Opaline-a FalmouthVerse Side Story

Ah, you're back for some more, are you? Very good, my fine fellow. I trust you typed up my tale at least somewhat accurately? I'm not permitted newspapers in here so I cannot verify for myself. Still, I can see it got you a lot of readers, as otherwise you wouldn't have returned to hear more of what I have to say.

Perhaps I could make more of this, after all.

Where was I in my story? Ah, yes. I believe we had gotten as far as Derby, which had become my new home as a result of circumstances unfolding in the world. Derby being a major industrial centre and a major focus point of American financial investment meant that the town underwent something of a boom. Things were looking up in Britain for the first time in a while.

Of course, if we'd simply kept those upstart colonies instead of letting them run off like disobediant children we wouldn't need to have taken loans from then in the first place. But I guess that's what happens when you let silly ideas cloud your mind.

Anyway, I had recently finished my schooling, patchwork as it was. Most people left school at 14, so to make it all the way to the end was quite something. As I said earlier University wasn't an option as I lacked useful connections, so it was time to find whatever jobs were available.

I soon found that British Railways needed security guards for the Derby facility, so I took the job. After passing basic fitness tests I was soon send forward for training. And it was a tough slog.

The world wasn't as open to women in many areas of work as it is today. In the late 1940s and well into the 1950s there was a common attitude that the workplace was simply unsuitable for women, and that they should only stay in the home and make sandwiches for men. What a load of tosh. Had they conveniently forgotten that women had more than proven they were capable of manning production lines or serving in military roles such as anti aircraft teams? The fact they were so hasty to praise these women for their work yet boot them back to the domestic sphere simply speaks volumes about their insecurity.

And I know the Haven's head of security is a woman. Former Royal Marine, I believe. That would have been basically unheard of back in the 1950s.

And as you can guess I was one of only a handful of women in the training program for the security guards. If you looked at the way the other recruits acted around us you'd think they'd never seen a woman before. Which I know is statistically unlikely as there's a high probability they would have interacted with their mothers (and on that note, tell the British public to stop referring to their female parent as 'mom'. Mom is not a word). I can only assume something else was going on in their minds.

Naturally, I got asked many times if I was lost, or was informed the kitchen was that way, or asked why I didn't have a bucket on hand. I got used to it after a while, simply shutting it out. I knew nothing I could say would convince them, but actions speak far louder than words. If I was to prove I belonged, I had to demonstrate to the world I had the strength to keep up.

So I worked relentlessly. I steeled my mind and body to the utmost point of perfection, to ensure that nobody could stand in my way. I wasn't the biggest of people, so I couldn't win through sheer brute force. Instead, I had to use the fact I was shorter than many of them to my advantage. Be quicker. Be smarter.

Boxing was something they often did recreationally, so naturally I took that up. Considering so many of them had gotten used to the idea of the opponent taking blows, I had a radical idea- wait for them to strike, duck, then hit them whilst they were trying to figure out where I had gone. Land the critical blow in their moment of weakness.

And it worked. Time and time again. When they cottoned on I had to change approach, of course. But being able to adapt is the most critical aspect of life, as without it your utility is about that of a chocolate teapot.

I wouldn't drink the tea they gave you, if I were you. The stuff they serve here is positively vile. Like drinking bleach, if you ask me. Not that I've ever drunk bleach, but if one were to drink bleach I imagine it would taste like that. I wonder how many microwaves they put it through before it got to here?

Physical prowess wasn't just needed for the role of a security guard. You had to know the rules and be proficient with firearms if protecting vital assets. Although British Rail's enemies were not numerous, there were always opportunistic thieves who fancied they could get rich quick by stealing from company lorries and selling the produce on the Black Market. As a result, knowing a firearm inside out was vital. It was a lot simpler back then. This was straight after the war, so none of the more advanced kit modern soldiers take for granted. As large amounts of weaponry was no longer required, there was quite the second hand market in firearms.

Most of us were initially equipped with Sten guns. Those were submachine guns- not always the most accurate of weapons, but could put down quite a lot of fire provided you remembered to only load 30 rounds. We often got the old ones with the brass bolts; the fire selector on those was a bit awkward as the weapon would often do the opposite of what the settings suggested. Less of an issue though, as the weapon was mainly meant for intimidation purposes. There was also a Bren gun to guard the gates if I recall correctly.

After that, I was finally ready for duty. I had proven I belonged amongst them, and despite periodically getting sexist remarks from personnel who seemed to believe only men could possibly do the work I was accepted into their ranks. The Opaline nickname got held over from my school days, and it somewhat stuck. It became very rare for anybody to call me Olivia, although it once got mispronounced as Olivier. As in the actor.

Life in the facility was fairly simple, and I quickly saw things change as the 1940s and 1950s progressed. Things got progressively more positive, as new locomotives and coaches entered service to replace war damaged stock. Gradually, things came off rationing. We even had a new Queen in 1952- they brought sugar off rationing specifically for the coronation a year later. I never really like Coronation Chicken though, as it was rather too spicy for my taste. I've never been much of a curry person.

I even saw the start of the experiments with diesel power, as Derby often had demonstrator locomotives rolling around and doing various tasks. They weren't always reliable, though, as they could break down or suffer all sorts of strange mechanical issues. We saw them being towed by steam engines more than once, which always provoked a good laugh out of some of us.

There was, however, one building which had a rather odd reputation. None of us were allowed to actually enter it, as we lacked the correct security clearance. Only high ranking security was permitted inside, and as such the building soon took on an air of mystery. What was inside it that could be so strange and mysterious? Why were only a handful of people allowed inside?

We often discussed and debated what might be inside. Some of these theories ranged from the mundane- experimental locomotive technology- to the outright ridiculous, with one person claiming they were sticking people inside locomotives, which is how engines are sentient.

Utter nonsense. We all know the role of the Gold Dust, thanks to Sunny. That's the mongrel I mentioned last time.

It was a few years of work before I began to climb the ranks. I started out as a Level 1 guard, but by 1957 I had climbed to being a squad leader, with responsibility for four other guards. British Railways had us work in groups of five as that maximised flexibility and allowed us to cover more ground.

Things had changed a lot since then. With the world on a seemingly more secure footing, it seemed that peace would be the only constant- true, there'd been that mess in Egypt, but apart from that things were going reasonably well for Britain.

In comparison, it would be the next year when things would change. But as we're out of time, I shall have to tell you all that next time you visit. I shall see you then for the next part of my tale... if you have the stomach for it.