Tag Archives: carriage

Long Train Running

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Our bus pulls into Vancouver station, along with the rest of the coach convoy. But there’s no platform. We’re facing the tracks, upon which sits a magnificent, gleaming, golden train, its tall carriages stretching both ways as far as the eye can see. In spite of the early hour and my tiredness I feel a frisson of excitement to see it, this iconic train: The Rocky Mountaineer. This is to be our conveyance for two whole days.

On leaving the bus, we must locate our carriage- marked on our boarding cards. Outside each, tall, double-decker carriage there are two stewards waiting to welcome us by the footplate and we must clamber up the iron steps to enter the ground floor. Inside, looking along the carriage, there is a panelled ante room lined with sofas and beyond, a dining compartment where window tables are set for four with pristine white tablecloths and gleaming cutlery. It’s a heartening sight!

There’s a semi-spiral set of stairs up to the seating area, reminding me of the double decker buses of my childhood. We locate our seats, which are large and comfortable. Before the train sets off we’re given information and instructions. There are four stewards in the carriage- two up and two down in the dining car. In addition to this there are kitchen staff in the tiny galley area, producing breakfasts and lunches. Each carriage is self-contained in this way- it’s a massive operation!

We move off, a slow rumble through the outskirts of Vancouver, past sidings and rolling stock, here and there passing elevated railway tracks, warehouses and retail parks, It’s not long before the first diners are summoned- and we must wait- except that while we are waiting, coffee and warm, delicious cherry cake is served to us, which revives me, although I’m hoping it doesn’t spoil the appetite for what is to be a very posh breakfast.

After a while we’re in the countryside, crossing a bridge over a wide river, a ‘skytrain’ winding above us, or following alongside the river. The travel is punctuated by snippets of information from the upstairs stewards, who regail us with stories and facts from time to time. There’s also an upstairs kitchen area from where drinks and snacks are dispensed, served to us in our seats whenever we like, however I’m not inclined to embark on cocktail consumption at this hour of the morning.

The passengers in our carriage consist of many British with a smattering of other non-Canadians; near us are an Australian couple, a German couple and a pair from a village a few miles away from us in the UK.

When we’re called down to the dining area we filter along to fill up tables. Besides the tables for four there are two odd tables for two, either side of the aisle. The German couple slide into one booth and we sit in the other. This becomes the pattern for the remainder of our meals. I’m a little disappointed not to be able to socialise so much, although Husband points out that the chatting couples are so interested in their conversations they’re missing the scenery and the sights- which is correct.

Breakfast consists of a fruit and yoghurt starter and a choice of main course, all immaculately presented and accompanied by tea or coffee and fruit juices. It is all delicious. Outside, the rolling countryside slides past…

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/

Mystery on the Dwarfdale Flyer

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  “How do Verna! By ‘eck, its cold in that waiting room this morning!” An icy blast accompanies Jacob Hutton into the compartment as he settles himself opposite Verna, unbuttoning his jacket to reveal his customary navy blue dungarees. Verna chuckles, brushing imagined flecks of dust from her sackcloth apron with large, work-red hands.

“Morning Jacob! Warmer in here, I don’t doubt.”

She turns to glance at the basket beside her, lifts the blue and white cloth to check its contents and, satisfied, nods back at Jacob.

“I haven’t seen Arthur lately. Do you think he’s alright?” Jacob shakes his head, the habitual pipe in his jaw wobbling like a signalman’s flag.

“Nay, I said to my Mavis, it’s a while since Arthur came up to town, though now I come to think of it, he’s been looking peaky, so he might of come down with summat.”

“He works too hard, that’s what. He’s wearing himself out, all that digging, it must be a worry competing with all them new fangled machines they have nowadays. I saw one arriving only yesterday where that new bridge is getting built, all painted up, some digger or suchlike. Nothing stays the same, does it? Happen one day eggs will be factory made and then me and my hens will be out of a job an’ all!”

Verna, soothed by the rhythmic rumbling of the carriage, leans back to watch the passing scenery, as familiar as parlour wallpaper, the paint-bright emerald of the trees interspersed with a red and white signal box or a water tower. She catches a glimpse of station huts and a whiff of acrid smoke as the train begins to round the bend on the approach to Dentlake Junction.

“Poor old Arthur. I know how he feels. We’re none of us getting any younger, and I feel a bit worn out me self, what with getting up at crack of dawn every day. Them cows don’t milk themselves do they?”

Now she scrutinises Jacob, Verna realises that he does indeed look worn out. There are greyish patches emerging on the tip of his nose and his cheeks, his hair is more white than youthful chestnut, even his clothes have taken on a frayed and faded appearance. Worse still, on taking a closer look down at her own, solid form there are worn, shiny areas on her stockinged legs, an alarming, deep gouge in the brown, woolly sleeve of her coat.

The train grinds to a gentle halt as they pull in to Dwarfdale, where half a dozen passengers are preparing to board. Jacob gets to his feet, pulling his shabby jacket together, and opens the door to see a figure they both know, and yet almost unrecognisable in his renaissance.

“Arthur!” They shout, gladdened by the sight of him, vibrant, bright-eyed and fresh, as moments later they are lifted up and placed gently on a table amongst the paints and brushes behind the toy shop window.