Forget the Celebrities: Read about MY Crazy Life!!!

My CRAZY Life: My Socks That Changed Colour

This story, one of the earliest from my childhood days, is about my socks and, more importantly, them

changing colour. Yes, they actually did change colour! Now I am sure that you are thinking, did this

really happen or was it just the result of a child’s overactive imagination? Read on and you can decide

for yourselves…I was no more than six years of age when we set off on our first summer holiday to

Ireland. And although my mother actually came from there, to my young mind Ireland seemed a far-off

and distant country to be heading to. It might well have been Africa, India or even Borneo where I

believed head-hunters still roamed, looking for their next tasty human supper. We lived in a quiet part of

southern England, a place called Sunbury on Thames, where nothing much exciting ever happened, so

heading off on holiday to another country was about as exciting as it could possibly get.

My sister Maria who was two years older than me, and my brother Tony, two years the younger, were

almost as excited as I was when we scrambled up the steps into the electric train that was to be our

transport to London.

When I say electric train, it probably stirs up visions of sleek carriages whistling along shiny new tracks

in a most efficient manner. That vision, however, could hardly be further away from the truth. The green

painted electric trains travelling from Sunbury to Waterloo Station in London were old, they so very old

that even to my young eyes, which saw almost everything as magical, the glow of newness had long

since faded from them. Yes, these trains were definitely old, and they rattled, creaked and shook in a

most alarming manner as they made their way slowly along the tracks to the bright lights of the city in

the far distance. And speaking of lights, the ones on these antiquated trains were so small I wondered

why the train builders had bothered to install them at all. And they flickered. The light flickered almost

constantly as the rod picking up the electric current from the third rail hit or missed it as the case may

be. With that mental picture of our initial mode of transportation firmly inscribed onto you minds, I will

continue with my story…

As we settled into the journey and the train rocked methodically from side to side as it made its way

along the rusting tracks Tony, Maria and myself stared through the windows at the wonderful sights

outside. In that wonderland facing onto the tracks we saw parks, factories, houses, shops and even a

racecourse. I was so jealous of the people whose gardens backed onto the railway, whose lives must

have been so exciting with trains whizzing past night and day. Oh how I wished that we also lived in one

of those houses.

If the gardens backing onto the railway line were exciting, the land running alongside of the tracks was

HEAVEN itself. In that wonderland of sidings, buffers, sheds, water towers, turntables, goods trains and,

most importantly, steam locomotives my heart yearned to reside. In those days of steam locomotion it

was every boy’s dream to be an engine driver, just the thought of being a part of that magical world of

fire, smoke and steam sent every one of our hearts racing.

As we passed station after station, stopping at each and every one to set down passengers and

perhaps to pick up some more, the excitement burning in all three of our bellies grew exponentially. The

closer we approached London, however, the slower our already slow train became, as we zigzagged

between the myriad tracks converging on the nation’s capitol. Another notable change, as we

progressed closer to our final destination, was the increased number of steam locomotives present. In

Sunbury, which was only one stop from the end of the line at Shepperton, the presence of a steam

locomotive might very well have stopped all business in the town for the day, so rare an occasion it was.

The only thing railway related that was remotely exciting was an antique Pullman carriage parked on a

siding at Shepperton station, three miles distant. With my face glued to the window I starred out in

wonder at the panting metal beasts thundering along the tracks, pulling enormously long trains heading

to far-flung destinations such as Edinburgh, Liverpool, Swansea and Bristol. Boy, those were wonderful

days…

When our train reached Waterloo station it pulled into platform one and creaked to a stop almost

touching the buffers. Before the wheels had even stopped turning almost every door in the train burst

open, slamming backwards into the green painted carriages, offering free exit to the impatient

passengers within.

Whenever she saw this, my Irish born mother always said “Why is everyone in England always in a

hurry?”

Looking back, all these years later, I think she was actually right in saying that, and if not, then why

were all those people rushing out from the train at four o’clock in the afternoon?

We didn’t rush off the train - we had far too many bags and cases to organise first. But let me tell you,

right here and now, that my dad, my very own dad was about to show us what being English and

rushing was all about…

“Porter, sir?” a kindly looking old individual enquired.

“No,” dad replied. “We are perfectly able to carry our own bags.”

“But…” said mum, her words failing to reach dad’s ears as he began striding down the platform like his

life depended on it.

“Mum?” we complained as we struggled with our heavy bags.

We caught up with dad at the ticket barrier. Mum was minding the tickets and he growled as she

fumbled in her handbag to find the brown envelope containing them.

“Ah, here they are,” said mum as she handed all of our tickets to the ticket collector.

“No, no, no,” dad complained. “Only give him the tickets to Waterloo.”

“Oh, sorry,” said mum as she returned the remaining tickets into her bag.

In some ways we were lucky, you see dad had an irrational fear of losing tickets, and it was only

because of that did he allow mum to mind them. Heaven knows where we might have ended up if he had

been in charge of them - perhaps stranded somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, without him or the

tickets.

Returning his attention to the luggage, dad realized that the present arrangement was not working, so

grabbing hold of the first case, he balanced it upon right shoulder while tucking the large bag under his

left arm, then turning his attention to the remaining suitcase, he grabbed hold of it in his left hand and

lifted it with a vengeance. After that he promptly marched away.

”Will you keep up with me, this time?” he ordered as he scorched off across a huge open area, to we

knew not where.

“Mum!” Maria, Tony and I shouted as we watched dad disappear behind a Royal Mail van.

“Come on,” said mum, “he can’t be that far ahead…”

While trying to avoid Royal Mail vans, speeding scooters and dive-bombing pigeons, Mum, Maria, Tony

and I followed dad’s footsteps across the cobble-stoned plaza.

Catching up on the far side of the plaza, we found dad busy trying to thumb down a taxi.

“Why didn’t you get one inside the station?” mum asked as a black taxi sped past us.

“There’re more expensive in there,” dad replied as his thumb followed yet another taxi as it whizzed by.

“Don’t they all charge the same rate?” mum asked as tactfully as she could, for fear of an argument.

“No, they all charge different rates - everyone knows that. They might tell you they don’t, but, hah, they

won’t fool me, oh no.”

Just then, dad spied another taxi appearing round a corner. Deciding that he

had had enough of them speeding past him, dad legged it over to the taxi and jumped in. We watched

as the taxi remained stubbornly at a standstill, its two occupants talking feverously. Eventually the taxi

began moving and the driver pointed it in our direction.

“There you are,” said dad as he jumped out from the cab grabbing the two heavy suitcases, “I told you

I’d get us one.”

After we were all safely seated within the taxi, the driver pulled away from the kerb and set off for Euston

station. It was a relatively short trip to Euston, and before long we were passing the large stone lions

guarding its entrance. “Hurray for Euston,” we cheered as the driver turned his cab in through the entrance.

The interior of Euston station bore an uncanny resemblance to Waterloo, with postal vans, scooters and

pigeons all whizzing and flying about in every direction.

The driver, who had remained remarkably quiet during the journey, suddenly spoke, “Euston Station, two

pounds please.”

Dad almost choked on his cigarette when he heard the exorbitant price being charged.

“Two pounds,” he hollered. “We agreed only the one.”

The driver of the cab smiled, and replied, “That’s true, sir, we did, but if you happen to recall I did say

there might be some miscellaneous expenses…Your many bags are those, which add up to exactly

one pound extra”

Dad had been beaten, instead of getting a bargain he had been ripped off. Grumbling, he paid the man

his money.

“Your bags are in the boot,” said the driver who remained seated in his taxi. Still grumbling, dad removed

our bags from the boot and then walked away without remembering to close the boot lid.

“Excuse me, sir, the driver called out, “You forgot to close my boot lid.”

“Don’t worry, dad,” I said, “we’ll shut it.”

I smiled, Tony smiled and Maria smiled as we closed the boot lid and walked away from the taxi.

“Why are you all looking so happy?” mum asked us as the taxi pulled away from the kerb and rejoined

the thickly packed traffic.

“Oh, nothing,” we lied.

Then she heard him, mum heard the taxi driver cursing and swearing from somewhere deep within the

traffic. He was shouting, “NO, NOT A STINK-BOMB.”

Mum laughed. Dad heard nothing; he was far too busy searching for the platform our train was departing

from.

“Tickets please,” a jovial black-skinned man asked as we approached the barrier.

Mum fumbled about in her bag.

“Hello, black man,” Tony said as he stared up at the ticket collector.

“And hello, little white man,” the happy individual replied with a laugh.

“Tony, what are you thinking of?” mum said, trying her best to apologise for my brother’s abrupt

greeting.

“It’s all right, Mrs,” said the man, “I’ve been called a lot worse than that.”

Mum shepherded us through the gate.

Making sure that we were far enough away not to be heard by the ticket collector, mum said, “It’s a

good job your father never heard, he’d have been mortified…”

Giving mum an obscure look, Tony said, “How could he have heard me - he’s always half a mile ahead

of us?”

“No more of that cheek, young man, we are on holiday,” mum scolded as we again tried to catch up

with our speeding dad.

I hardly registered their conversation because from the moment we walked through the gate and onto

the platform I had entered another world. I had entered a Heaven filled with so many wondrously powerful

steam locomotives. Euston station, though old and grimy from the accumulation of years of sooty

smoke, was a beautiful, a very beautiful place in my young steam loving eyes. I marvelled at everything.

I didn’t know what to look at first. And all the while mum urged me on, in our quest to find dad and our

seats on the train.

The carriages, despite also being old, were painted in a wonderful dark purple colour, with a set of thin

lines- white, yellow and black - running along the sides. And the lion, the splendid British Railways lion

standing so majestically on the train wheel logo painted on each carriage was, again, sheer heaven.

We caught up with dad at the far end of the train. Pulling a drag from yet another cigarette, he said,

“This is the carriage - number twenty-three - see?” Dad pointed to a square of paper glued onto the

inside of the window.

“Mum (dad had a habit of calling our mum - mum), have you got the seat tickets?” he asked impatiently.

Mum fumbled yet again in her bag. Retrieving the brown envelope, she said, “Here they are, I knew they

were here somewhere.”

“Let, me see,” said dad as took the envelope from mum and opened it. He searched feverously inside

the envelope for the required tickets. Then removing his hand from the envelope, he waved five wispy

pieces of paper high above him, proclaiming, “Got them!” And with that he shot through the open door

and vanished from sight.

Following dad, we climbed aboard the splendid train, again playing catch-up. It was a corridor carriage

(most of the trains on the main lines were in those days) in which the corridor was strategically placed

over to one side, making room for a series of compartments on the other. It was a great idea making for

a good travelling experience. Within each compartment, which had its own sliding door for privacy, there

were six comfortable seats, roller blinds on the windows for added privacy and even a small table under

the window. It was like I said, a good travelling experience, and for the life of me I can’t understand why

these types of carriages were phased out of use.

Although we were now safely inside the carriage we still had to find our compartment, and with dad

storming off once again we struggled under the weight of our luggage within the confines of the narrow

corridor. I had no idea how dad managed to negotiate the corridor with the two large suitcases in tow,

and whether or not he was still balancing one of them on his shoulder. I could only guess what he was

doing.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, dad stood outside our compartment as if he owned it. “Here you are,” he

said, with a smile from ear to ear, “your boudoir.”

We entered; we entered our compartment, Tony and I bagging the window seats.

Sliding the door closed, dad said, “Well, no more interruptions for us until we reach Holyhead.”

Staring at the empty seat opposite dad, I wondered if anyone had reserved it. I even tried to ask dad, but

he would hear none of it, saying, “No, that’s a spare seat, nobody travels alone. Pull down the blinds, he

ordered, “No one will be any the wiser, go on, down them down.”

Forgetting about the empty seat, well at least for the moment, my eyes wandered around our wonderful

compartment. The seats, of an unusual striped design fabric, were so very comfortable and soft, and

directly above each seat there was a framed picture displaying a variety of holiday destinations to tempt

the travelling public. Places like The isle of Weight, Bognor Regis, Blackpool and even Holyhead, where

we were soon to be heading, temped us all. Oh how I wished, right there and then, that I was a train

driver setting off to such splendid destinations each day.

“What time does it leave?” mum asked dad as he slid open the compartment door, craftily lighting a

cigarette.

Looking at his watch, he replied, “Seven thirty,”

“Good,” said mum, “we still an hour and a half.”

It was true; we still had well over an hour before the train actually began moving, and over the course of

next few years I was to learn that we always got on the boat train that early - just to be sure we never

missed it, but why oh why an hour and a half?

After he had finished his crafty fag, dad became restless, and sliding back the compartment door for a

second time, he said, “I’m just popping out for a moment.”

We smiled, Tony, Maria and myself knew exactly where dad was going - the cafeteria. If mum knew,

she never said it, but we knew, we knew only too well that dad was heading to the cafeteria for the

second love of his life - a cup of tea.

Tea was dad’s pastime, tea was his hobby and tea was (if it is possible) also his mistress. HE LOVED

IT.

After dad had been gone for well over fifteen minutes, mum began to fret, and she said, “Now where

could he have gotten himself to?”

We knew, and we guessed that mum also knew, but we never said anything, and nor did she - I wonder

why?

After another five minutes, mum was even more worried. “He’ll miss the train, he will,” she whispered to

herself. Then standing up, she looked out of the carriage window. “I can’t see your dad,” she said,

though not complaining, she never complained about dad when we were young.

“Maria, go see if you can find your father,” mum quietly asked, after struggling with her conscience as to

the merits of sending a girl onto a busy station platform in search of her father, “he must be out there

somewhere…”

“Can I go?” Tony asked, waving his hand excitedly in front of mum’s face.

“No, you’re far too young,” she said, ushering him back to his seat and the toy car he had been playing

with. Then thinking further about it, she said, “Gerrard, you go with your sister, they do say that two

heads are better than one.”

I was thrilled. To be going out onto the platform, on my own, well nearly on my own, was like winning

the pools. Jumping up from my seat, I raced to the door and slid it back so quickly it bounced on its

runners, almost catching my fingers.

“Take it easy,” mum ordered, “we have enough to contend with, with your father going missing.”

“Mum said you must stay with me,” Maria instructed as I jumped down from the train and began walking

away from her.

“All right,” I agreed as we headed off down the length of the platform.

With a finger gently tapping her lips, Maria said, “I wonder where the cafeteria might be…”

She should have asked me because every train enthusiast knew where the cafeteria on each station

was located.

“Ah, I can see it, she said triumphantly after spotting it, “It’s at the beginning of the platform. Come on,

Gerrard, we’ve no time to waste.”

I had absolutely no idea why my sister had said that, because we had loads of time to waste or, as I

saw it, time to be spent productively, inspecting steam locomotives. So giving her the slip, I left Maria

talking to herself as she made her way across to the cafeteria and, presumably, dad.

Deciding to see what fine engines were in the station, hauling the other trains, I slipped out through the

platform entry gate and made my way along the concourse. Outside it was busy, far busier than earlier

when Tony had said hello to the black skinned ticket collector. As I strolled past the entry gate and

across to the next platform, I saw a dirty nondescript locomotive attached to a rather short train.

Deciding to give it a miss I rambled on to the next gate where I saw a far cleaner locomotive, standing

puffing and panting having, presumably, only just arrived from some far-flung destination. As I stood

there admiring this shiny beast, the passengers began to disembark. There were so many people men,

women and children coming out, the train must have been jam-packed. Standing back, to allow the

throngs of passengers’ free movement, I saw three young children accompanied by a tired looking

mother, heading through the gate. I had to ask, I just had to ask them, “Excuse me, please,” I said to

the eldest boy, “where has this train come from?”

Looking at me as if I had two heads, the boy replied, “Why, Oxford of course.”

I was so disappointed. Oxford was far too close, not an exotic destination by any stretch of the

imagination. This train lost its appeal, and I wandered across to the next gate.

As I approached the next gate, with eyes peeled to see what locomotive might actually be there, I could

hardly believe my eyes when I spotted it. Almost hidden in huge clouds of vaporised steam, standing

proud like a giant blue panting beast, I saw The Mallard. I saw the fastest steam locomotive in the entire

world, waiting for my own personal inspection.

“Wow,” I declared only half believing that I was really seeing it. Unable to take my eyes off this wonder

of mechanical engineering, I repeated, “Wow,” over and over again.

When I finally accepted that I was really, actually really seeing the Mallard, I was at a total loss to

understand why no one was there guarding it. Like a pop star standing alone in the middle of Piccadilly

Circus, it was unthinkable, and as far as I was concerned this was far better than some silly pop star.

“Where are you going?” the ticket collector asked as I tried to slip through the almost deserted entry

gate.

“I, I’m going onto the platform,” I meekly replied.

“Oh no you’re not,” the gruff individual replied, “You’re going nowhere without a platform ticket.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. All that he wanted was a simple platform ticket. Rummaging through my

pockets I quickly found a thrupenny bit, “Here you are,” I said, holding up the money for his inspection.

“I don’t have them,” the man insisted, “I’m only a collector of tickets - not a seller. Go over to the

machine, yonder, where you can buy one.”

I looked over to where he was pointing; it seemed so far away, so very far away from the precious

Mallard.

“You won’t get one, just looking at it,” the ticket collector insisted, a hint of a smile creeping onto his

face. With that I tore across to the machine.

“Well, you got back in record time,” said the ticket collector when I returned from the machine, puffing

and panting almost as loud as a steam locomotive, “we could do with you on British Railways.”

“I was chuffed; I was so chuffed to think that an employee of British Railways could actually think that I

would be good for the company.

“Now let me clip your ticket,” he said, chuckling, “and then you can go onto the platform.”

I handed him the ticket, which he duly clipped, then with a wave of an arm the ticket collector welcomed

me onto the platform.

As I walked towards the Mallard, my legs trembling with excitement, the ticket collector whispered

quietly, “Kids and steam, what a strange mix.”

I couldn’t believe it; my mind reeled at the very thought of being so close to the greatest steam

locomotive of all time. And I found it even harder to believe that I was actually there on my very own, no

parents, no grownups and no children - nobody who might spoil this moment of moments. Looking up,

to where I believed heaven to be, I thanked my God for this wonderful moment in time.

Running my fingers along the immaculate blue paintwork adorning the wonderfully streamlined body, I

made a vow; I made a vow right there and then that I would have my bedroom painted in the very same

colour. Mum and dad’s opinion on the subject never came into the equation, it was going to be Mallard

Blue, and that was that.

Although no one was anywhere to be seen, this great locomotive was fully steamed up, ready for the off.

Just to make sure that I was not mistaken, that someone wasn’t really watching my every step, ready

to jump out and ask what I was doing there, I stopped alongside the driver’s cab entrance and furtively

took a peep inside. It was empty. With my heart thumping, like I was about to have a heart attack (I did

know about them because my granny had died from heart failure) I took hold of the brass rail and

carefully, ever so carefully stepped up and into the cab.

It was another world, inside, a world of dials, levers, cogs, soot and - steam. It was like I said -

HEAVEN. The other world, the world outside paled into insignificance when I was in there. Although it

was relatively small, the driver’s cab was crammed full of so many instruments, tools and pieces of

equipment it reminded me of Doctor Who’s Tardis - bigger on the inside than on the outside.

Then I spied the driver’s seat. It was actually little more that a metal stool top attached to an arm

extending from the side of the cab, but that humble piece of metal might well have been made of pure

gold, so hallowed an article it was to me. However, the seat was high; it was so very high I wondered

how I might ever be able to climb onto it without killing myself in the process. As I was scratching my

head, trying to solve this dilemma, I spied something to the rear of the cab. To be truthful, it was

actually in the coal tender itself. Making my way through, I found myself in yet another world, the world

of the fireman, where mountains of coal were piled high in the long tender I climbed up the coal, trying to

keep my balance while avoiding the falling pieces, and reached to the very top where a small wooden

stool was perched.

“Got you,” I cried out with glee, then I carefully made my way down with it.

”Got what?” a voice from behind me asked.

I froze with fright. I had been found out.

With face, hands and clothes totally covered in coal dust, I timidly re-entered the driver’s cab.

“What have we got here, one of the black and white minstrels?” an old, round-faced man in dungarees

asked, when he saw my black appearance.

“I, I was just getting… this stool,” I explained, thinking honesty the best and, perhaps, the only policy,

considering how guilty I was.

“Ah,” he smiled, “you want to sit on my seat, don’t you?”

“Are you the driver?” I asked, the excitement in me building again.

“I am,” he replied, “But not for long, I’m afraid…”

Intrigued and yet saddened by the old man’s statement, I just had to ask, “Why?”

Taking out a pipe, the round-face man began to stuff it with tobacco. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do

you?” he asked, more out of politeness that concern for the health of my lungs (that’s that way things

were in those days).

I nodded, that I had no objections to him smoking.

Striking a match on the fire door, he took a few long draws on his pipe, filling the cab with its wonderful

aroma. Right there I decided that I was going to smoke a pipe when I became an engine driver.

“You see,” the old man said slowly. “You see,” he said again for increased emphasis, “I am retiring

today…”

I was shocked; I was totally shocked that anyone might want to retire from the best job in the whole

world (I had no idea that when you reached sixty-five you had no other option other than to retire). I

asked, “Why?”

“A bit long in the tooth,” he explained as he took another draw on his pipe, filling the cab with ever more

smoke.

“Oh,” I said politely, though I had no idea what he actually meant by it.

Changing the subject, the driver asked, “Where are your family?”

“My mum’s in the train, the one going to Holyhead, with my brother. Maria, my sister, is looking for dad

- he’s mad about tea,” I replied all in one breath.

“I like it myself - do you?”

“A bit,” I lied. I really hated tea, but could never admit that to a real life engine driver.

“Fancy a cuppa?” he asked as he fumbled about in a canvas duffle bag hanging from a hook high in the

cab.

“I’d love one,” I lied again.

“Your train doesn’t go out for nearly an hour, you know…”

“I do,” I replied letting about a big sigh, showing my utter frustration.

“Gave you some time to explore, though,” he chuckled. “Oh, by the way, the name is Joe, Joe Bloggs.

I laughed. I tried not to, but was unable to stop myself.“I’m sorry,” I apologised to Joe, “I thought that

was only a made up name, for funny stories.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” he said smiling, “I’m too old for worrying about little things such as that.”

Using the hot water from the engine, the Mallard herself, Joe made two mugs of piping hot tea, and then

he asked if I would like to sit in his seat.

With eyes beaming bright with delight, I said yes. So placing the stool beneath his seat, Joe told me to

climb up to it. I did. I climbed onto the best seat in the whole wide world and, accepting the piping hot

tea, I felt like a real grownup engine driver. It was GREAT.

After we had finished our tea, Joe showed me all around the engine. He showed me every part of it from

top to bottom, explaining how it all worked and why it worked so much better on the Mallard. Before

stepping aboard, I had thought myself to be an expert on steam locomotives, but now I realised how

little I actually knew.

“I think it’s about time you returned to your family,” Joe said as we finished inspecting the train, with its

huge wheels, the drive train of this fantastic machine.

Thanking him for the wonderful tour, I waved Joe goodbye and then turned to face the platform gate.

Suddenly a powerful blast of steam from the piston in front of the wheels totally enveloped me in its hot

embrace. I jumped, not because it was hot, but simply in fright.

Taking a last look back, to give Joe another wave, I was saddened to see that he had already

disappeared from sight. I walked along the platform slowly returning from the high I had been on. Feeling

dampness in my sandals I looked down and was surprised at what I saw. Shocked is probably a better

word to describe how I felt when I looked down to my feet, staring at my socks in sheer disbelief. You

see, my socks, my blue socks had changed in colour, from light blue to a pale yellow.

“Wow - magic,” I shrieked in surprise. Then I noticed my hands - they were now perfectly clean, so was

my face and all of my clothes. “Wow” I shrieked again.

Turning round, I tore back to the driver’s cab, to tell Joe what had just happened.

“Joe, Joe,” I called out looking into the empty cab with excitement. But Joe was nowhere to be seen.

"Where had he gone?" I asked, scratching my head in frustration. I even went into the first few carriages

of the train itself, thinking Joe had gone inside for a rest, but I couldn’t find him in there either. I was

totally flabbergasted as to where Joe could have disappeared.

“Did you have a good time?” the ticket collector asked as I sulkily made my way off the platform.

“I did,” I replied, “but where has Joe gone?”

Narrowing his eyes, the ticket collector asked, “Joe? Joe who?”

“Joe, Joe Bloggs, of course,” I explained, “the engine driver.”

“Joe Bloggs, you say?”

“Yes, he made me a mug of tea and let me sit on his seat…”

“Now that is strange,” the ticket collector said as he stared up the platform toward the majestic train.

“Why?” I asked getting more confused by the second.

“You see,” he said slowly, carefully, methodically, “Joe, Joe Bloggs - the engine driver of the Mallard - is

dead.”

I gasped. “He can’t be,” I cried, “I have only just been talking with him…”

“I’m afraid that he is,” the man explained. “He died a year ago, to this very day. And, I don’t know if I

should be telling you this, you being a young kid…”

“Tell me, tell me,” I implored.

“He - Joe - died right there where he worked, seated in the cab of his beloved Mallard…”

As I walked back to our train I was in a daze, I was confused and bewildered by the strange events that

I had just been a part of. My friend, my new friend had actually died a year before I had ever met him.

Then scratching my head again, I remembered my socks, and how they had changed colour, and I

wondered at the magic.

I caught up with Maria outside the cafeteria. Where have you been?” she asked me brusquely, annoyed

at my disappearance.

“Talking to Joe,” I answered truthfully.

Maria ignored my reply; she was far more interested in telling me about dad.

“Do you know where dad is?” she asked me, her annoyance only too evident on her young face. “I will

tell you where he is,” she continued without giving me the opportunity to reply. “He is inside that, that

tea-house - drinking his fourth cup of tea, no less!”

I made an effort to speak, but Maria fumed on regardless, “And look at the time, we’ve only got five

minute until our train leaves…”

She was right, there were only five minutes before the train pulled out from the station.

“Will you go in and tell him?” she asked, “I’m tired of trying to get him out from there.”

I nodded that I would. Stepping into the cafeteria, I saw dad standing at the counter drinking his beloved

tea.

Pulling at his jacket, I said, “Dad, dad.”

“What is it?” he asked, in his sternest voice.

I shrank back, and whispered, “Dad, the train leaves in less than five minutes…”

Then why are you not on it?” he asked me crossly.

“I, we…”

Go, go get on the train,” he ordered, “your mother will be worried out of her mind.”

We ran. Maria and I ran all the way back to our train.

”Where on earth have you been all this time?” mum asked as we slid open the compartment door.

We stared; we stared at a young Chinese man sitting in the sixth seat. He grinned back at us.

“Now stop staring at the man,” mum ordered.

Then remembering dad, I said, “Dad’s still in the cafeteria, he said something about getting a cup of tea

to ‘takeaway’.

“He would,” said mum in what was the closest thing I had ever heard her say to a complaint about dad.

The carriage moved, shuddering and jolting backwards and forwards.

“They’re getting ready to leave,” said mum, her voice rising with concern. “Where can he be?”

There was another jolt and the train began moving.

“Dad, dad,” mum shouted as she looked out the window, pressing tight against it, “where are you?”

Then we saw him, we saw dad with two polystyrene cups of tea in his hands, running after the slowly

departing train.

“Dad,” mum cried out, “someone open the door and let him in!”

With that command the Chinese man leapt up from his seat and rushed out of the compartment to the

carriage door, letting dad in.

“Thanks,” said dad to the Chinese man, as he clambered aboard, “it’s leaving a bit early, isn’t it?”

The Chinese man grinned.

Dad coughed nervously and made his way to our compartment.

There you are, my dear,” said dad, handing mum one of the polystyrene cups, “a nice cup of tea for

you…”

Sliding the compartment door closed, dad sat into his seat and, putting his feet onto the one opposite,

settled down for a nice sleep all the way to Holyhead. However, the door slid open again, revealing the

grinning Chinese man standing outside.

“This compartment’s all taken,” said dad as forcefully as he felt able, considering the man’s kind act.

“Yes,” said the Chinese, grinning again, “I am in it.”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” said dad, “there is only the one vacant seat…”

“Grinning even more, the Chinese man replied, “I am only one.”

“But, but,” said dad in a state of confusement by the Chinese man’s unfailing logic, “where is your wife?”

“In china,” the grinning man replied, “You like see picture?”

“No, No, that’s all right.” Dad replied, realizing that he was at nothing trying to reserve the seat for the

benefit of his own two feet. Reluctantly, dad allowed the Chinese man entry.

Reaching up to the luggage rack, the Chinese man took down a bag.

“How did that get there?” dad asked totally confused by its appearance.

We laughed.

Opening his bag, the Chinese man took out a selection of bowls, plates and containers, asking, “You l

ike some curry?”

So that was it, the beginning of my first trip, my first ever holiday to Ireland. As regards my colour

changing socks, well, no one at all believed me when I told them what happened. They took no more

notice when I told them about the miraculous cleaning of my hands, face and clothes. However, I knew t

hese things had happened, and I also knew that Joe, old Joe Bloggs the man who had had the best job i

n the whole world, had somehow been a part in it…

You can email me with your thoughts and comments: email me

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I really am the crazy-mad writer of children's stories,

songs and nursery rhymes!

Gerrard T Wilson 2008