Chapter 6: The Trainspotter's Story
His answer began with a quick verbal snapshot of a childhood spent in post-war Britain, a time people have said was actually harder in many ways than the war, itself – the terrible cold and no real heating, food rationing still in place, and the economy slowed down almost to a halt. And then, best and worst all at once, the common goal had been achieved and in its place was drift.
Still, even if his parents knew how hard it was, he didn’t. In fact, he was having the time of his life.
He had this passion, you see, for steam trains. All he wanted in this world when he grew up was to be an engine driver (‘engineer’ to us Yanks), pilot his train around curves, over mountains, by the sea - maybe even get to blow the whistle. And there he was, living in the very country where steam trains had been invented. What luck!
All he had to do was get on his old secondhand Raleigh and go! Cycle off to the nearest big train terminal at Darlington, sneak through the fence into the locomotive works, then from somewhere way over there watch the big locos being worked on. (Darlington, by the way, or so he told me, was actually sacred ground in railway history, had I never heard of itω Where the first ever public railway went from here to there, ten miles an hour! Crikey, he could go faster than that on his bike.)
Better still, he’d stand at the very end of the Darlington station platform along with a patchwork assortment of fellow enthusiasts, all straining to be the very first to see the next loco coming in, then shouting out its number, pencils flying to write it down, ready to transfer it later into their little tuppenny-ha’penny notebooks, complete with time, date, place. (I would one day see his notebook: immaculate, fragile.)
Best of all, though, was the sheer good luck of arriving at a country crossroads, with the barriers just coming down - then catching sight of that tiny speck at the far end of the track getting bigger and bigger, coming towards him faster and faster, huge!, whooosh!, flying past him, whoosh! - the Flying Scotsman, The Mallard, Lord Faringdon – his neck swivelling around as it roared by, carriage after carriage after carriage, then straining to follow it as it disappeared around the curve, take me with you!
In short, he was of a species which I would later learn were widely known in Britain as ‘trainspotters’. This was a once flourishing breed of the sort that would invariably be depicted in movies in weedy school uniforms but that had since fallen on hard times, with future boys substituting computer games for trainspotting and jeans for short trousers. (To be fair to those future boys, modern-day electric trains are no real substitute for steam locomotives, even I can see that.)
Nice story, though. Even to the extent that this time when I looked at him what I saw, quick glimpse, was a boy standing by the crossroads. (I bet he had been scruffy, too, that boy, the sock falling down around the ankle, the tear in the jacket, that kind of boy.)
Still, probably like you, I thought he was avoiding answering my question, which had had nothing to do with trains and everything to do with how he had gone into business for himself, Just Like That.
I was wrong. Trains had everything to do with his story. Bear with him.
He did not, you will rightly guess, grow up to drive a train. Any more than I grew up to be a ballerina, a movie star, a princess. Nor had he even gone to university, though he had, without even thinking about it, passed the 11+ exam ("The whatω"). And so, right along with all his better-off classmates, been allowed in to the local grammar school ("The whatω") - one of those schools where all the students wore white shirts and regimental ties and navy blazers with the school crest on the pocket, all topped off by a little cloth cap, Mr Chips.
After that, age 17, his formal education ended. And he did what so many of us did after we left school at whatever level, including me - head for the big city. In my case, this meant New York and in his, London. Once there, all our dreams would come true.
He tried this. Tried that. But mostly, like most of us, he just tried to have fun, meet girls, even (if he skipped meals) take one to his favourite place, Ronnie Scott’s jazz club. (Hearing this, it seemed to me politic not to mention my old Kingston Trio collection, nevermind Peter, Paul, and Mary.) Still, even then, he would sometimes go off on his own to look up at the great vaulted ceilings of stations whose very names had always seemed magical to him: Kings Cross, St Pancras, Victoria, Paddington, Waterloo.
And then, and again like so many of us, he finally came home. Got the steady job. Which for him had meant managing a toy shop. And for me, teaching. Both of which, at least in the eyes of the world, seemed to mean that we had finally navigated that particular rite de passage, grown up, become responsible.
Even so, he did not absolutely betray his first love. If it couldn’t be real trains, then model trains would have to do. And model trains the toy shop had. So that, in time, not a boy in the district didn’t know just who to go to for help with theirs. Indeed, no less a personage than the very Duke, himself, had sent for him to help set up his own little boy’s Christmas gift, yes, he was that good. Just as he was at managing the toy shop, which he ended up running so well and for so long that it became a given that he would eventually buy the owners out - and buy into the security, the pension, the life.
Instead, he quit.
He looked at me and then added (I noted the slight smile, thought he had forgotten, did Iω): “Just like that!”
Well! What to sayω I couldn’t help myself: “Whyω”
Two reasons: first, he had become interested in one of the toy shop’s products - more for adults, really, than children. It was called Linka. And it consisted of a series of moulds whose casts could be linked up (hence the rather unfortunate name) to create all sorts of models - farm houses, churches, corner shops, castles, anything, everything – which, in turn, constructed whole landscapes around train sets. And he thought the models that system could make were the most realistic he had ever seen. And he had seen a lot, beginning with the ones he, himself, had used for his own train set when he was a boy, a Hornby. (“A whatω”)
Nonetheless, rumour had it that the manufacturer was in trouble. He thought that was a shame. He thought it could work. Then he forgot about it.
The second reason was a mistake made by the owners of the toy shop. As time had passed, they had got in the way of thinking that along with the shop, they sort of owned him, too. And why notω The toy shop was doing well. And it was clearly where his future lay, where elseω In short, he was theirs. So that when he asked for an extra day off after his mother died, they thought about it (it was a bank holiday week-end, after all, lots of potential customers around) and said No.
He thought about it, too.
Then he went looking for the manufacturer of that little product he liked and found him. He had figured out that he could offer him this much and no more, that’s all he had.
The manufacturer couldn’t believe his luck. Deal done.
Not long after, he went into the toy shop, gave proper notice, and a month later walked away from the sure future.
Just like that.
Listening to this, I must have looked worried. Was worried. I mean, I didn’t know him, what business was it of mineω But such a gamble. Reckless, really. Didn’t I know.
He leaned towards me: “And then after I walked out, you know what the first thing was I didω”
“Whatω”
“I gave myself that day off.”
I burst out laughing. We both did. Loud enough to merit the odd “Sssshh” coming from somewhere inside the dark slumping forms huddled around us.
I covered my mouth with my hand (Cary would have recognized that gesture!) and leaned towards him.
“What’s your nameω”, I whispered.
“Stuart”, he replied. “And yoursω”
“Mary.”