But she was talking again.

  “I always wanted to cover it for him,” she was saying. “I did it years ago and he liked it so much that he didn’t want any other pattern on it.”

  “It was nice,” I said briefly.

  She was in full flow now. “It became very shabby, you know. He would sit in it after work, often in his working clothes and it got awfully dirty. I washed the covers time and time again to try and keep them fresh-looking.”

  “It was always nice when I came,” I added.

  “Yes, but it was so worn, wasn’t it? Faded and threadbare.”

  “And he didn’t want another cover! Was that why you moved it, because it was getting shabby?”

  She shook her head. “No, not really. It was my Bill’s chair, you see. He didn’t want me to touch it—he loved it just as it was, you understand. Well, if I’d had it in this room, I’d be itching to re-cover it. And Bill wouldn’t want that.”

  “So you put it out of temptation’s way?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t part with it, not for the world, so the spare bedroom was the best place. I use it sometimes myself, when I’m dusting upstairs. I use it to have a sit down, you understand, and it gets dusted regularly.”

  “Why didn’t he want it re-covering?” I asked, feeling that we could talk freely.

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “I think I can,” she answered slowly. “I covered that chair specially for him. He found the material in a shop years and years ago, and it was just what he wanted. He grew attached to it—he wasn’t a fellow for changing things without good reason.”

  “I know,” I sympathised, “men get like that. But you could cover it now, couldn’t you?”

  “Do you really think so?” Her eyes sparkled with new interest and I knew she’d been wanting someone to say that.

  “With this new material,” I continued. “It’s exactly the same as Bill’s chair—he would love that, wouldn’t he?”

  “It’s just what he always wanted,” she whispered. “We looked in all the shops for this colour but never found it. Not in all our years. All the shops said it was too old-fashioned and out of stock.”

  “That was a few years ago,” I reminded her. “And now that same pattern is right in fashion again. That often happens—I know Bill would agree now, wouldn’t he?”

  “Thank you,” for her only reply, and I rose to leave, then she said, “Would you like to see the finished covers?”

  Puzzled, I followed her into the workroom and there I saw a fourth cover, shaped differently from the rest, and admired the style and loving workmanship it contained. When I called the next time, Old Bill’s chair was back in its place before the fire, looking regal and splendid in its new cover.

  It was a perfect complement to this room.

  “I’ll make the tea now,” she said. “You sit there.”

  And she pointed to Old Bill’s chair.

  One of my favourite characters was Simon Rawlings, a gentleman of 87 who lived with his daughter in a tiny cottage at Elsinby. Tall and erect, he had a guardsman’s figure and even though his broad back was stooped with his great age he always tried to walk upright. It was a display of his deep personal pride.

  Awd Simon, as the village knew him, was a retired railwayman. He had retired 22 years ago, long before the railways were nationalised, and lived quietly, his wife having been dead nine or ten years. Awd Simon passed his time by gardening and enjoying a pipe of tobacco, plus the occasional pint in the Hopbind Inn. For his age, he was impressive to behold. A good six feet tall, he must have weighed seventeen stone and was built like an ox. The village was full of stories of his young strength, but he was a gentle giant with a lovely touch of humour and a kind word for everyone and everything, man and animal alike.

  I got to know him because he spent some sunny afternoons on the seat near the War Memorial and I made myself known to him very early in my period at Aidensfield. I quickly discovered he still lived for the railways, but not the modern diesel engines with their rows of anonymous coaches and hooting horns. Awd Simon worshipped the lovely polished green of the LNER and the maroon livery of the LMS, the romantic days of steam and high-quality service.

  As I got acquainted with him, I found it easy to get him reminiscing about his time with the London and North Eastern Railway Company, where he’d worked his way up from track maintenance to fireman, and he’d even been a guard. He told me of the beautiful engines with their own names and distinctive personalities; coaches with splendid first-class compartments and brass fittings. There were pictures of landscapes to interest the passengers and it was essential that the timetables be maintained at all costs. Fear of competition from the maroon giants of the London Midland and Scottish Railway was always present and the company served its customers as a faithful servant would obey his master. Everything had to be right. Second-best would not be tolerated.

  He told me about the coal fires in the waiting-rooms, the huge watering-tanks for engines to take on supplies, and the gorgeous floral gardens of the rural stations as they competed for the annual Best-Kept Station prize. Awd Simon would talk for hours about his days with steam-trains and he clearly exuded pride at his part in the history of the railways of this region. He had once seen the Flying Scotsman in Elsinby Station and had actually been on the footplate, the purpose of its visit being a publicity venture in the region. The Mallard too with its distinctive shape had come this way, and he’d seen the King aboard the Royal Train parked overnight in one of the sidings near Elsinby Station.

  I often wish I’d written down everything he told me; he was a fund of historic knowledge while his anecdotes and love of the LNER were nothing short of phenomenal.

  He had no time for the nationalised British Railways; the stations had become seedy and grimy and no one bothered to light the fires any more. The trains were grubby too, and it was soon after nationalisation that they turned to diesel engines which weren’t any better than buses and couldn’t cope with the deep snows of the moorland lines. The contrast for Best-Kept Station had ended and all the stations became areas of weeds and overgrown rubbish. Paintwork was allowed to deteriorate and then they began to close the stations. One by one, the rural lines ended….

  During my conversations with Awd Simon, the process of rural closure was underway. Many branch lines in the north had closed and stations lay derelict in many areas. The newspapers were full of the story, with cries about rural communities being deprived of their lifelines. Some of the villages were so hilly and isolated that no bus company would risk its vehicles on the steep hills or narrow twisting roads. The public joined the general outcry, but the wheels of a determined government were not to be halted. More lines would close; more jobs would be lost and more rural districts would suffer.

  No one ever thought this could happen to Elsinby. The busy little station must have paid its way because the locals used the rail service to commute to York or to go shopping to Leeds. They went off to Scarborough or Whitby for the day while the truly adventurous travelled to London and other distant cities. Even though the trains were now drawn by diesel locomotives and bore the British Rail insignia, they were used frequently by the public of Elsinby and district. With its coal business too, the station surely paid its way.

  The tiny station, with its signal-box, level-crossing and two platforms was beautiful to behold, for the station-master, a Mr Benjamin Page, made sure it was maintained in an immaculate condition. He boasted white-washed platform front edges, clean oil-lamps, painted seats and offices, a glowing fire in the waiting-room and flowers to adorn the brickwork. For Awd Simon, this was a haven of comfort and he spent many happy hours helping about the station. Mr Page welcomed his presence—he left the responsibility for the appearance of the station in the hands of Awd Simon who weeded between the lines, watered the potted plants, cleaned windows and kept the place at its traditional peak of cleanliness and beauty. Mr Page made good use of Awd Simon.

  And then the axe fell. Elsinby Station and the entire branch line through here via Maddleskirk to Thirsk was to be closed. Every possible avenue of reprieve had been examined, and every attempt made to keep the line, but the decision had been made by Parliament. Elsinby Station would close.

  Awd Simon blamed the inefficiency of the nationalised system, saying no one had had any heart in the job right from the start. No one cared. For a long time, he looked pale and drawn and, during my regular chats with him on the seat, he was a picture of misery. He could not visualise life without his beloved railway line and the one bright spot was Mr Page’s thoughtfulness towards the old man.

  He gave him souvenirs, objects which would disappear once the line closed for ever. I know that Simon treasured his square-based oil-lamp from one of the platform lights, the seat with “Elsinby” written across the back and several small items from the booking-office, like a ticket, a pass, a book of rules and so forth.

  With his little collection of railway souvenirs, Awd Simon looked rejuvenated. His colour returned, his zest for life reappeared and his general outlook seemed infinitely more hopeful. Even though the line was not reprieved he appeared to have accepted the inevitable. He spent less time around the station although he continued to regale me with the tales of his beloved green engines and the LNER. I was no longer bothered about his health. Awd Simon had accepted that life must go on, and that changes must occur.

  I thought no more about his love for the vanishing railway until firm news came of the closure date. It was to be one Friday morning in September.

  On that day, the last train would run along our branch line. It would call at all the stations en route as it travelled from York via Scarborough, and then through Ryedale via Eltering, Brantsford, Ashfordly, Crampton, Ploatby Junction, Elsinby, Maddleskirk, and eventually into Thirsk where it would join the main London-Edinburgh line for its return journey to York. Passengers would be carried and souvenir tickets would be issued. There would be a restaurant car on the train, with other entertainment, and the sad occasion would be made memorable.

  Not wishing to miss any chance of a celebratory occasion, the regulars of the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby formed a committee to arrange suitable festivities in the village. The railway station was to be the focal point and Mr Page agreed. I was duly informed and assured the committee I would attend in my official capacity to control crowds and direct traffic.

  What would normally have been a sad occasion for Elsinby became a festive one and I admired the stalwarts of this place for their ability to turn any affair, however sad, into something exciting and enjoyable. For the next few weeks, the place was alive with industry and ideas. I was pleased to see that Awd Simon had been drawn into the arrangements and he was given the special task of informing the new generation about the merits of LNER, LMS, GWR and all the other great rail names of bygone times. He identified engines on postcards and in books, he told historians how they operated and how much coal and water they used … notes were made, publicity brochures were printed and, in all, Elsinby was going to lose its station and trains in a blaze of local glory.

  When the day came, I motor-cycled into Elsinby and parked my Francis Barnett behind the pub, where I left my crash-helmet and motor-cycle gear. I donned my regulation-issue flat cap and walked towards the station. Although the last train was not due to pass through until 12.35 p.m., the place was alive with colour and gaiety at 11 o’clock. It seemed that half the village population was already present, few of whom were to travel on the last train. True Elsiners preferred to attend their own celebrations rather than joyride with strangers.

  I remember that I was suddenly very busy. Somehow I was inveigled into the last-minute organising and it seemed that everyone had a job of some kind. Then quite suddenly it was 12 noon. There were thirty-five minutes to go, if the train was on time.

  Everyone was now on the platform; cars were neatly parked, the pub had shut for the occasion, although George did manage to arrange a makeshift bar in the waiting-room, and everyone queued on the twin platforms. I looked around the gathering, smiling at the young faces, the middle-aged ones and the elderly, all with memories and personal impressions. For the children, it was the start of a new era; for the old, the end of a bygone style of life.

  Then I realised I hadn’t seen Awd Simon. I thought about it—I’d been here since 11 o’clock and had not once set eyes on the old fellow. I wondered how he was feeling—maybe he’d gone to another station to secure the final ride into Elsinby? Or maybe he was at home, sad and moist-eyed at the thought of this final chapter of his life? Perhaps the emotion was too great, too overpowering, for him to face among crowds?

  I was not unduly worried, but when I saw his daughter, Jane, on the up-platform I asked.

  “Your dad’s not here then?”

  “He’s somewhere about, Mr Rhea,” she smiled. “He said he was working, helping out, and got dressed up in his old clothes.”

  “Old clothes?” I asked.

  “Yes, his railway clothes. You know, his flat cap with a peak, his railway coat and boots. He wore them years ago and never got rid of them. And he took his bait bag with his sandwiches and flask. He got done up in those and said it was something special.”

  I smiled. Someone had clearly asked a special favour of Awd Simon and, knowing how the committee of the Hopbind functioned, I guessed it would be some set piece for him to perform, some final act and some positive way of making Simon feel needed and useful. I knew, and I’m sure they knew, he’d never see another railway train after today.

  Prompt at 12.35 p.m., the diesel with its garlands and gleaming bodywork rumbled into Elsinby Station. It hooted and hooted; the people cheered and several disembarked. Others climbed aboard, there were photographs and singing, paper chains were thrown and flowers tossed at the engine. Photographs were taken as the driver kissed several pretty girls on the platform and the guard did likewise, even including some grannies. It was a glorious ten minutes, and then with a long hoot on the horn the last train from Elsinby drew out of the little station.

  Now there were tears. Many spectators, men and women, wept as the full stop was written at the end of this important chapter. Suddenly, and with remarkable simplicity, it was all over. No more trains would pass this way. For over a century, they had used this bonny little station and it had ended so suddenly. It all seemed so unreal. Later the rails would be lifted, the station closed and all its contents disposed of. No longer would the signal cabin be required and the level-crossing gates could be left permanently open for road traffic. No more children would have to be warned of trains and those who wished to shop in York or Leeds would have to find alternative transport.

  We all walked away feeling sad, but luckily the bar was open on the station and almost everyone drifted inside for sandwiches. The liquor and food would dispel the feeling of melancholy. I looked around but failed to locate Awd Simon.

  “Have you seen Awd Simon?” I asked several people and all shook their heads.

  Between one o’clock and three, the celebrations continued and I left the noisy bunch to have a walk around the village. Away from the station, it was strangely silent, almost like a village after a funeral. I sought Awd Simon, but failed to find him. I tried all his pals and all his haunts with no success. I couldn’t understand it at all.

  I returned to the festivities and found his daughter, but she hadn’t seen him. She told me he’d been very secretive about his proposed trip, and not in the least morbid or sad. He seemed elated, she told me, and she guessed he was doing something confidential and very personal.

  I must admit I felt worried. No one else appeared to be in the least concerned about his whereabouts, but I felt it odd that the old man had not taken part in the celebrations. He had certainly dressed up for something connected with today’s events.

  I went home about four o’clock and had tea with Mary and the children. They had attended the festivities, albeit not at Elsinby. They’d been with friends from Aidensfield and had gone down to Ploatby Junction to see the manoeuvres of the engine as it transferred itself from one end of the train to the other for the rest of the trip. The children had secured a grandstand view from a field near the line and I was pleased they’d been present on this historic date, even though they’d probably never remember it in adult life.

  I told Mary about Awd Simon but she could shed no light on his behaviour and had not seen him at Ploatby. After tea, I changed into my civilian clothes, for I was off duty at five, and we watched the television news of the train’s final trip. People had turned out right along the route through Ryedale and made it a colourful and emotional occasion.

  At half-past seven, the telephone rang and Mary answered it.

  “It’s for you,” she said. “I said you were off duty and she should ring Ashfordly, but she insisted she talks to you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Mrs Jobling.”

  “Awd Simon’s daughter?”

  Mary nodded and I went to take the call.

  “It’s Jane, Mr Rhea,” she gasped into the telephone. “It’s my dad, he’s still not come home. I’m worried now. We’ve been all over the village and Mr Rawlings says he didn’t buy a ticket to go to York or anywhere….”

  “I’ll come right away,” I promised.

  I spent an hour seeking him in the village, asking members of the committee and everyone else, but no one had seen him. He’d left home this morning in his old railway clothes and had not been seen since. He’d vanished completely.

  My professional problem was whether to mount a full-scale police search for the old man, or wait in the hope he’d return home. We had no real reason to think he was lying hurt anywhere, but my instinct told me something was wrong. I began to fear the worst.

  I went into the pub and hailed George.

  “George.” I talked quietly over the counter in the passage. “It’s Awd Simon.”

  “Aye,” he said, “they tell me he’s missing.”