'These Men' by Jason Jackson

These men work on the train. An old steam engine, one carriage, a good two miles of track. A community project but they turned a profit last year. They’ve reupholstered the seats. It’s mainly primary school trips. Educational. The teachers are young, pretty. They’ve branched out, these men: Valentine’s Day, Christmases, when Joe dresses up as Santa. Birthdays, but no stags. No hens. It’s not that kind of thing. Just up and down, back and forth. They take turns to drive. It’s not so hard. Just remember to brake so you don’t hit the red buffers either end of the track.

They’re retired, these men, but not old. Still fit. Out in all weathers. Hi-vis jackets, steel-capped boots. They’ve learned the workings of the thing. More than just a paint job and polishing the brass. Never a hobby. Makes them bristle, that word. Flasks of sweet tea and Tupperware-box sandwiches. They have a right giggle sometimes. Reminisce. Talk about football but never their wives. Sometimes they argue — Charlie left and never came back — but they can’t imagine being without it: the sound of the tracks, juddering like a heartbeat. They all dream of a bright summer’s afternoon, a young woman on their arm, building up a head of steam and pulling on the whistle, aiming for those buffers, smashing straight through, new track stretching ahead and the blackened steam unfurling like a banner.

They’re old enough to know a dream for what it is, but still they rise early on cold mornings, pulling on their boots. They know the name and the history of the man next to them as they pick up the spanner, the hammer, the paintbrush, the cloth. The train is idling at the platform. There’s coal to burn and a good two miles of track.