Open Writing

Sitting in a chair by the back door dressed in a blue gabardine raincoat and cap clutching at a tin bucket and spade, I sat eagerly awaiting the taxi, which would take us on the first stage of an adventure. Along with my twin sister and our parents we were to embark upon our first train journey to Scarborough for a two week holiday.

Most of our luggage had been sent ahead and all that remained was a small tan leather suitcase and my mother’s capacious shopping bag, filled with goodies for the journey. The taxi driver, a large ruddy- faced jolly man, could not resist pinching my cap and tweaking my sister’s pigtails. Why do all adults feel obliged to behave in this fashion?

We arrived at Sheffield railway station in good time and crossed a steel railway bridge to wait on the platform for our train to arrive. Even at that age I was fascinated by people and remember clearly a large fat lady chasing her children along the platform shouting at them to behave and to wait quietly for the train to arrive. She made far more noise than her children, who, after all, were just excited and inquisitive.

For my part I was a little afraid and stood quietly clutching my mothers hand. I had never been on a train before, nor indeed, had ever seen one at close quarters.

The smells and sounds of a busy railway station have remained ingrained on my memory: The rusty girders stretching endlessly over my head, crowded with sooty pigeons, which from time to time swooped to the platform to gather up crumbs left by untidy travellers. The voice of the announcer crackling over the Tannoy to announce arrivals and departures, and the buzz of excited conversation as our fellow adventurers eagerly awaited their departure. Everything seemed so large, so dirty and so noisy, that I remember wishing that we were already in Scarborough.

At last our train arrived, puffing loudly into the platform with black smoke issuing from a funnel on the top of an enormous engine. I froze and my mother, always understanding, held my hand even more tightly. As we walked down to find our carriage, there was a sudden blast of steam from the side of the train which seemed to go on for ever. “I don’t want to go” I shouted above the noise. But I was dragged to the carriage and bustled unceremoniously inside.

The train started and I found myself lulled by the rhythmic clackety- clack of the engine on the rails. I was intrigued by the netting suspended over our seats, which now held our suitcase and my mother’s bag. “Could I sit up there?” I asked. “No,” came the swift reply. “Sit down and read your comic.”

I sat for a while looking at the picture of a stag at bay situated just above my father’s head, until my eyes wandered to the leather strap which operated the window. What a challenge. I moved to open the window only to be stopped by an elderly gentleman who was sharing our carriage. “You will fall out if you touch that,” he said, “have one of my sweets instead.”

I looked at my mother for permission and following her nod of agreement took one of the largest gobstoppers I have ever seen in my life. This kept me occupied until it was time to fall out with my sister. This was a regular occurrence in those days and could happen at almost any time and over the smallest thing. This time it was because she was sitting next to the window whilst my view was restricted by the corridor.

The ticket collector in his blue serge uniform came into the carriage. Once again my cap went and my sister’s pigtail was pulled. He chatted amiably with my father and clipped our tickets with a metal punch. He told us that the train was on time and that we would arrive in Scarborough in half an hour.

Excitement grew and I competed with my sister as to who would be the first to see the sea. This was encouraged by my parents, who offered a penny to the winner. Needless to say, this proved the opportunity for yet another argument. We neither of us got a penny in the end because we had misbehaved.

All this excitement had made me feel sick and my mother rushed me to the toilet in order to avoid an accident. The toilet was an amazing place, not enough room for the two of us, rather smelly and filled with an intriguing array of taps and buttons.

I decided not to be sick and returned with my mother to our carriage to begin the business of packing everything away ready to leave the train.

As we drew into the station I could see posters advertising Typhoo tea and a large picture of a beach with children playing in the sand. We had arrived. On leaving the train I hurried past the engine in case the steam came out once again and made a mental note to avoid ever getting close to a steam engine for the rest of my life.

Bedford U3A