The Bellingham Signal Box
Origins[1]
An internal photograph of the signal box supplied by Clive Dalton:
Going to school and University in Newcastle for seven years, I was a regular passenger on the train, able to claim a privilege ticket from clerk Harry Brown and later Cissy Dodd, as my father, Harry Dalton, was a guard based at Reedsmouth, and then signalman at Bellingham before the line closed. So I was allowed to go into the signal box while waiting for the train, which was especially welcome in winter where there was always a roaring fire – as well as a comfortable horse-hair ‘lang settle’ to stretch out on.
The other signalmen over the years were the older long-serving Jack Barras, and Tom Young. Signalmen also helped with general porter duties helping Jimmy Wright with his blue station wagon to load his deliveries for around the town and district. Dad being a keen gardener was also responsible for the immaculate and prize-winning gardens at the station.
The trains were such an important part of our village and valley life. We could set our clocks by them, and whether the ‘first train’ was late or early that morning was alway standard opener for a ‘bit crack’. My mother told me exactly when I was born at 6 Noble Street assisted by nurse Armstrong after arriving on her bike. It was when the quarter to one train had just gone up as it could be seen and heard from Noble Street on a stretch of line before nearing the station!
The signal box was built high above ground level to provide an unrestricted view up and down the line, and was full of levers painted different colours with their mechanisms below. There were large levers for the signals and small ones for the points where tracks could be diverted. They all had bright tops and you used a cloth to pull them to prevent sweat off your hands causing rust. They were regularly burnished with a rough pad.
There were also the large cabinets for the tablet discs to go into and control the system for single line tracks. There was also direct telephone contact with the next stations on the line – Reedsmouth down and Tarset up. This was especially important when Ted Burns who was station master and only staff member at Tarset ran out of baccy, and Dad would go down (or he’d send me when available) to Don Mason’s shop for ‘an oonz of Highland Roll’ for the guard on the next up train to deliver. The cash came on the down train!
There were three important levers to pull. First was the distant signal away down the track painted yellow and with an orange lamp in winter. It was the hardest to pull and too hard for a school laddie I found. If the signal was up, this warned the driver that there were hazards ahead and that he should proceed with caution. Then there was an inner signal closer to the station, and finally one right at the end of the platform where the arm went up, rather than down like the others to denote approval to proceed. That was the easiest lever to pull. The points were controlled not by wires like the signals but by bars, so were harder to pull.
Safety on single-lines was run by a system of ‘blocks’ where a train was not allowed to proceed from one block till the next one was proved to be clear. This was done by a round metal disk or tablet inside a leather pouch with a leather covered wire loop attached to it. It was held out by the fireman and caught on the arm of the signalman who delivered the one required for the train to clear the next block up or down the line. This exchange was done as the train was slowing down and about to stop but was still a tricky operation. We Noble Street kids played trains along the back lane trailing a rope for the carriages, and changing tablets made from willow branches cut from a tree beside the Blue Heaps. We became experts at tablet changing.
After catching the tablet, the signalman raced up the steps and slid the newly gathered tablet into the machine, then punched a morse message on a knob to tell the next signal block at Reedsmouth or Falstone, to record that the train had arrived. A morse message was returned, and then an ‘over and out’ morse message was sent from the Bellingham box – and Dad could fill and light his pipe and relax on the long-settle and stoke up the fire!
Keeping all the signals and points in top condition at Bellingham was a separate job, and Percy Bolam was the man in charge. Jimmy Anderson was in charge of them at Reedsmouth. Percy had a shed on the platform next to the store which you couldn’t mistake for the smell of paraffin to fuel the lamps for the signals in winter. There was also black grease in drums with plenty always on the floor, to lubricate the points from a can and a brush on a long handle.
There was always an air of excitement while waiting for the train to see the great steaming monster appear through the Otterburn road bridge with the fireman leaning out of the cab with tablet ready for exchange. Part of the excitement was to see which locomotive it was, as they were mainly of the ‘Scott Class’ homed at Riccarton Junction – named after the works of Sir Walter Scott. So I knew the names of Scott’s classics – Wandering Willie (our favourite), the Fair Maid of Perth, Meg Merillees, Quintin Dureward - but I had never read a word of them!
‘Beeeeellingham, Beeeeellinham, Beeeellingham’! I can still hear station master Donald McKenzie’s Scots accent calling out the station name, informing passengers where they had arrived just incase anybody ‘didna ken’ or had fallen asleep. Then the sound of ‘tickets please, ‘tickets please, ‘tickets please’, so Donald made sure nobody getting off the train sneaked by him planning to use their ticket again!
References
- ↑ This article was supplied by Clive Dalton of New Zealand on 11th August 2021. Clive was born and bred in Bellingham.
