To Nain & Tide
50’s London. A slightly tubby kid in grey shorts, black blazer with badge, grey cap, school tie. The clock creeps in the chemistry lab whilst Mr Hubert drones about valencies (a mystery to this day). The bell rings. We all charge down long wood-panelled corridors to the cloak room where I’ve my brown cardboard suitcase full of clothes my mother insisted on packing
I‘m out through the wrought iron gates and wait. 2 buses pass then one red double-decker stops and I clamber up the spiral staircase to the seats. The conductor takes my pennies and whirls a machine that churns out a paper ticket
I watch the streets full of people ending their day. I alight in a hurry at the grand dirty busy Euston station. I’ve my ticket so I look at the boards by the central sooty clock. Weaving between people, porters, trolleys and baggage I show my ticket to the watchful man at the trellis barrier, enter the platform which stretches forever. Running along the carriages I smell the soot, the steam & hear the huff of the engine. Finding a First compartment empty I board and sit on a plush seat under a picture of the sea-side
Just as I wished there’s no one else. A shrill guard’s double whistle, energetic chuffing and a jolt. We’re going. I watch as the end of the station & sea of tracks pass, then the grimy suburbs glide by, backs of brick & slate houses and tiny yards towards me
The carriage has no corridor so I’m happy on my own. I unpeg the strap to lower the window. Assaulted by cinders, smoke and roar I close it
Crewe Junction
The train stops, each carriage clanking up against the next. Cup of tea & bacon butty from the platform cafe under gaslight. Put a penny in a glass cabinet to watch a model train turn its wheels. Print my name on an aluminum strip in a cast iron pedestal
I reboard - an old lady has my seat. She glares at me so I sit at the opposite end. She smells of lavender. We start but there’s nothing to see except my reflection in the dark outside. The occasional light whizzes by. Eagle time
Holyhead
I’m bursting for to wee, The train stops by the Irish ferry. Nain in Sunday coat, short, ruddy face, open arms. Tide, dignified, watchchain, twitches his moustache in welcome
