“Apologies for the delay to your service this mornin’ – we believe there are sheep stowawaying on this train.”
We had been motionless for over twenty minutes on a remote branch line in deepest Somerset when the Shepherd and his dog clambered aboard. He was a sturdily built man, with features set to a permafrost of stoicism. A pair of wirey mutton chops clung warily to his face and a multi-stained, baseball cap displaying the Massey Ferguson logo crowned him.
He held a fine crook, the handle carved into a figurine of Martin Luther King. He strode, down the Carriage aisle whistling or bellowing commands at his dog, “Come by Sadie” or “Away to Me Sadie”. The bright eyed mutt obeyed and crawled under seats, scrambled through luggage racks and scoured overhead shelves.
But no sheep.
As the Shepherd passed me, I noticed a badge on the lapel of his Barbour jacket which stated “Shepherds For Obama.” It was good to see the Transatlantic Alliance sustaining itself amongst Somerset hill farming folk.
The Guard, without much enthusiasm it must be said, helped the Shepherd in his search for the missing ewes (if looking in an old man’s rucksack counts as searching that is).
The dog sold a ticket to a young mother who was wet nursing a large and extremely ugly child.
“Ta,” she said to Sadie without surprise. Clever dog.
The search was fruitless. Well, sheepless to be more exact.
“Can’t say they’re ‘ear then Sam,” said the Guard.
“S’pose y’ure right Bob,” replied Sam, “Must still be in top field still or summat. C’mon Sadie!”
Shepherd and dog climbed down onto the track. He leant on his crook as the train trundled onwards toward the Tor. Sadie ran alongside the train for a hundred yards or so before stopping. She stood and watched as we hoved out of view.
It had been a pleasant distraction and I returned to Sense and Sensibility. As I allowed Willoughby’s caddishness to raise my hackles, I heard a kerfuffle in the carriage toilet.
“Baa.”
Strange.
“Baa.”
An “Out Of Order Sign” was pasted upside down on its door. I opened it and was met by a throaty sheep chorus of “Baas”. Three of them to be precise. In a pyramid formation. The pair on the bottom had lit cigarettes. Turkish blend.
The Guard appeared and asked them to put the cigarettes out. But they didn’t. I asked him if he should let the Shepherd know.
“Nah. Mate. Miserable Old Bugger is Sam, let’s just say he had this comin’ – he stole this train once. We had to go to France to get it back. Went through a Worm ‘ole he reckoned.”
The Guard closed the toilet door and left the sheep to their gymnastics and smoking. He looked at me, gurned a tobacco ruined smile and said, “Promised Sadie she could drive the train if she drove them beasts onboard yesterday. Clever dog. Scary really. Thas Collies for ye.”
“Baa.”
The next morning, the front page of the Tor Examiner read “Renegade Smoking Sheep Run Amok In Drink Fuelled Town Centre Rampage – Again. Shepherd Arrested.”
I caught the train home later that day. No sheep on board this time thankfully and grateful that Marianne finally saw the goodness in Colonel Brandon.
The Train Dispatcher blew his whistle. The traction engine rumbled into life and the train pulled away. As I walked toward the Station Car Park, a Border Collie’s head crowned with a multi stained Massey Ferguson cap appeared out of the driver’s cabin. The dog raised a paw in salute and waved goodbye to the Dispatcher. Who waved back.
Clever dog Sadie.
