The sign above the carpark entrance declares ‘Throgmorton’s Real Life Railways’, underlined by a set of railway tracks. A locomotive steams its way off sign to the right, the driver’s arm waving a cheery how d’ye do.
Pharque, here we go.
I pull up the car as son Joey and his four mates bustle to get out. Holidays can be real shitty, you know, draggin’ the kids around to crappy regional tourist attractions like this. Like that godawful Crystal Palace I had to take Sally and her friends to for her birthday last weekend. Jesus, women in fairy costumes – grown women for Chrissakes – sprinkling fairy dust on the kids and forcing thirty dollars entry per kid out of me for the privilege. ‘Crystals are the energy of life’ said the sign in the exorbitant gift shop. I mean, do they actually believe in that shit? Crystal power? I’d work a bit o’ my own magic on ‘em given half a chance.
And now toy trains, no doubt run by some fat incel loser from down the far end of the spectrum with no more grip on reality than his schizoid halfwit sister who runs the canteen at the end of the building. Why don’t kids just go surfing anymore, days at the beach, the sun on your back, the break cranking. Spend the whole summer refining your cutbacks, mastering turns off the lip and tail slides, three sixties too. And when you’re not surfing you’re either snorting loads a pies n brewskies, or snoggin’ the girls who flaunt their brazen bodies on the sand. Jesus, those high-thighed leave-nothing-to-the-imagination two pieces, make a man fair weep with want.
Nup, model trains it is. As they say, one man’s hobby is another man’s hell. When’s puberty gonna kick in on the little monsters.
‘Joey, calm down, we gotta get in first.’ The swing door was lucky to survive the blast of boys creaming into the tin building. Christ it’s big though. An ugly sonofabitch, all corrugated iron and no windows, but huge – about, what, a thousand square metres? More? Place this big’ll probably charge and arm an’ a leg for entry.
Inside was as drab as the outside. A grey counter, pictures of trains, Fat Albert in front of the Southern Aurora, the Orient Express, in the cabin of the Flying Scotsman, Jesus, is that still a thing? An’ sure enough, the half-sister with what, a guard’s cap on her chubby head, hair all over the place, bosom slumped beneath a sloppy joe like a stalled landslide. All smiles and odd teeth, like Griselda from the black forest after too many schnapps.
‘These all yours?’ says the ridiculous grin. Yeah right, as if my effwit ex would’ve pumped out more than one of these little turds. Even she had her limits. One of which was me, which is another story.
‘Just that one,’ I say, pointing at my boy. ‘The rest are mates.’
‘You local?’ She smiles again as if interested. Or maybe she is, locals out here got no social life, an’ need to make contact. Find out about each other.
‘On holidays,’ I say. ‘How much is it for the five kids?’
‘We can do a family for thirty dollars which covers you and three of the boys, and the other two are ten dollars each.’
A full fiddy, Jesus, an’ she didn’t even bat an eyelid.
‘You charge for the grown-ups too?” I say.
‘Oh yes,’ says she, grin lit up like train light. ‘We get more adults here than kids. You’d be surprised.’
I wouldn’t actually. Train-heads are like that, nerds no one thought to piss on, yet they still grew bigger. I’d be surprised if any of ‘em donned a suit n tie and fronted up for a day’s real work somewhere. I tap my card, an’ she tags us with a wristband that has the loco logo on it and says, ‘Here’s a phamplet with all the history and special events.’
Phamplet. She’s the real deal. I wonder if she wears Mongolia perfume to seduce the train boys.
I buy each of the lads a bottle of coke to hoik around with them, bark orders not to spill it on the display and in we go, through a pair of scratched wooden doors.
An’ shit, is it huge. It’s a friggin’ warehouse sized place with mountains of, well mountains. Built off one gigantic wall is an expansive train set, with buildings an’ cars and railways an’ shit all over set in a backdrop of snow capped mountains. Noisy too, with trains rattlin’ and sirens and steam sounds and car noises and all sorts of sounds. Who’d a thought a model train set could be (a) this friggin’ large and (b) this friggin’ loud?
I lose the boys immediately. Whoof, they’re gone. I climb some stairs to a raised platform to get a handle on the whole thing. It’s massive. There’s a river on one side, in a ravine, with what looks like running water, and arched bridges cross it and trains running across the bridges. There are towns, not just one, but plural, townsss, in different parts of the layout. Small houses and shops and three storey office buildings, warehouses. And a massive shunting yard with, must be at least ten engines and maybe a hundred bits of rolling stock in the sidings.
I’m dizzy even watching it. A train appears up there, on a mountain pass, and another below it, two more over there, passing in opposite directions. Trains at stations, trains leaving stations, passenger trains on viaducts, snake-long goods trains darting in and out of tunnels like taipans chasing turkeys. All tootin’, an’ whistlin’ an’ chuggin’ and grindin’ their little gears with the plastic clackety clack of coaches or wagons tailing behind them.
An’ trees n weeds n grass n gravel and rocks n cliffs. Sandstone walls n steel girders, granite arches, red brick churches, housing estates, caravan parks, fire stations and ruined castles. There’s even an oil rig for Chrissake, in the middle of a mountain range. Get real. Who drills for oil in a mountain range?
There’s a bloke standing near me. Tubby, ruddy faced with a half beard. He’s bought the merch too, a black hoodie with the Loco Logo on it. And to top it off, he’s sporting a bloody conductor’s cap on his scruffy scalp. Who was that bloke in Thomas the Tank Engine I used to read to the boys? The Fat Comptroller. That’s him. (And what sort of word is Comptroller anyway? It’s a fuckin’ phamplet is what it is).
He points to the speaker above us where a steam loco sound is pounding out a godawful growl.
‘The 3801 climbing the Cowan Bank,’ he says, as if any of that might make sense to a normal person.
I say, ‘How much of this guy’s life was spent in this goddam building, out of the sunlight, piecing all this together?’
He regards me with his dark eyes, much like a crow does, as if it knows shit but you have no idea just how much shit it can know. Or what sort.
Then he points to the history section of the ‘phamplet’ Griselda gave me. Not such a talkative type then. I read it aloud. “Throgmorton’s Real Life Railways was the brainchild of Bernard H.O. Throgmorton, who, in 1967, brought his boyhood love of model railwaying to – I wave my arm about – to this back-of-the-bloody-boondocks hovel and devoted his life to creating his true-to-life scale wonderworld of wet dreams.’ I look up and say, ‘Christ, did the guy ever see real daylight? Do something real, like go hiking, or surf at a real beach?’
The Fat Comptroller smiles what I take to be a smile of shame. It should be anyway. Underneath his peaky cap an’ all. I continue.
‘St Bernard of Railway reached his terminal ten years ago, and since then the place’s been run by his kids and grandkids.’ I look up at the Fat Comptroller again. ’Fuck, it’s in the genes!’
‘It’s very detailed, don’t you agree?’ he says, as if he’s missed everything I’ve just said. Thus proving he has no grip on reality. He points to a town scene. ‘Look.’
A goods train has just passed a level crossing and a row of cars is proceeding to cross the line. I see then, the cars are also moving. They are traveling along the roads, staying in their lanes and, I see it, stopping at traffic lights, parking in the station carpark, driving over bridges, everything, There’s a whole container terminal being unloaded, with double bogies backing up, gantries swinging, machines buzzing around.
‘Realistic, no? says The Old FC.
I gotta admit, it does look good. They’ve gone to some trouble to entertain the kiddies – both young and old. Doubt I’ll need to supervise the boys too hard.
‘Who’s drivin’ the cars?’ I quip.
And then I see more. A train pulls into a station crowded with little people, as you’d expect. But when it pulls out, they’ve gone, and only a few stragglers are walking the platform with suitcases in tow, or with back packs or arm in arm with a – a what, a fellow model? A model lover? They climb the stairs into the concourse, and I watch them walk out of the station. Some get into cars, some stop at a bus stop. And in both cases, they get in – into the car or the bus as it arrives.
They’re all over the place. Pedestrians, drivers, workers, school kids, drunks, police, you name it. They’re everywhere. Moving. Actually bloody moving. Like real people do, in real life. Walking, running, bending, driving, riding bikes even. The wheels are going round. There’s a couple on a bush walk in the mountains gesticulating like they’re having an argument: he’s waving a bloody map! The place is a friggin ants’ nest. Everything moves. Trains, cars, buses, trucks, and now people. Even the animals: cows in pens, dogs in the street. And the smoke coming out of the factories is real. I can smell it. What is this sorcery?
I turn to the Fat Comptroller, and say, ‘How does that work?’
Garrulous as ever he points to the Daily Events section of my phamplet. I read the list, noting as I do that a small crowd has joined us on the platform.
9am: warehouse fire – see the Fire Department in action!
11am: police action – watch as the men in blue stop a crime!
2pm: bullet train – watch the Throgmorton Shinkansen take off!
5pm: closing peak hour – see the crowds as they head home for the evening.
Someone says ‘There!’ and the crowd around me shuffles to one side of the platform we are standing on. A man, one of the model men, is walking in an alley behind a three storey storehouse. Another model man has come out and is – there is no other way to say it – beating the living crap out of the first. He’s punching him in the gut, the fellow falls and the attacker goes at him boots an’ all. I think I hear a scream, I don’t know, but I do hear sirens. Blue lights flash down the street, and three police cars tear past commuter traffic that swerves to one side to let them pass. The little attacker flees. Little police chase him, in cars and on foot. He leaps over fences, through lines of washing, across busy roads, dodges a passing train, which holds up the police, but they are on that side of the railway line too and the chase continues.
It ends on a viaduct, high above a ravine, the fugitive caught with police on either side. A train is approaching, whistle blaring. A little cop is waving frantically for it to stop. The man looks both ways, sees the train and is about to jump, but a copper pulls out a taser and shoots. I kid you not, a real toy size taser, with tiny cords that stick in the man’s chest and rattle him to the ballast. The police pin themselves against the stone wall as the train screams on to the bridge, but it pulls up just in time, the man’s head just in front of the engine wheel. The police cuff him and lead him to a toy patrol car.
I look to where the fray had started. An ambulance was pulling away, and the victim was gone.
The mob on our platform breathes a sigh of relief, and some say, ‘Wow, did you see that?’, ‘Amazing!’, ‘What a show!’ A boy says, ‘I wish we’d seen his brain get squished.’
Some of them thank the Fat Comptroller on their way out. ‘It gets better each time I see it,’ says one. ‘I can never pick which way he’ll run.’ Old Fatty nods and says, ‘Good to hear. Come anytime, and don’t forget the bullet train at two after lunch in the canteen.’
When they have gone, I cast a stunned look at the Fat Comptroller.
‘We patch up the players overnight and they repeat it the next day. In case you were wondering,’ he says.
‘Yes, but how?’ I say. ‘That’s some damn good tech you’ve got there, good programming and effects.’
‘Let’s just say we regard ourselves less as big children and more as little gods.’ I see his crow eye glint. ‘We’re still trying to create an event for the twelve thirty slot,’ he says, ‘between the police action and the bullet train. We used to have a car accident, but our chief panel beater ran into some issues, and we had to, well, reduce his workload. I’m Bernard H.O. Throgmorton the Third by the way.’ And he sticks out his podgy hand for me to shake.
‘Dan Windward,’ I say. His hand is even clammier than expected.
‘You’re a surfer, Dan,’ he says. Surfer Dan: he wants to play games.
‘Beats playin’ trains,’ I reply and am about to ask how he knows, when he says, ‘You complained that Grandpa never surfed, so I hazarded a guess.’
Grandpa. I wonder where Dad is, ol’ B-HOT the Second.
‘You might be able to help us,’ he says. ‘Beyond the wall at the far end we are building a seaside resort. We don’t get many surfers through here, for reasons you have articulated, and we need a little help designing the best looking waves. Can I interest you in a tour of the inner workings of Throgmorton’s in exchange for a little advice?’
Reasons I articulated. Not just my comments about Grandpa Throgmorton’s absence from the beach, but the whole barrage of insults I shipped his way. He’ll want me to make amends. It’s an easy deal though: a back of house tour for a bit of real world advice.
We descend to the bowels of the operation. There are rows of technicians watching banks of computers and screens showing the track layout lit at points that no doubt correspond to crossings and the like. Bernard the Third explains the four main divisions: Trains, Cars, People and Infrastructure (‘Which is basically everything not in one two and three’). As we wander through the dark halls he regales me with technospeak I cannot possibly comprehend, but I nod politely anyway. He knows I’m goofing. He greets each employee by first name as he passes, and they nod deferentially, in fact a bit too deferentially for my liking. He’s a bigwig in this little world. I see one of the Fairies from the Crystal Palace in front of a screen, a pile of coloured stones beside her. Another underpaid tourist worker doing double shifts to make ends meet.
‘This is Aurora,’ says B-HOT Number Three, ‘although we call her Miss Southern for a bit of railway humour. She’s our repair whiz in the People Division. Does our overnight repair work, so they’re all back on deck the next day. Better than any surgeon.’ He concocts a rictus of a smile and leans in close. ‘Let me know if you need a new knee or anything.’ He snorts a queefy little giggle at his joke.
We pass into a sealed area, and he directs me into a bare room. The door closes. I look round, and everything goes blank.
When I come to, I am standing at a beach, dressed only in speedos. A light above me is hot, hot like the sun but not the sun. I look around. The beach is not long, but an even surf rolls on to the shore from a shoal at the base of a jagged headland. The sand is gritty beneath my feet, but the grains are larger than any I have walked on. Landward, a road fronts a row of shops – ice cream, take away, a post office. Behind that is a train station, its demure brick building and cream painted awning centred on the platform. The station is called Sheolhaven. Is that like phamplet?
I inspect my hands. They are bronzed, like a surfer’s should be. I feel a bit stiff though, a bit, well, plasticky is the word that comes to mind. Like I’ve had a whole body botox. I am holding a honey stained Malibu. I test its weight, and know it is balsa, just like they used to make. On the fin is written King & Cole Surfboards. Very thorough.
A cute little steam train chugs into the station, with the name The Sealander on a placard on its boiler. It is pulling a line of open carriages with a bevy of young children seated on the edge, their legs dangling on the carriage walls. They get out, most with parents carrying beach umbrellas and tote bags. Women in one-pieces, men in matching Hawaiian prints. They walk towards the beach. Mothers admonish children as fathers dig umbrella poles into the sand. A couple of young women lather suntan oil on their arms and lay out towels to lie on.
I think, I should surf. I turn and launch my massive board into the oncoming waves, and surge forward through the foam. Once through, I pause to gather strength and look for a suitable wave. I see the large clock face on the station roof. It says twelve-thirty.
Then it hits me. A blinding steam-train crush of shark on knee and I am swung from my board and thrust headlong into the water. Pain sears my leg, the water turns red, I scream, I gasp, I am thrust to and fro in a frenzy of pain and fear as the shark wrenches my leg from me. I hear the bone crunch, skin and ligaments rip, and I am twisted in the fury of the scarlet waters. I don’t know how long it lasts, or why it stops, but suddenly I am breathing, head above the surface in a pool of blood red sea. I know my left leg has gone, and I grow fainter by the moment. But I muster my draining strength and heave myself on to the longboard and surf, one legged, to the gritty shore. I collapse.
Screaming people at the shore attend me. I feel a tightening on my thigh. There are sirens. Moments later an ambulance officer appears over me and says, ‘You’ve lost a leg. But you’re lucky, a beachgoer applied a torniquet and stopped the flow. So don’t worry. Miss Southern will have a new one back on overnight, and you’ll be back in the water by midday.’
I am lifted on to a stretcher. As I enter the toy ambulance I see, way above me, god-high in the corrugated sky, the lumpen figure of Bernard H.O. Throgmorton the Third, one meaty hand on a shoulder of my son, the other pointing down at me.
* * * * * * *
Photo by Elijah Mears via Unsplash
