A Stroke of the Pen by Terry Pratchett

Author:Terry Pratchett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-08-10T00:00:00+00:00

The Haunted Steamroller

Once upon a time there was a haunted steamroller. It happened like this.

One of the machines in the Blackbury roadworks department was a large maroon steamroller, one of the old-fashioned kinds with lots of brass knobs and copper pipes. It was called J22, which was its works number.

But, of course, it was old-fashioned and used up quite a lot of coal, and it was a bit of a job keeping it bright and shiny.

One day the Mayor of Blackbury said, ‘That old steamroller is past it. I really think it’s time we scrapped it and got one of these diesel ones.’

The borough surveyor agreed. But then he said, ‘Old Bert isn’t going to like it. He’s driven J22 – oh, for years and years, ever since I was a little boy.’

And that was quite true, of course. Old Bert Nettle had driven the steamroller for ages, and he was the only council workman who bothered to keep J22 brightly polished. He was very old-fashioned himself, with droopy grey whiskers, a big silver watch on a chain, and a moleskin waistcoat.

The mayor had a think. ‘Old Bert must be about seventy,’ he said. ‘Time he retired, for his own good. It can’t be very healthy, what with all that smoke and oil. And we could give him a nice gold watch.’

Old Bert heard about this later in the day, when he drove J22 in from a spell of road rolling. He was horrified. What they didn’t realize was that Bert’s one interest in life was working on the old steamroller.

Bert went home and went to bed early, after damping down the fire in J22. Half the shelves in his little kitchen were full of polish tins and special steamroller grease.

J22 stood in the dark council garage with the dustcarts. The church clocks all round Blackbury struck midnight.

There was a sizzle, and a clank from the firebox. Very, very slowly, the old steamroller’s flywheel began to turn. Then it gave a triumphant chuff and chugged forwards.

Crash! went the garage door as J22 smashed through it and ran through the empty streets. People threw open their bedroom windows in amazement as the steamroller trundled past with sparks coming out of its chimney.

Old Bert woke up as the steamroller clattered down the High Street.

‘This is a rum do!’ he thought, tugging on his trousers. ‘Someone’s stolen my steamroller.’ Two minutes later he had leapt on his bicycle and was pedalling furiously after J22, which was heading for open country.

After a while it was easy to see where the steamroller had been by looking out for flat hedges, lamp posts, and . . . well, in one place there was a telephone box that was about fifty yards long and one-eighth of an inch thick!

By breakfast time, Bert was high up on Even Moor, north of Blackbury. It was already very hot, and he couldn’t find the steamroller tracks any more. He’d just sat down for a rest when a police car pulled up beside him.

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