The Hawk Is Dead

7

Monday 20 November 2023

As the dot of 9.30 a.m. approached, Stanley Briggs stared ahead through the windscreen, past the upright wiper, at the brightly lit and empty platform. The platform to their left was also empty, for security, as were the next two beyond those. He confirmed back on his radio, first to Victoria Railway Station Signalling, and then to Quentin Haig, the Royal Train Manager, that he was good to proceed.

The electronic light box displayed first CD, for Close Doors, followed by RA, for Right Away. A uniformed member of the platform team, standing by his window, waved a green flag.

Shaking with nerves, with his right foot he pushed the pedal — known as the dead man’s pedal — down to the floor. At the same time, with his trembling left hand, selecting forward he eased the accelerator handle gently, very gently, towards him, and released the brakes. The train started to travel forward. So gently it would not have spilled coffee from a mug in front of him; so gently, he hoped, that Her Majesty would not even be aware they were off, unless she looked out of the window.

It seemed, as it always did, for those first moments, not that they were moving but that the rails in front of them were gliding towards them. The platform was slipping past at a steadily increasing rate. Two green lights glowed brightly ahead. And beyond, brilliant daylight.

As the end of the platform receded and they progressed out of the station’s vast canopy, high-rise and low-rise buildings appeared on the near horizon, along with a tall red crane. They passed under a low, drab concrete bridge, with two green lights for him, which spanned the wide number of tracks feeding into the station’s nineteen platforms. On the far side he saw the speck of an airliner out of Heathrow climbing high into the sky. They clattered over a series of points, still going at a gentle pace, and an oncoming red train — the Gatwick Express, passed them to their right at a slow speed, on the up-line.

The four chimneys of the old Battersea Power Station loomed ahead to his left, more high-rises and then they were crossing the Thames, over Grosvenor Bridge. He steadily increased the speed, keeping a watchful eye on his signals. All the ones so far were green, but he was ever mindful that if he saw a red one in the distance he would need to start slowing immediately — careful not to brake too hard with his royal passenger on board, but only too well aware that with seven carriages and a heavy locomotive behind him, it would take him a good mile to bring the train to a halt.

An alert beeped as he crossed another set of points approaching Clapham Junction, setting off a warning klaxon, and he instantly hit the yellow button with his right hand, to silence it. The klaxon, triggered by magnets in the rails before any station or bend or change of speed limit, was one of the two fail-safe systems for the drivers. The other was the pedal he kept firmly pressed to the floor.

If he lifted his right foot off the pedal for more than eight seconds the train would come to a rapid but steady halt and he would get a radio message from the area signaller asking if he was OK. He’d done it on one occasion and, like many of the mistakes he’d made over the years, if you valued your job, you only did it once. He still winced at the memory of the day, with eight full carriages behind him, he’d forgotten to stop at Gatwick Airport.

They rolled through Clapham Junction. It was after rush-hour now and just a handful of people stood on the two platforms — up-line and down-line — they were passing. A few gazed in astonishment, and he saw phone cameras raised.

Then they were out the far side and shortly there were two sets of tracks merging — as an illusion — into just one, at the vanishing point some distance ahead. He stared through the windscreen at the ever-changing view, a privileged one that passengers never saw and one he had never tired of in all his years of driving trains, and suddenly, he had to pinch himself. I’m driving The Queen! I’m bloody driving The Queen! How good is that?

He wondered what was happening in those carriages behind him. Was The Queen writing a speech? Or relaxing with a cuppa and talking to some of her travelling entourage? Did she look out at the scenery on her train journeys, or just focus on her paperwork, her computer screen, her phone, like most people these days?

He watched the digital readout as the speed steadily built up. They were approaching the 70mph cruising speed. He adjusted the rate of acceleration: 67mph... 68mph... 69mph... 70mph.

Unlike airline pilots or car and other road vehicle drivers, there was no cruise control equivalent for train drivers, and that was deliberate, for one very simple reason. If a driver had a medical incident and lost concentration for even the briefest period of time and missed a signal, or worse, became unconscious or, God forbid, died, nobody wanted a train to continue hurtling at high speed, with no means to stop it until it hit something. It was for this reason that both the dead man’s pedal and the klaxon warning system had been devised.

Stan loved his job on the best of days, and this was truly way beyond the best of days! He was driving the Royal Train, with Queen Camilla on board. This would be something to tell the grandchildren! And to cap it all, the weather was magical.

As he checked the speedometer, holding steady at exactly 70mph, he was mindful that not everyone in Network Rail was happy about the Royal Train. Because of its relatively slow speed of travel compared to the rest of the passenger rolling stock, many of its journeys were made at night to avoid inconveniencing the general public. But, hey, he thought, ardent Royalist that he was, surely anyone delayed by a few minutes today should be happy to know they were being helpful to The Queen, right?

They were approaching the first of the three longest tunnels on the line, Merstham. A railway history buff, Stan knew that back in Victorian days the interiors of railway tunnels were painted with whitewash and illuminated by gas lights, to try to make them less scary for passengers. Eight decades of smut from steam locomotives had long coated the whitewash with a deep patina of soot, turning them grey. Electric lighting had gradually replaced gas, but the lighting in most tunnels today was so feeble as to be almost non-existent.

They burst out of Merstham tunnel into dazzling sunshine. Twenty minutes later, they entered Balcombe tunnel, going beneath the reservoir that all the train drivers joked was the Brighton line car-wash for trains. And, sure enough, water pelted down from the roof and he had to switch the wiper on. The engineers said the tunnel was safe, despite all this leaking water. Yeah, right. One of Stan’s colleagues had joked that the last sound anyone would hear, the day the world ended, would be the voice of an engineer explaining how it could not happen.

Exiting from the tunnel they crossed his favourite part of this whole journey. The gorgeous Ouse Valley Viaduct, with its spectacular views to both sides of the magnificent Sussex countryside. Now, ahead, there was only one more tunnel of significance, the one-and-a-half-mile-long one at Clayton, and they would then be close to their destination.

Stan wondered if there was any possibility of meeting Her Majesty. Just for a few seconds. How amazing would that be? Maybe he could jump down from his cab as soon as they were safely halted at Brighton and wait for her to walk past along the platform. He could try bowing and doffing an imaginary hat, perhaps, to get her attention. It might at least make her smile.

He held that thought as they passed a barren cornfield and he looked at his watch. They were doing fine. They would arrive at Brighton Station well inside those fourteen minutes of leeway. In fact, provided there were no hold-ups, they would be pretty much bang on time. He allowed himself a smile. A rather proud smile. If he gauged it right they might even arrive on the absolute dot!

They passed through Haywards Heath, the northbound and southbound platforms of this major commuter station near-deserted. As they did so an up-line express flashed by to their right, passing just a couple of feet away.

In a moment they would round a curve in a deep cutting, and he would see another of his favourite sights, the magnificent north entrance to Clayton Tunnel, with its striking turrets. It had been designed to resemble a Gothic castle. The intention had been to instil a sense of safety and security for rail travellers, to allay their fears on entering this very long, dark tunnel through the South Downs. And it really did look like a miniature castle, complete with its twin crenellated towers either side of a small dwelling on top. It had originally been created as a signalman’s cottage, but for many years it had been a private residence. Occasionally he would see one of the occupants at a window waving, and he would always smile and wave back.

Then Briggs heard a voice he recognized on his radio, sounding very anxious. A signaller from Three Bridges.

‘Stan. The up-line driver’s reported what he thinks is an obstruction on the southbound line in Clayton Tunnel. Halt your train! Halt your train immediately!’

Shit.

For a split second, Briggs was torn between slamming the brakes full on and hurtling The Queen and all other passengers forward, potentially causing injuries, or slowing more gradually.

The signaller’s words flashed through his brain. What he thinks is an obstruction.

Not definitely an obstruction.

He went for a compromise, braking as hard as he dared as they shot into the entrance, the darkness of the railway tunnel instantly enveloping them, along with the din echoing around them. The speed dropped: 60mph... 50mph...

Although just 1.5 miles long, for some reason this feebly lit tunnel always felt longer to Stan. The exit was, at this moment, just the faintest distant pinprick of light. He glanced at the cold grey walls, up at the curved roof, then the faint glint from the rails, seemingly unspooling in front of them.

40mph.

Then he saw something.

Jesus.

Something on the track.

It wasn’t possible.

Oh no, please no.

He dived for the brake, slamming it full on, but it was already too late. The cab rose up, as if it was on a ramp, then down, but it was no longer on the rails. It was jolting, jarring, jolting, shaking across the sleepers, shaking him out of his seat and throwing him across the cab floor. Sparks were shooting like a lightshow in front of him.

Oh Christ. Oh please, God, no. Not this train, not this train, oh please no.

The walls were hurtling past. The cab rocked from side to side and he was fearful it was about to capsize. The train was slithering, snaking, bumping. Slowing. Stan tried to get to his feet but was thrown sideways. Then, just as he tried again, the train abruptly came to a standstill, hurtling him up and forward, cracking his head fiercely at the top of the windscreen. He fell to the floor, dazed, his head in agony.

All he could hear for a moment was silence. Then a hiss, a crackling sound. The acrid stench of burning electrics.