We sat in the bar of the Railway Inn and watched the glasses shake as the express passed along the line. The barman looked up at the big clock on the back wall and nodded to himself. "Right on time. Last orders, gennelm'n."

That last remark was directed at us, his patrons. The orders for drinks came as fast as gunfire: beer, porter, whiskey, gin, beer, beer ... until everyone was served. Then we sat back to savour the last alcohol of the night. Old Pugh had other ideas, however. He turned to the barman and grinned mischievously through his whiskers. "Thought last orders wasn't until the last train?"

The barman pointed at the clock. "And that was it. No trains after eleven."

Old Pugh took a swig from his glass of porter. "There's still one to come."

The barman began to wipe out the glasses that were piled up on the counter. "No there ain't. I never seen another train go past after the eleven o'clock express."

Old Pugh set his glass down and beckoned the barman over. "There used to be a midnight train. Went by every night 'til the accident.

The barman leaned back nonchalantly, sure that this was just another one of Old Pugh's tricks to get more drink of a night. "Really? You got another one o' your tales to share with us, then?"

Old Pugh grinned. "If you wants to hear it, it'll cost you a brandy."

The barman went to the bottles above the cash register and poured a generous measure of cognac into a glass, which he then held out in front of Old Pugh. Old Pugh grabbed at the proffered drink, but the barman didn't let go. Instead, he wagged an admonishing finger at the old man. "Yours - but only if your story's good."

Old Pugh dropped his hand. "Fine. I'll tell you my tale."

We settled back in our seats and paid attention. Old Pugh's stories were always good. The old man took another sip of porter from his glass and started his tale.

"There used to be a midnight train on this line. Picked up the last passengers from every station on the way - not that there were that many, mind. Just a few wayward souls, trying to get home 'fore the wife or father noticed. So, it was only a short rake: no more than two coaches and a van.

"Now, on the night in question, there was a new signalman at the box by the junction. You've often heard me talk of that box. Never worked right. There was always something wrong with the levers. Sometimes they were too tight, sometimes they were too loose. whatever it was, they never worked right. Any signalman who had worked there before knew to double-check the points at that junction and ignore the box indicator board.

"Thing was, this new boy didn't know - or more as like didn't want to know. The senior signalman kept telling the young fella what to do, but nothing he said seemed to get through. All through the shift the gaffer kept on at the boy to check the lamps down on the track, but every time he switched them the old man had to go out and do the check hisself.

"Anyway, it was a long shift, and the old signalman's bladder weren't as strong as it used to be. Just afore midnight he had to go to the privy down on the bank. 'Fore he left, the old man told the boy, 'Look, the midnight train's due soon. I'll be back to set the line. Don't you touch a thing. And if you do - double check it on the line!'

"Then he went off to do his business, leaving the new man on his own.

"Now, the old man took a bit longer about his business than he meant to, and midnight came round with him still sat on the privy seat. The new boy, all full of duty and self-importance, took it on hisself to set the points. But, being full of it, he din't pay heed to the old man's words. If the board said it was so, then that was that.

"So, when the midnight train came through, the points were set wrong. The locomotive was doing near fifty mile an hour when it hit the points, went down the wrong line and into the bridge. Of course the boiler burst and killed the driver and the fireman, not to mention the dozen passengers behind. There was smoke and steam everywhere, and the bridge was damn near ruined. You can see the buckled beams to this day.

"Course, this di'n't go unnoticed. The new boy was all of a panic and was trying to call up and down the line for help. The old signalman came running soon as he heard the smash, holding his trousers up round his waist. When the new boy saw him coming through the foul fog, he dropped dead of fright.

"That weren't the end of it. Of course the board held an inquiry. The old man was blamed for he'd deserted his post, and it wouldn't do much good to put the blame on the new boy's corpse. So, he couldn't live it down and went and hanged hisself on an old rope from the signal gantry.

"Since then there are folks who tell they seen the midnight train go past: its passengers screaming for mercy as they head for the bridge and the signalmen doomed to watch it crash again and again."

Old Pugh looked up at the barman. "Can I have that brandy now?"

The barman shook his head and picked up the prize for himself.

"For that story? Ghost trains? On this line? Never, in all the time I been here, have I heard such a pile of - !"

There was the scream of a steam whistle from the line outside, and the glasses on the bar shook and rattled mightily. The barman - indeed, all of us - jumped in surprise. Then, as silence fell, the big clock on the back wall chimed midnight. Only Old Pugh seemed unfazed by these events. He stood up and pried the glass of brandy from the barman's pale and trembling hands.

"Reck'n that's mine, then."