Dreamer

When I shut my eyes, and I try to dream the dream of my choice, it goes something like this. Is there anywhere I would like to be transported back to more than Crewe, in - let’s say - 1962? Was there a more important place name in the world for me than Crewe, when I was 13? Crewe was the centre of the universe. It was far enough away to feel you were going somewhere special but near enough to home for a comfortably timed day trip by train. We didn’t have to get up at stupid times to get there and we even had a choice of routes to choose from…………

Sometimes we go from New Brighton to Liverpool Central and walk up to Lime Street. We could actually get there by a slower and more circuitous route via Birkenhead Park, Bidston and a walk between Chester Northgate and General, just for a change, but we never do. Our favourite is to start off on the number ten bus to Woodside from Stroude’s corner, which is provided alternately by yellow Wallasey Corporation examples and blue ones from Birkenhead, as it is run as a joint service between the two county boroughs.

From there, the Fairburn tanks whisk us to Chester on the Paddington expresses, hammering along the four-track sections between Rock Ferry and Hooton and then on through Capenhurst. 42236 pulls up in the bay platforms which serve the ex-GWR lines out of Chester. It is detached from the train and waits for its timetabled return to Birkenhead later on in the day. 1025 County of Radnor is attached at the other end.

If there is time before the next train to Crewe, we grab a mug of tea at the buffet next to the main station entrance and then it is over the footbridge in time for 45426 coming off the North Wales line to take us to El Dorado. But first, it is Chester sheds on the left as we pick up speed, so we have to be alert as always. Past Beeston Castle and it seems that we are slowing for Crewe in no time. The works is on the left and if you stand on tiptoe in the corridor with your head out of the window there is just a chance of reading the smokebox number plates on the condemned un-rebuilt Patriots on the other side of the wall, which marks the boundary of the works. There appears to be just one long siding between the workshop buildings themselves and the wall. We crane our necks, risking life and limb, and with heads leaning well outside the carriage end windows, which we have opened as far as they will go, the leather straps hanging loose and released from the last notch on the belt.

No time to lose, it is straight over to the other side of the coach, as we round the curve and the station comes into view. What a splendid sight Crewe North sheds is, just teeming with red and green engines, in addition to the normal black ones. We start shouting out the numbers and the subsequent recorded scrawlings in the note book are off the ruled lines and suddenly much more untidy than usual. Talk about pressure. At the back of our minds we actually know that this is probably an unnecessary panic as we have it in mind to bunk 5A as a matter of course, but you never know. It is not a good idea to count our chickens too early on. Brief arguments ensue over the misreading of a grubby cab side number, an issue we can not immediately resolve as the locomotive in question has already disappeared behind something else. In the end, we go with the majority, or maybe it is just the most adamant voice.

46228 Duchess of Rutland shimmers in the sunlight, primed for the north, all fizz and pent up energy. I get butterflies in my tummy as I anticipate a successful hit on Crewe North later in the morning, eager to see what is lurking in the depths of the shed, on parade at the mouth of the half roundhouse, or being prepared in the yard and currently out of sight.

Crewe North is not that easy. Past the little single-storey shop at the end of the road bridge that sells the Ian Allan abc books and we take a right into the warren of Victorian terraces. We know the way to the main entrance so well, but we are assured of nothing. It is always a busy route and we have to go down a narrow passageway adjacent to the offices. There are windows in the offices and the foreman can see who is going past, but only if he is on the lookout. Rather than crouch down and look ridiculously furtive, we prefer a short, sharp walking pace without looking sideways and hope for the best. With a bit of luck, the foreman is deep in conversation and will not notice us. If we can get past that bit without being challenged we could be OK, as it then opens out into the main shed. Our plan is that if we are stopped we will always ask politely if we can have a look round, knowing that the answer would be a scornful “No,” [or worse] but probably acting sensibly enough to take the sting out of the situation, as we turn on our heels in unison and make for the exit.

At the approach, we pass a forlorn group of lads coming the other way. “Got kicked out,” they tell us. We get cold feet because we are next in the firing line but we know another way in and so we walk round through yet more streets until we are on the other side of the shed where there is a high wire fence adjacent to more sturdy railings next to the shed yard and the coaling plant. This fencing is being frequently attacked and patched up again. Sometimes there is a small gap in the railings, sometimes lads have burrowed like badgers in the dirt at the foot of the fence and tried to curl it up at the base. We get in. Hearts are pounding now. We look around and leg it towards lines of engines that offer some cover as well as a host of new numbers. We work our way systematically round the site, finishing at the main entrance before walking steadily but warily past the offices and out into the daylight. The exhilaration hits us. We are ecstatic. We talk about the new cops that we know we have made without looking them up, edging towards the classing of the Semis, or taking us within one of finishing off the Prinnies, before they are all withdrawn. 

From there, Gresty Lane seems like miles away, but we go for it anyway. It is only a two- road shed but it has Westerns, usually Halls or even Granges. It is in the shadow of the Mornflake Oats breakfast cereal factory. It is a tiring trek on a hot day, but it just has to be done. South sheds, 5B, is usually fairly full, but lacks the namers that are so plentiful at North, though it could still turn up the odd Jubilee or Brit’. On the way, we have to pass the new diesel depot with a handful of English Electric Type 4’s humming away outside. We barely give it the time of day, but we do write down the numbers we can see from the path. South is a sprawling site and you have to cross many tracks on walkways to reach it. It feels a little open and we are really a bit vulnerable, both to being spotted and ejected and with having to keep an eye on moving traffic. I don’t ever remember being asked to leave from here, yet at both sheds there are always other groups of lads milling around as well.

Without permits as part of an official school party we are probably stumped for access to the works, though on this occasion we manage to negotiate tagging along with another group and we are delighted to have “beaten the system” this once. Sometimes the crocodiles of lads and their leaders queuing at the works entrance are enormous. There are a couple of elderly works employees in uniform and shiny flat hats, who are assigned to take us round, one at the front and one at the rear. At the end of the day we retrace our steps homewards, but on the cushions this time, weary and footsore, grimy but contented.

…………………Now, I am back where I started. The dream is over until next time. Such days protected me from my own mediocrity at school, from the relentless competitive jousting involved in trying to establish meaningful friendships, from the complications and disappointments that girlfriends always seemed to bring with them in their wake and from the general growing pains of youth.

Trains, on the other hand, never disappointed, were always reliably where you expected them to be and demanded our full attention with their splendour, their colour, their proportions and their sheer power. After tea, I would open up my combined volume and go through my notes for the day, putting crosses where I had seen them before and a tick where they were new to me, before underlining my cops very carefully in red biro in the Ian Allan book. I took satisfaction from creating a run of consecutive under-linings of engines seen, and even more so by filling in a gap to create a much longer run.

It was just me and them. None of them ever complained at me, answered me back, made fun of me, shunned me, asked me to give them anything, demanded my attention, threatened me, criticised me, told me off, hurt my feelings or let me down. I had that day actually risked my life by only half concentrating whilst crossing busy lines and wandering around industrial sites littered with angular heavy metal objects protruding from benches and trolleys, rusty bits of iron lying around on the floor, inspection pits, patches of oil, scalding water running from hoses, piles of red hot cinders, all with my head buried deep in a notebook. I had stuck my head right out of the window at risk of decapitation without so much as a thought about my own safety, but as a young person I never felt safer inside than when I was in the company of trains.

After tea, I went down to the park and played football until it went dark. I had by then stepped back into the other part of my life - my everyday life. Back home again, I deliberated over my friendships and worked out strategies for improving my performance at school without any massive input of time or effort. I worried if I was using the wrong soap. I wrangled over whether I should cut my fringe or not. I looked in the mirror and just could not believe that the spot on my cheek was still there. I thought about what I’d say to her the next time I saw the girl I liked, that wouldn’t be as weak as last time’s garbled nonsense. I went to bed and I tried to dream of trains. Sometimes, I still do.

[This article appears in the current edition of the Railway Antiques Gazette. I am grateful to the editor, Tim Petchey.]