At first I didn't understand why my Dad wanted to take me for a walk on that bright Sunday, but I think it had something to do with the newspaper.
He stood up from the dining room table after we'd finished a tasty lunch of roast beef and yorkshire pudding, scraping his chair back across the floorboards, and announced to Mum and Granny, 'I'm going to take him today. It may be the last time.'
I looked between the women at their reactions. Mum's face was defiant. She drew in a deep breath, as though she was trying to be brave. Granny began to weep, raising her napkin to wipe her eyes.
'Fancy walking off that big lunch, son?
I stood up. 'Where are we going?'
'I'll tell you on the way.' He walked round the table and out into the hall. I got up and followed him to the front door, where he was hunting around the console table for something. He slid open the drawer in the table and pulled out a small portable radio which was flecked with paint. He switched it on to check it was working. It was. He switched it back off, and slipped it into the back pocket of his corduroys. 'Put your shoes on, lad.'
I turned and ran into the living room, filled with anticipation, for this was going to be an adventure. On the way I could hear Mum and Granny speaking in low tones in the dining room and I wondered if our excursion was the subject of their private conversation.
My shoes were on the floor by the settee. I had taken them off earlier to curl up and watch television. I sat down and pulled them on, and as I tied my shoelaces my eyes crossed the room to the small table next to Dad's chair. His glasses were resting on the Sunday paper, and I now saw the article he had been tapping with his pen before getting up to lay the table before lunch.
The headline read: ANALOGUE SWITCH OFF DATE SET
With my shoes on I approached the newspaper to catch some more of the story, but before my eyes could focus on the smaller text in the body of the article, Dad appeared in the doorway and said, 'Ready?'
'Yes,' I said as I followed him out to the front door, which was now open.
Dad called to the women. 'Back later!'
'Okay,' replied my Mum. And moments later we were walking down the garden path.
We started towards town but before we reached the old railway bridge, under which you would walk to go to the high street, we changed direction and turned along a public footpath that led uphill beside the bridge.
After a short walk past some overgrown blackberry bushes (I picked one as we passed and popped it into my mouth), we turned onto a cycle path that was once an old railway line. We walked in the opposite direction of town along the deserted concrete path, which was flanked on either side by houses that soon gave way to woodland. It was only then that Dad started to speak.
'Have you ever heard of the Beeching Report?'
I shook my head, 'No.'
Dad uttered a small laugh, 'Well I doubt it's something they teach in school.' He dug his hands into his pockets. 'Dr Beeching was appointed by the government in the 1960s to see if he could make Britain's railways more cost effective. You see, till then, although the trains had been providing an excellent service, the railways weren't making any money. In fact, the whole system was losing money hand over fist. Dr Beeching wrote a report, which resulted in the closure of about three thousand stations across the country, and hundreds of miles of railway lines were left neglected or torn up. We're walking on one of the closed lines now.'
I looked back along the cycle path towards town. The straight line of the path cut through the trees and houses and still I could see no one out on this bright sunny day. I was surprised. It was the middle of the summer holidays. I tried to imagine a steam train chugging along this path, tooting it's whistle to children waving hankies as it thundered on it's journey.
'Why did he close this line?' I asked
Dad shrugged. 'That's a question a lot of people were asking. These lines provided a service to the country. Many protesters thought that it was foolish to undo all the work of the rail builders. They thought that one day these railways would pay for themselves. It just required a little faith. One such protester was your Grandad.'
We walked a little further in silence and soon we were upon Setcham Viaduct.
Dad spoke again, but his voice had gained a romantic edge, as though he was quoting something he'd heard or read. 'I can remember how this wrought iron structure we're standing on would strain under the weight of the locomotives that once bore down on it's bracing frame at such a frequency and lick.'
In the bright cloudless sky the warm afternoon sun beat down on us and I had to shield my eyes to see into the hazy distance. I looked out across the tree-filled gorge at Setcham Reservoir about two miles away to the south.
'Now it's just a cycle path and a method for ramblers to cross the valley,' he said. 'A waste if you ask me.'
The steel viaduct stood silent and strong against the wind and must have stretched for three-hundred metres at the place where it spanned the gorge. When we were halfway across it, Dad stopped and together we walked to the edge and looked over.
A vertiginous view of the tops of trees a hundred metres below greeted us and I stepped back a little. I didn't like heights all that much. They made my legs wobble.
'What do you know about how your Grandad, my Dad, died?'
I looked up at him as his eyes stared into the distance, 'Nothing. Only that he was a pilot in the war and he crashed his plane in the sea and swam to shore.'
'That's right. he did crash his plane, but like you say, he survived. You're thirteen years old now. Old enough to know the truth about what happened to him after the war. The truth about how he died. You see,' Dad patted the huge steel beam that flanked the walkway. 'He jumped from this very spot. He took his own life.'
My hand flew to my mouth.
Dad continued. 'I'll never forget the bright morning when his body was found at the base of the gorge after a plummetting from the top. I was eight years old.'
He let that thought sink in before continuing. 'Everyone in the town knew Dad. He was a hero, and a proud owner of the Distinguished Flying Cross. Do you know what that is?'
I nodded.
'And did you know what he did to get that?'
'He was a pilot.'
'Not every pilot gets the cross. When your Grandad's plane suffered a direct hit during battle, it came down just short of Folkestone within swimming distance of the shore. Dad rescued his rear gunner who was stuck and couldn't get out. He pulled the man to shore and saved his life. Dad lost an eye during the crash, which, he claimed, sometimes showed him phantom images of the night his plane came down into the cold English Channel. The gunner died about a year later after falling from the roof of his house.'
I was silent, unable to say anything. All I could think about was the picture Dad had painted for me, of a terrifying plane crash and a struggle for survival against all odds.
Dad shook his head slowly, looking towards the horizon, and seemingly speaking to himself. 'Funny that after surving something like that you'd meet your maker in such a mundane, silly way.'
I was unable to tell whether he was referring to Grandad, or the man he saved.
We started to walk again, continuing along the viaduct towards the other side. Any thoughts I'd had that this was what Dad had brought me out here to tell me had now been banished. The expedition was taking us further away from home, and it was about more than just showing me the place where Grandad died. I kept looking at the spot where he had jumped. It made me feel sorry for Gran, and sad that something bad must have happened to make someone do such a thing.
'After the war your Grandad took up a job working at Setcham End station.' He pointed up ahead, beyond the viaduct. About three-hundred metres ahead the trees rose to greater heights, and at the side of the path was an old signal box, tired and overgrown through neglect. Next to it were the remains of a set of steps which seemed to lead up to a footbridge which no longer existed.
'He worked as a platform announcer at Setcham End. His friendly voice had echoed through the station with announcements of trains arriving and departing. He did that for sixteen years after the end of the War. The old worn brown leather seat he sat on every day except the last Sunday of the month had acted as his home from home. I remember sitting on his knee many a time, eating iced gems as he made the announcements, and once or twice, if I'd been good, he would let me make the announcements too.'
'Did he look strange with only one eye?' I asked. By now we had come off the viaduct and the signal box was much closer. Beyond it I could see the remnants of Setcham End station. The path ran directly through it and although the platforms and ticket office were intact, they were in a sorry, abandoned state. The concrete platforms were covered in weeds that had burst through the cracks in the uneven paving slabs. These platforms that had once held so many old passengers as they waited for the next train, which Grandad would tell them was due to arrive at a quarter-to-five.
Before he answered, Dad moved over to one of the platforms, the one on the opposite side from the dilapidated ticket building. He took the radio out of his back pocket and placed it on the platform, then hoisted himself up to sit on the edge, dangling his feet, and he patted the spot next to him, encouraging me to sit too.
'He was a hero,' Dad said, 'but the local kids didn't see him that way. Or at least not quite. Yes, the kids loved that he was a pilot in the war. And if they were to stop and listen to his stories they would undoubtedly be in awe. But it never got that far. With his withered eye he cut a scary look. He was pretty much left alone. See that window there?'
I looked where Dad was pointing. In the ticket building was a side room with a small window that was scratched with dust and dirt.
'He loved working here. Once a month, on the last Sunday, he would travel south to Chester to visit the grave of his fallen gunner. He would go down there with Mum and take flowers. And then when they closed this station. Dad's job, along with many others, went with it. The reduction in travel though this area impacted the job market severely and Dad was such a proud man. He couldn't find other work. He protested with all the others, but nothing ever came of it.'
A gust of wind channelled through the station. It came from nowhere and was chillier than the air. Even in the warm sun, I started to rub my arms.
'Although we will never know for sure, and God knows Mum has a million questions she would love to be able to ask him, in the end the hardship was too much for him. One night he said he was heading out to the boozer with some of the men. Mum said he didn't seem any different that night. And the next morning he was found at the bottom of Setcham Gorge. And that was that.'
Dad picked up the small radio. He switched it on, turned up the volume and handed it to me.
'You have to be around here for this. You have to be near Setcham End, but if you turn the dial on the radio to the far right, so that the needle is almost buried at the end, then you can hear his announcments still. Put it up to your ear. You have to listen carefully. But he's there, in between the static, announcing trains still, just like he did all those years ago.'
I slowly turned the dial to the far right and raised it to my ear.
'Did Dr Beeching kill your grandfather?' My Dad said. 'In the eyes of the law, no. But there were other judges too. His family. And now I think he is going to die again.'
As I listened to the voice of my Grandad on that small portable radio, I thought of the newspaper article Dad had been tapping with the pen earlier that day.
THE END
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