SHAMMY’S NIGHTS


When the village was gripped in winter and roofs were twinkling with a coating of frost, most houses in Jeffries would be sealed up tightly for the night once darkness fell. For one resident, though, this would herald a period of special duties at work.
Arthur ‘Shammy’ Cox was employed as a ganger on the railways, and each winter’s night when on shift he’d say goodbye to wife Marie and daughters Marie Junior and June before cycling off down Sugar Lane for the station. His regular destination was Copyhold Junction, the point at which the spur for Ardingly and Horsted Keynes left the main London-Brighton line. Presumably, the frequency of trains during the day meant that the points were operated often enough to prevent them freezing up, something that could actually derail a train if it happened but, at night, this became a definite risk.
No doubt as a throwback to the days of steam, BR’s solution was a system of gas fired heaters which solved the problem – most of the time. The weak point (no pun intended) was that trains could pass in one direction quite satisfactorily but, when travelling in the opposite direction, they’d blow the whole lot out, and this was where Arthur came to the rescue. Others may know if he was provided with any form of shelter on site but, all night long, he’d stay there with a good supply of matches, waiting for a train to pass in the offending direction, whereupon he’d tour all the gas jets and re-light them so that the line remained safe. Of all the boring jobs, this must be near the top of the list?

BASIL’S GOAL
Basil Clarke and I had certain things in common when it came to football. Neither of us had ever been asked to trial for The Albion, neither of us had ever scored a goal, but we were both the preferred option to fielding a team one short. And so, one Saturday afternoon we both donned the blue and red of the village second eleven for a match at Handcross.
The game progressed and, at one point, the ball came in from the wing. I stuck my foot out and the ball trickled into the net – but, with that, the position became rather sticky. Luckily, referees only kept a record of goals scored, not who scored them, otherwise ours would have discovered that I hadn’t actually registered as a player and thus shouldn’t have been playing. Obviously my ‘selection’ was a panic, last minute decision but a name still had to go on the match card to send to the League.
And so it was that we agreed that Basil should have it, and it was his name that duly appeared in The Middy. Thus we both broke our ducks with the one goal but, when the inevitable volume of Horsted goal scorers is eventually published ……..!

Gas fired rail heaters