappled sunshine. She glanced out of the window; it opened out onto a picturesque view; tall eucalyptus trees framing the hills in the distance, now disappearing into the golden haze beyond. The months had rolled by lazily; life seemed to be calm and placid. She turned momentarily to glance at Isabel; the girl was curled up on the sofa absorbed in a magazine, the perfect picture of contentment. The arrival of the young lady had made such a tremendous difference in her own life; what was once a gloomy, cheerless home now seemed to throb with joy. Many a time she had hoped that what was now a relationship of perfect understanding and love would eventually blossom into something of a more permanent nature, but she remained silent. The neighbours and the gossips at the club had nudged her often enough hinting that the girl would make a fine companion for her son, but until now Sarah had chosen to remain quiet on the subject.

Sarah’s new recipe was a triumphant success, and the women with plates heaped with pancakes moved out into the portico which opened out towards the west. It was flaming with golden yellow sunshine. Isabel sat on a cane chair resting her plate on her lap.

“How do you find them?” Mrs Milverton asked, beaming at Isabel as she took a seat opposite.

“They are delicious. I wish Roger was here with us. Will he be late in coming?”

“Oh never mind Roger; he will have his share tonight. I have enough batter left to turn out a dozen more. Here, have this chutney. These pancakes always go well with chutney.”

Isabel reached out for a small bowl containing what looked like a greenish concoction with a pleasant smell. “Ummm. . .  this tastes really great. Have one more pancake Mrs Milverton?”

Sarah declined. “One is enough for me,” she said. “At your age I would have had six! Besides, I must really be getting on with my knitting. I have three more cardigans to work on!”

Isabel looked up at her friend. For over six months she was a visitor here, and each time she came she had found Sarah with her knitting bag beside her. It was clearly something more than a pastime; the old lady seemed to be a determined worker.

“Mrs Milverton, why do you always have to be with a ball of wool—do you knit for anyone?”

The old lady seemed amused with the question. “I don’t have growing children,” she said thoughtfully. “If I need a cardigan for myself I can go out and buy one. So if I knit, it is obviously for someone else, isn’t it?”

“Who do you knit for?”

“You don’t go to church often, do you? We hold charity shows. The proceeds go to hospitals, schools, orphanages . . .  you see?”

Isabel seemed to grow enthusiastic. “Oh good! I wish I could help in church,” she said.

There was a tinkling of glasses as Himmat Singh, the attendant, appeared with a tray. “Good evening, Memsahib. I bring sweet wine for you. Also for younger memsahib.”

“Very good Himmat,” said Mrs Milverton. “You may bring in some soda too,” Then turning to the Isabel she said cheerily, “ It is sweetened grape wine dear, the kind you get in church. Here, let me pour you out a glass.”

The women sipped the wine in silence. Isabel found the taste strangely intoxicating as the first sip gave rise to the most delightful tingling sensation down her throat. She looked out of the portico where they sat and saw the red ball of fire disappear below the horizon. Sweet wine is much like the setting sun, she thought. It goes down quickly leaving a warm glow behind. Then turning to her companion once again she said, “Mrs Milverton, you didn’t tell me if there’s any way I could help in church.”

Sarah held her glass up to the light and considered. “There’s a lot you can do, my child,” she said dreamily, “but as they say, charity begins at home. Perhaps you could begin by doing something for me—or Roger, maybe.”

Isabel put her glass sharply down. It looked as if the wine was beginning to take effect and she wished she had not stayed on for so long.

“You know, dearie,” went on Sarah, “I have known you for so long that by now you are like one of the family. I was going to say that—oh well—how good it would be if you could step into Roger’s life; he needs someone who will be caring, you know. Besides, I’d love to have you around.”

The young lady straightened up and turned to face her companion. Sarah had her gaze full upon her now as she spoke in her dreamy, complacent tone. Isabel drained off her glass. She was quite unprepared for this last observation; it took some time for its full import to sink in.

She said slowly, “I suppose this means that you wish me to marry Roger? To be honest, Mrs Milverton, I have never thought of marriage so far.”

“Well, isn’t it time you begin to consider the possibility? . . . Of warm, sunny days ahead with a family of your own?”

“Er—Mrs Milverton, I have so many things on hand—I am right in the middle of a project I have set my heart on completing.”

“But marriage is not something to be despised,” Sarah gently persuaded. “No woman is ever quite complete until she marries. A happy marriage is the crown of a woman’s life.”

Isabel found herself fidgeting with the arm of her chair. As she thought over the matter, visions arose in her mind of being in the midst of domestic life presided over by the lean, weather-beaten, mustachioed locomotive foreman she had known for so long  ;  she, dainty and petite, her tiny hands ministering to the needs of the sick ; he, with his constant gabble characteristic of men of his profession. It seemed to be a far-fetched proposition.

It should not be imagined, however, that Milverton actually repelled the girl. He had always observed due courtesy in her presence ; on many an occasion he would join in when she and the old lady were conversing together on a subject which offered him scope to voice his views ; and at times when she stayed on late, he would even escort her back to her home late in the night. There was nothing essentially unpleasant with the man. Barring a touch of awkwardness which she attributed to that vague nervousness a man of his rank exhibits when he finds himself in the company of men of superior station, he seemed to be pleasant and agreeable in disposition. But notwithstanding these qualifications, she found herself unable to think in terms of a matrimonial alliance. He would make a splendid companion to a girl more suited to his temperament, she felt ; she had always wished  him, as she had wished his mother, all the happiness there was in the world.

She now found herself confronted with an issue the outcome of which filled her with unease. Her relationship with Sarah was something she treasured above everything else. The old lady was something more than a friend to her; she was a counselor, a mother, a confidante’, a bosom friend. The most valuable things in life are only to be obtained at the cost of a sacrifice. She felt she had arrived at the crossroads in life: the junction where two roads open out, and you are asked to choose a path, a choice that will affect profoundly the whole course and destiny of life.

Isabel swung aside her skirts a little taking up a more comfortable position. She looked up to find Sarah still toying with her glass of wine. The lady seemed put out. She raised her glass to her lips, took a sip, swallowed, and turned to Isabel again. “Sooner or later, one has to settle down in life. None of us can really avoid it, can we?” she said with a cheerful smile.

Isabel thought for a moment before she spoke. “I can understand how you feel Mrs Milverton. But you must allow me time to arrive at a decision. Roger and I are the best of friends; we share a beautiful relationship. But again, it is only friendship. It has never been anything more than that.”

The old lady’s hand quivered. Marriage, she had held, was a simple affair wherein a man and a woman were joined together in a bond of love and holiness, sharing for evermore the joys, the triumphs, the sorrows and defeats of life together. Didn’t friendship lead on to love, and from thence to marriage? But the new age had brought along with it a new set of values. The new woman was here, and she was fastidious; she looked for a meaning and significance in everything.

Mrs Milverton looked up at the girl entreatingly. “My--son--adores you,” she spoke slowly in a tremulous voice.

It was an importunate plea, not a statement of a fact at all.

For a few moments there was a hushed silence. Finally Isabel spoke up. She moved her chair closer and leaned forward. “Mrs Milverton,” she said, “I shan’t be staying on here much longer. I am returning to England. I was here to do research—and to see what the country was like. My work is nearing its end. I must return.” She placed a hand on Sarah’s knee and went on gently: “I hope you will forgive me, Mrs Milverton. Both you and Roger have been so very good to me. I shan’t ever forget the good times we’ve had together. And I shan’t ever forget you.”

A light breeze sent leaves scurrying across the portico where the two sat. Sarah instinctively shaded her eyes to keep out the dust. She felt bewildered and shaken ; all her plans had come to nought, making her feel like a boy who has been refused the toy he has taken a fancy to.

Mrs Milverton put her glass down and brightened up a little. “Will you be leaving soon?” she asked in a subdued tone.

“Er—yes. If things go well, my thesis will be published by the end of next year. By the end of March I must be getting back. My ticket by steamer has been booked already.”

She rose slowly and bending over the old lady kissed her. “Shall I take leave now? I’ll come again. Shall we have dinner together this Saturday?. . . .  Goodnight Mrs Milverton . . . ” She picked up her purse and made her way down the pathway toward the gate. She fumbled at the gate, turned around momentarily and smiled at the old lady. And then she was gone, pedaling softly down the street.

(Continued below)