The Level Crossing Waited for a Train From 1962

The lane I'd taken, on a whim, to avoid roadworks, ran down to a level crossing I didn't know — old wooden gates, a little brick keeper's hut, the whole thing charmingly antique. The gates were closed across the road, and a bell was ringing, the proper old mechanical kind, so I stopped, and waited, and wound down the window to enjoy the novelty of being held up by a country train.

I heard it before I saw it: not the whine of a modern unit but a heavy, chuffing, iron approach, a sound with weight and smoke in it. And then it came through the crossing, and it was a steam train. A real one, black and green and enormous, dragging a rake of old carriages, and through the carriage windows — close, clear, in good afternoon light — passengers. Men in overcoats and hats, a woman with a child on her lap, a soldier in an old uniform, faces turned to the window with the boredom of a routine commute. Steam and coal-smoke rolled across my windscreen. The ground shook. It was as real as the car I sat in, and it thundered through and away up the line and its noise faded into the ordinary birdsong of an ordinary afternoon.

The gates opened. The bell stopped. I drove across the tracks — and there were no tracks. Just the scar of them, two parallel lines of different grass, ballast long since grown over, the rails lifted, the sleepers gone. A dead line. A line that had not carried a train in a very long time.