Open Writing

Every summer in the years preceding the Second World War my grandmother, who lived with us, went on a visit to see one of her other ten children - there were four sons and six more daughters besides my mother, and they all lived in either the West Country or thereabouts.

One never to be forgotten summer I went with her. I was eleven years old and my grandmother was in her late seventies. So there we were, my grandmother and I, preparing to set off by train across country to visit my Aunt Flo' and my cousins Edna, Audrey and Donald, who lived in the Oxfordshire village of Steeple Aston, midway between Oxford and Banbury.

Journeys for my grandmother were serious affairs which needed much preparation and certain rituals had to be observed. Clothes to be worn on the day of travel were closely inspected to make sure that they were of a pristine cleanliness and that all buttons and fasteners were present and correct, and that all elastic was sufficiently strong not to let down the family reputation should we be involved in a train crash and taken to hospital. Fear of death and injury seemed to take a poor second place to the disgrace of being found with safety pins about our bodies.

That done, sustenance for the four hours that we would be on the train was then considered. Gran believed that travel drained you of energy, so egg and ham sandwiches and slices of home made cake were wrapped in greaseproof paper and placed in the carpet bag kept for such occasions. A medicine bottle was filled with brandy - just in case! Everything completed to Gran's satisfaction, she put on her best black silk dress and coat, secured her large veiled hat with four stout hat pins, took a firm grip of her handbag and her long handled umbrella and off we went. My uncle Charlie had arrived to carry our cases to Dorchester Station and to see us off. Being seen off was another important ritual.

Although the train was due to leave at 10.30 we arrived a good three quarters of an hour before as my grandmother never really trusted timetables and didn't want to be caught out by the train leaving prematurely. For me, the waiting time was savoured to the full. From the time that Gran's second cousin, the Station booking clerk, made out the tickets until our departure I explored the delights to be found on the long platform. There was the machine which, for a penny, would print out your name on a metal strip; the chewing gum dispenser; and the chocolate machine which, for another penny, yielded a bar of Fry's chocolate cream or Fiveboys.

I had unaccustomed wealth given me by various relatives for holiday money and I spent freely. The bookstall gave an agonising choice - should I spend two pence on "The Magnet" with the adventures of Harry Wharton, Bob Cherry and Co. at Greyfriars or would "Girls Own" be more rewarding? My grandmother during this time would be talking to other waiting travellers and doubtless giving them detail about the family and, in particular, me. I always found this highly embarrassing, so kept my distance.

At 10.25 precisely we saw the signal go up and, moments later, saw the lovely, gleaming, hooting monster come majestically into the station. As it came to rest, doors were flung open, porters appeared, passengers alighted and all was a wonderful cacophony of sound and movement. My uncle Charlie hustled us along to find us either an empty compartment or one with other females in - he was a bit of an expert in selecting seats on the right side of the train to avoid being covered in smoke and smuts. He put our cases on the rack and then gave us both a hug and stepped down on to the platform. Doors banged, people shouted goodbyes, the signal dropped, the guard waved his green flag, blew his whistle and the train slowly and ponderously moved off. I leant out of the window, waving until Uncle Charlie disappeared from view.

The languorous "I think I can, I think I can" rhythm of the train on the rails changed to the quicker upbeat "I know I can, I know I can" and soon we were speeding through the countryside occasionally stopping at country towns and villages where I watched pigeon fanciers putting their birds on the train to be let off at some distant destination for competitive flying returns to their lofts.

At Oxford there was a long enough wait for me, under my grandmother's instruction, to leap off the train and make my way to one of the refreshment trolleys and buy ginger beer in a bottle with a glass ball in its top. Gran loved ginger beer and had cups waiting in her bag. There was a queue and I was in an agony of suspense that the train would start off again before I managed to get back to the safety of the carriage. My imagination, always fertile, went into overdrive and I could picture myself cruelly left alone at the mercy of a harsh world - never seeing my family again! Having enjoyed this inner drama I nevertheless was in plenty of time and all was well. We had eaten our food earlier and now as the train sped on to Steeple Aston we drank our lovely cold fizzy ginger beer.

Early afternoon we pulled into the station and there on the platform stood my aunt and cousins beaming at us. Our holiday had begun.