Rambling Again

Online chats have been one of the pluses of this extra time at home. Numbers can get a bit unwieldy if you want to make sure that you get your “half-pen’orth” in, though, while trying not be rude by simply shouting the loudest. Andy and I went off on one recently, remembering the many visits we made to the sheds  - especially Birkenhead - in the early and mid-60s. I could see that the girls’ eyes were starting to glaze over, but we were on a roll by then and there was no stopping us.

Most sheds were in solidly working-class areas and typically surrounded by rows of small Victorian terraced houses. No front gardens, and the front doors opened straight out onto the pavement. We were generally out of our comfort zone. In some cases, we were part of an organised visit and possibly even in school uniform, which I suppose afforded us some safety in numbers.

Usually, we were in smaller groups, at weekends and during holidays. Cycling also provided some security. Once into Birkenhead, my guess is that we upped the pace in a Pavlovian response to the change of location demarcated by the bridges over the docks. We were in and out of Mollington Street on a Sunday morning like a dose of salts - weaving in and out of any small knots of kids playing in the cul-de-sac and too fast to attract comment from the somewhat dazed middle-aged men propped up against their front doors in their vests, smoking a fag, recovering from a trip to the pub the night before and maybe planning to squeeze in another quick half while their nearest and dearest saw to the Sunday roast.

Where we were more vulnerable was away from home in areas we didn’t know. We were tentatively finding our way, guided by Aidan Fuller’s shed directory. Gangs of lads of our age were exactly what we needed to avoid. I fancy that the local youths would probably have noticed that we were different - strangers with a different accent, maybe looking a bit on the clean side [in the morning, anyway] and dressed by Marks and Spencer’s.

The surprising thing is that, by and large, we got away with it. As Andy reminded me, the folk who lived near to the sheds must have been used to this procession of kids from all sorts of backgrounds wandering through their home turf. They probably didn’t even bat an eyelid. The only two such confrontations I can remember were both when cycling. The only time we were seriously apprehended, at all, was by the shed foreman at Shrewsbury. Even that did not deter us from returning the next morning after a night at the local youth hostel.

Once in the sheds, of course, the only other lads were like-minded and part of our tribe. We understood each other and there was never any bother. We led a charmed life. More than ever, now, that is just how it seems. 

Crab No. 42942 was a Birkenhead engine and we saw her many times. She was one of two Crabs still at work at the beginning of 1967. Here she is in March of that year, dead as a dodo at the side of the sheds in the company of a 2-10-0. By November 1967 steam had finished operating out of Mollington Street.