It's not uncommon to hear the sound of a train passing through the neighbourhood of Green Finchstead though the line's been unused for well over eighty years. At first glance the tracks blend in almost perfectly with the tarmac, their worn metal edge lining up perfectly with the curb along one side and awkwardly jutting out just shy of the lane centre. Nobody paid it much attention, only the occasional driver swearing as they misjudge their tyre placement and end up catching the trackside.
Still the sound of a speeding train can be clearly heard at exactly 19:09 and 23:37, passing along the length of the track from one end of the neighbourhood and through The Cobbler's Boat Inn that had been built over a fairly long section of the rails. It became a source of timekeeping for them and gained the colloquialism of "by the old train" meaning "to be out too late" (example, don't you go out by the old train tonight, you've got work in the morning).
The residents were almost fond of the sound, the roadkill it left behind or the wild tales told by newcomers to the area, less so. Nobody wants to scrape whatever's left of a cat flattened over several feet and practically embedded onto the old tracks first thing in the morning. Fewer wanted to hear the sounds that the creature's make in their final moments. It's not the sort of thing you can forget.
Now newcomers saw and heard a lot more then the residents who had grown tolerant of the sounds, smells and shaking that accompanied each nightly visit. It would take them months before they could begin to forget the early morning smell of crushed cat, fox or whatever else had gotten caught out by the train. Even the occasional pub-goer had come home with less limbs than they set out on but too liquored up to feel a damn thing.
As a result of all this a good deal of the houses in Green Finchstead were dirt cheap of crumbling in disuse. Nobody wanted to live in an area where the defining characteristic was the chance of being hit by an unseen train as they drove home from work. The residents were left to their own devices, their own ways and their train-set schedule. Much like other small neighbourhoods in rural England, time almost seemed to stand still for them, each day being the same as the last and always run around the train that nobody saw but everyone felt.
Still the sound of a speeding train can be clearly heard at exactly 19:09 and 23:37, passing along the length of the track from one end of the neighbourhood and through The Cobbler's Boat Inn that had been built over a fairly long section of the rails. It became a source of timekeeping for them and gained the colloquialism of "by the old train" meaning "to be out too late" (example, don't you go out by the old train tonight, you've got work in the morning).
The residents were almost fond of the sound, the roadkill it left behind or the wild tales told by newcomers to the area, less so. Nobody wants to scrape whatever's left of a cat flattened over several feet and practically embedded onto the old tracks first thing in the morning. Fewer wanted to hear the sounds that the creature's make in their final moments. It's not the sort of thing you can forget.
Now newcomers saw and heard a lot more then the residents who had grown tolerant of the sounds, smells and shaking that accompanied each nightly visit. It would take them months before they could begin to forget the early morning smell of crushed cat, fox or whatever else had gotten caught out by the train. Even the occasional pub-goer had come home with less limbs than they set out on but too liquored up to feel a damn thing.
As a result of all this a good deal of the houses in Green Finchstead were dirt cheap of crumbling in disuse. Nobody wanted to live in an area where the defining characteristic was the chance of being hit by an unseen train as they drove home from work. The residents were left to their own devices, their own ways and their train-set schedule. Much like other small neighbourhoods in rural England, time almost seemed to stand still for them, each day being the same as the last and always run around the train that nobody saw but everyone felt.
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