I walked out of the gate of the old bearing works, a crumpled payslip tucked into my jacket pocket. The iron gates where Id clocked on for thirtytwo years now hung open, a blank space in the route Id walked for years. Yellow maple leaves fluttered over the canal, the wind tearing them loose and hurling them along the fence. I knew tomorrow no one would be coming back; the security crew would be on duty only until the end of the month while the plants equipment was carted off.
Back in my oneroom flat on the sixth floor, a mug of lukewarm tea waited, and the hallway was dead silent. I spread the bills on the kitchen table: gas, telephone, council tax. The savings would stretch a month or two, then Id have to decide what to pay first. The job centre promised enhanced protection for those nearing retirement, but my record as a lathe operator didnt exactly sparkle for local employers. The deductions are high, sorry, theyd say politely.
A week later I turned up at the job centre. The adviser straightened my badge and, in a flat voice, read out the retraining options for 55+: security guard, warehouse packer, street cleaner. In his folder lay a glossy flyer, tiny print about the 2024 concessions. It was protection wrapped in paperwork, yet there were no vacancies. I stepped outside, unsure where to go, and drifted to the riverside. A gang of teenagers listened to a guide from the county museum, who was rattling off the story of the wooden warehouse of the old merchant Ladd. I realised I knew more about that place: my greatgrandfather hauled railway sleepers there until the 1916 fire turned the building to ash.
That evening I rummaged through a dusty family chest: postcards, a stack of yellowed photographs, my grandfathers notebooks. The pages smelled of dry paper and time. In one entry my grandfather sketched a route from the station to the butter churn: past the milepost stones through Ratcliffe Valley. I ran my eyes over it and felt a spark of excitement. What if I showed the town as its old backstreets remembered it, without pretence, just honestly?
Applications for guide accreditation close in March, said the tourism officer, tapping a brochure with little interest. After that youll need a licence its a national rule. The schemes exist, but we have few spots. I handed her a rough walkaround plan: Station, Ladds Down, LeatherStream. She nodded without looking up. Leave it with us, well review. Ten minutes later I was in a corridor, eyeing the peeling plastered walls. The route sheet lay on the desk, stapled flat.
The next morning I set out with my notebook. At the bakery stand, former welder Frank was hawking apples from his garden. Planning a tour? he snorted. People need jobs, not stories. I still noted: Stand sits on the 1890s firehose column, stone foundation check. The entry was tentative, but each line gave the day purpose.
By dusk I reached the public library on Victoria Road. The reading room stayed open until nine. Senior librarian Mrs. Love showed me the local history shelf and sighed, Only students borrow these, and then only on assignment. I thumped through binders: the 1914 city council report, the almanac River and Dock. Dates and names fell out like loose tiles, but a detail caught my eye a bridge built by factory artisans lasted only two years before a flood washed it away.
Three weeks later I returned to the council offices, notebook in hand, pages already crowded with ink. The deputy head of culture flicked through the first few sheets, glancing at his phone. We already have a Historic Centre route approved and funded. Your facts are interesting, but first you need a guide licence. Try again in spring if the budget is extended. In the hallway I felt a mix of irritation and stubborn resolve. If they wouldnt stop me, Id keep digging.
On a bleak November morning, the grass frosted over, I met former shiftboss Mr. Naylor by the lift. He was off to a construction site as a labourer and asked, Still chasing those books? I replied, Yes. Some things dont pay, but they keep you alive. He shrugged, then offered, I can lend you a camera if you need it.
The city archive reeked of damp plaster and cold lime; the radiators barely clanged. I sat in a thick coat at a chipboard desk, leafing through the 1911 edition of County Gazette. Notices about fairs were interspersed with lost wallet ads. I pencilled a note about the launch of a horsedrawn line from the station to the market square a detail nowhere in the textbooks. Perhaps the line was too short to be remembered, but that tiny thread reshaped the picture.
Back home the kettle whistled, and my laptop flashed the cost of a professional course: £150 even with a grant. Yet the route haunted my thoughts. The radio warned of an upcoming snow: the first ten days of December forecast a low of minus five. I pulled my collar up and fetched an old document folder from the cupboard, determined not to lose anything the next day.
On 5December, as the first stray snowflakes swirled over the square, I was again in the archive, nearly alone. The archivist hauled out a heavy box of photographs from a prewar industrial exhibition. I turned the cards slowly until one caught my eye: a gleaming pavilion, crowds in bowler hats, and in the distance a small carriage with the inscription Lagoon Line. Rails stretched toward the station, a stout policeman strolling the pavement. I froze. No guidebook or local history volume mentioned such a line I was holding the sole proof of a forgotten tram branch.
I slipped the photograph into an envelope, tucked it into the inner pocket of the folder. The tour had to start, even if everything else had to be built from scratch. There was no turning back to the old routine.
With that single piece of evidence, I felt as if I were carrying an entire carriage through the streets. After leaving the archive I didnt head straight home; I stopped at the library where the scanner still worked, and Mrs. Love asked nothing more. In five minutes the card became a clear digital file, stamped 20July1912. I compared the handwritten Lagoon Line with the earlier note about the horsedrawn line they matched.
That evening I emailed the image to myself and posted it in the local community group Our Town, Our History: Anyone heard of this line? I signed off modestly, Gathering material for a walk. Replies came fast emojis, question marks, one sceptic calling it Photoshop. By morning, Mr. Tolka, the history teacher, asked for a copy for his club, and the group admin suggested a short writeup.
Two days later the deputy head of culture, the same man whod leafed through my notebook, called. His tone was tight but courteous: Wed like to see the original. I agreed to meet at the town hall and arrived with the folder. The reception smelled of freshprint staplers and old linoleum. The official glanced at his watch, asked me to leave the card for authenticity checks, but I shook my head. I cant leave it, but I can show it and send a scan. My persistence paid off; they offered me a slot at the next accreditation panel on 18December. Without a licence, they warned, charging for tours would be illegal.
A week remained before the panel. Mornings reminded me of the lathe every part fitting neatly. Here there were no slots, but there was logic: counter doubts with facts. I printed the route, added a stop at the former depot, and phoned Naylor: You said youd lend a camera? He replied, Sure, could use it. On Sunday, under a thin crust of snow, we walked the whole line from the station to the old square where the rails once met. Naylor clicked away, muttering about cold fingers, then admitted, You know, its nice to walk when theres something to listen to. His words warmed me more than any glove.
The accreditation panel gathered in the technical college hall: three experts, a county representative, and a dozen hopefuls. I held my file of photos, scanned newspapers, and an archive extract. They first asked about health and safety, tourist rights, route sheets. Then they said, Show us the hook. I spread the Lagoon Line picture and explained how the branch stretched only eight blocks before a flood washed it away, which is why it barely appears in records. One of the women on the panel suggested, This could become part of a municipal programme. Half an hour later the result was announced: eight candidates passed, including Simon Harper. They handed me a temporary licence a laminated card bearing the county crest.
The next morning I pinned the badge to my jacket and posted a notice: Walking tour The Tram That Never Was Sunday, meet at the old clock tower. The fee was modest: £1.50 per person. By noon twelve locals had signed up the librarian, Mr. Tolka with two Year12 students, and, to my surprise, the deputy culture officers secretary. Snow fell gently, the pavement creaked as the group set off to the first stop.
I spoke plainly, much as I once instructed a shift before a machine startup: clear, without flourish. I showed old photos of the market square, described how horses pulled the wagons along the rails, and how boys tossed stones to make the rails ring. At the former firehose column I unfurled a large tablet with the scanned Lagoon Line card Naylors generous loan. Mr. Tolka gasped, the secretary filmed a short clip, the pupils begged to hold the picture. For the first time in weeks I heard someone whisper to a neighbour, Is that true? The murmur sounded louder than any applause.
After two hours we gathered at the end point, shared hot tea from a thermos, and I placed a box on the litter bin lid for feedback. People dropped notes and a few coins, left phone numbers. The city secretary said briefly, Management asked me to pass on thanks and suggest putting the route on the official spring schedule if you prepare the paperwork. I nodded, noting for the first time the council speaking of we instead of you. I slipped the contact card into my inner pocket, next to the envelope.
That evening, after taking off my boots on the mat, I poured the takings onto the kitchen table: £15, exactly. Not a fortune, but enough for broadband and part of the bills. The lamp on the counter glowed steady; a newspaper headline about support for preretirees lay under the kettle, now feeling less ominous. I opened my notebook and wrote, Next topic the 1913 artisanal bridge lost to flood. A corner of my eye caught a streetlamp casting a pale glow on fresh snow outside. The town breathed quietly, without grand gestures, yet there was room for me in that breath.
Two days later I delivered a packet to the council route sheets, copies of archive documents, and a letter proposing a short seminar for municipal guides. The secretary was surprised but accepted the papers. As I left, I paused by the notice board where a flyer for the Spring Street Walk Festival was pinned. The start date was March. Below, a blank space waited for fresh leaflets. I imagined the steps from the board to the old depot thirtyeight, just like the distance from my lathe to the workshop window. The body remembers lengths even when the route changes.
Before bed I took the original photograph from the envelope, held it up to the desk lamp, and slipped it into a plastic sleeve. I then pinned a city map to the wall, marking the few spots that still needed a story. The room no longer smelled of oil and metal, only the soft rustle of snow outside the window. I switched off the main light, leaving the desk lamp as a nightlight. Its mottled glow fell on the map. The walk was far from over.
