My Socks that Magically Changed Colour

by Gerrard Wllson

bore an uncanny resemblance to Waterloo station. There were postal delivery vans and scooters speeding in every direction, and dive-bombing pigeons all over the place. The cab driver, who had up until then remained remarkably silent, suddenly spoke. He said, “Euston Station; two pounds please.”

  Dad almost choked on his cigarette when he heard the price he was being charged. “Two pounds?” he hollered. “We agreed on one pound.”

  The cab driver smiled condescendingly, and said, “That’s true, sir, we did agree on that price. But I did tell you there would be some miscellaneous expenses on top of it. Your bags are those expenses, and they are one pound exactly.”

  Dad was beaten; there was no way of getting away from that fact. Instead of getting a bargain price fare, he had been ripped off. Grumbling, he begrudgingly paid the man his money.

  From the comfort of his seat, the cab driver said, “Don’t forget about your luggage in the boot.” Grumbling and grizzling away to himself, dad removed our luggage from the boot. He was so annoyed with the cab driver, he forgot about closing the boot lid.

  “Excuse me, sir!” the driver said condescendingly, “You failed to close my boot lid.”

  “Don’t worry, dad,” I said to him, “Tony, Maria and I will shut it.”

  I smiled, Tony smiled. Maria smiled. Then we closed the boot lid and walked away from the cab.

  “Why are you all looking so happy?” mum asked, as we watched the taxi pulled away from the kerb and join the thickly packed traffic.

  “There is no reason,” we lied.

  Then she heard him, mum heard the taxi driver cursing and swearing from deep within the thickly packed traffic. He was shouting, “NO, NOT A STINK-BOMB! NO!”

  Hearing this mum laughed. We also laughed. Dad never laughed, though. He was far too busy searching for the platform our train was departing from.

  “Tickets please,” a jovial, dark-skinned man said to us, when we approached the platform barrier. Dad pointed to mum. She searched through her bag, looking for them.

  Gazing innocently at the ticket collector, Tony said, “Hello, black man.”

  “And hello to you too, little white man,” he jovially replied.

  “Tony, what are you thinking of?” mum chastised. “I am so sorry, ticket collector, she apologised, “he doesn’t usually say such rude things.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs,” he answered. “No offence has been taken. I have been called a lot worse than that, in my time.”

  Mum shepherded us through the gate. “Now where had your father gone?” she asked.

  I never heard mum’s question, because, having entered the platform, one of ever so many in Waterloo station, the mecca for all things STEAM, I was in a world of my own; a world populated by steam locomotives. Euston station, although soot laden and grimy, was a wondrous place in my steam loving eyes. I marvelled at everything I saw – and then some.

  As I walked along the platform, oblivious to everything going on around me, I marvelled at the steam engines some more. Turning my attention to the carriages, I marvelled at them also. Although they were old, almost as old as the rickety, electric train carriages we had travelled in, on our way up to London, they were so different; worlds apart. These carriages, in a magnificent shade of deep purple, had a set of narrow lines, white, yellow and black, painted half way up them. Moreover, these lines spanned the entire length of the train. Complementing the wonderful colour scheme of the carriages were lions. Splendid British Railways Lion logos, standing majestically and regal, were featured at the centre of each and every carriage. It was sheer perfection.

  We caught up with dad at the far end of the train. Smoking a cigarette, he said, “This is the carriage, number twenty-three. See?” He pointed to a piece of paper glued to the inside of the carriage window. “Mum (dad had a habit of calling mum that), have you got the seat tickets?”

  Mum looked in her bag, searching for them. Retrieving the brown envelope, she said, “Here they are, I knew they were in here somewhere.”

  “Let, me see,” dad said to her. Taking the envelope, he opened it, and then delved a hand into it. “Here they are,” he said triumphantly, a few moments later. Waving five pieces of paper high above him, he said, “These are our train tickets and seat reservations, so they are!” Having said that, he stepped into the train, turned a corner then vanished from sight.

  Following dad, we climbed aboard the splendid steam powered train. It was a corridor train (most of the trains on the main lines were in those days). The corridor was over to one side, and opposite it were a series of compartments running the entire length of each carriage. It was an excellent setup, offering a great travelling experience. Within each compartment, which had its own sliding door, there were six seats, roller blinds on the patrician widows, and a small table under the carriage window. It was, like I have already told you, a great travelling experience. Moreover, for the life of me, I cannot understand why these types of carriages are not still in use.

  We still had to find our compartment. Dad set off once again at a blistering pace. We struggled to keep up with him. It still puzzles me as to how he managed to negotiate such a narrow corridor – and so quickly – with so much luggage in tow.

  When we caught up with him, dad was standing outside one of the compartments as if he owned it. “Here you are,” he said to us, “your home from home.”

  We entered; we entered our compartment. Tony and I bagged the window seats. Sliding the door closed, dad said, “There will be no interruptions for us until we reach Holyhead.”

  Gazing at the empty seat opposite dad, I wondered if anyone had reserved it. I tried to ask him about it, but he would hear none of it. “That is a spare seat,” he insisted. “Nobody travels alone. Pull down the blinds,” he ordered. “No one will be any the wiser, with them down.”

  Forgetting about the empty seat (at least for the moment), my eyes wandered around our compartment. The seats, of a striped design fabric, were extremely comfortable. Above each seat were framed pictures, promoting various holiday destinations, such as The Isle of Weight, Bognor Regis, Blackpool and Holyhead. I wished I was a train driver, setting off to splendid destinations each day.

  “What time does the train leave?” mum asked dad as he slid open the compartment door.

  Lighting a cigarette, dad looked at his watch, and then he replied, “At seven thirty,”

  “Good,” mum said to him, “we have plenty of time left until we set off.”

  It was true; we had an hour and a half left to kill before the train began moving. This was how they did it, my parents, when going on holiday; they arrived at the station long before our train left it. “Just to be sure we don’t miss it,” is what they usually said to me, “just to be sure.”

  When dad finished smoking his cigarette, he became restless. “I’m just popping out for a moment,” he said to mum.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Just out,” he answered vaguely.

  We smiled, Tony, Maria and I knew exactly where dad was going. He was going to the station cafeteria, because of the second love of his life – tea. Tea was dad’s pastime. HE LOVED IT.

  When dad was gone for almost half an hour, mum began to worry about him. “Where could he have gotten himself to?” she said to herself. We knew, though.

  Five minutes later, mum was beside herself, with worry. “He’ll miss the train, so he will,” she said to us. She gazed through the window, looking for him. “I can’t see your dad,” she worriedly told us.

  Several minutes later, dad was still missing. “Maria, go see if you can find your father,” mum ordered. “He must be somewhere out there.”

  Waving a hand excitedly in front of mum’s face, Tony said, “Can I go too?”

  “No, you’re far too young to be going out there on your own.”

  “But I won’t be on my own!” he protested. “I will be with Maria! She needs help to find dad!”

  “Return to your seat,” she ordered
. A few moments later, however, after considering the situation some more, mum said, “Perhaps Maria could do with some help... Gerrard; go with your sister and find your dad.”

  I was thrilled. Jumping up from my seat, I raced to the door and opened it so quickly it almost bounced off its runners.

  “Take it easy,” mum ordered, “we have enough to contend with, without you destroying the train carriage.”

  Stepping down from the train, Maria said, “Mum said you must stay close to me” Stepping down from the train, I sauntered away from her as if I hadn’t a care in the world. “Didn’t you hear what I just said to you?” she asked me.

  “We are either in this together or not at all,” she barked. “Do you want to go back to your seat?”

  “Okay,” I lied, “we are in this together.

  “I wonder where the cafeteria is,” Maria said, thinking out loud.

  She should have asked me, because every train enthusiast knew where the cafeteria was located.

  “Ah, there it is,” she said, pointing ahead of us. “It’s at the beginning of the platform. Come on, Gerrard, we’ve no time to waste.”

  I had absolutely no idea why she said that, because we had plenty of time left before out train pulled out from the station. Exiting the platform Maria set off at a brisk pace, heading for the cafeteria. With so many steam engines I wanted to see, inspect, I seized the opportunity to give her the slip. I set off in the opposite direction.

  Stopping at the next platform, I