THE WRONG TRAIN

In the days before they locked the carriage doors!

PRELUDE

In the autumn of 1978, after only a few months working for Rowntree Mackintosh plc in York, my new line manager asked me to attend a Quality Assurance meeting at the company’s Norwich factory to meet key personnel and to familiarise myself with the products manufactured there.  I was surprised and flattered to be invited on an expenses-paid business trip so soon after joining, but I was also excited by the prospect.  The best means of travelling the 180 miles to Norwich appeared to be catching the York to London intercity train and changing at Peterborough for Norwich.  Little did I know how eventful this trip would be!

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THE STORY

I woke up early that morning, aware something unusual was about to happen.  A uniformed chauffeur driving a white Ford Granada was going to collect me from my austere little flat in shabby Albermarle Road on the south side of York and drive me to the railway station.  Had I won the football pools or had I miraculously been promoted to a director?  I wish!  Certainly, my transition from penniless food technology student in Grimsby to graduate trainee with Rowntree Mackintosh plc, one of the world’s largest confectionery manufacturers, had been swift.  But now it seemed I was being treated like one.  I imagined the luxurious car cruising slowly down our street and gently pulling up outside, the chauffeur gracefully getting out, buttoning up his uniform jacket, straightening his peaked cap, and striding smartly up to our front door to ring the bell.  The net curtains of our working-class neighbours would be twitching, the occupants curious about their ‘important’ neighbour.  

There was no need to rush.  I had plenty of time before the chauffeur was due.  Jenny, my wife of only a few weeks, was still asleep.  Gently climbing out of bed without disturbing her, setting my feet down on the rough carpet and feeling the cold of the bedroom, quickly grounded me in reality.  The bathroom was even colder.  I could see my breath.  Avoiding an embarrassing cut while simultaneously shaving and shivering requires the utmost concentration.  The dim lighting in this windowless room and the rusty old mirror didn’t help either.  Enduring the barely tepid water in the claustrophobic shower cubicle was equally challenging, and I didn’t linger.  God, how I hated this awful flat.

Half an hour later, I stood waiting downstairs in the narrow hallway.  My new work suit felt awkward, and the black brogues were too shiny.  I felt pretentious.  The belted beige raincoat only made matters worse.  The leather briefcase, a relic from my father’s career, held only a cheap biro pen and some writing paper.  My small overnight bag was the only authentic accessory.  Above the old front door, the glow from the street lamp outside shone through a glass panel, casting a sodium-orange patch on the hall wall.

Right on cue, I heard a vehicle approaching.  A car pulled up outside; a heavy car door closed,   crisp footsteps approached on wet paving, followed by a firm knock at the door.  I paused, not wanting to confirm reality, that I was standing waiting on the other side of the door.  After a few seconds, I turned the cold metal handle, pulled back the latch and opened it.  A middle-aged man, somewhat wiry, stood there in a dark blue suit and a peaked cap, pretty much as I had visualised.

“Good morning, sir!  I’ve come to drive you to York railway station for your 8am train to Peterborough”, he declared in a crisp and businesslike manner, “My name is Peter.  Please allow me to take your bags”.  

“Thank you, thank you”, I blurted out, thinking I should have carried them to the car myself.

He reached down, took my overnight bag and briefcase, and returned to the white Ford Granada parked directly opposite the front door.  He then deposited them in the voluminous boot, closed the lid, briskly walked around to the nearside door and held it open for me.  I couldn’t help but feel like a fraud, a complete imposter, and started to blush.  Again, I thanked him far too enthusiastically and climbed into the car.  Peter talked to me through the rearview mirror, his deep blue eyes innocently drilling into my embarrassment.  The street hadn’t woken up yet, and the parallel rows of terrace houses were cloaked in mist.

“I don’t recall having driven you before.  Have you been with the company long?”

I hesitated, concerned about revealing my novice recruit status.

“Only since July”, I stammered, “This is my first business trip.  I’m visiting our factory in Norwich.”

His eyes darted between mine and the road ahead as the conversation continued during the short journey.  His words became more gentle, his tone reassuring.  I guessed he had already sensed my discomfort and embarrassment.  After a while, we reached the railway station, and he drove slowly under the yellow brick arches. Then, he stopped the car at the dropping-off point.  

A muddle ensued.  I hesitated when Peter got out of the car.  Should I remain inside and let him open the door?  Would he retrieve my bags first?  What was the correct thing to do?  As no doubt practised many times, he took my bags out of the boot first and, realising I was still in the car, opened the door for me, smiling reassuringly.

“Okay.  Let’s check your train is on time”.

Before I could worry about whether he or I should carry the bags into the station, he had picked them up and started to march inside.  I quickly followed.  With a tinkling cascade, the black metal plates on the huge arrivals and departures board tumbled down to update their information.  We confirmed the 8 am train to London Kings Cross was on schedule and due to arrive at platform three.  The train did indeed call at Peterborough, where I would have to change for Norwich.  Peter handed me my bags, smiled and said, “Good Luck and enjoy your trip”.

What a pleasant man!  However, he swiftly turned away, and I didn’t get a chance to thank him again.  I watched his back as he quickly left the station, perhaps needing to remove the car from the dropping-off point before some over-zealous official gave him a parking ticket.  I glanced at my watch.  7:28am.  I had thirty-two minutes.  Time to buy a newspaper, a packet of chewing gum, and enjoy a coffee.  Twenty minutes later, I strolled onto Platform 3, admiring the sweeping curve of the station roof constructed from repeating rows of ornate cast iron girders and gracefully resting on wide brick arches.  The large tunnel of space the roof created was filled with the echoes of barely legible announcements concerning departing trains and platform numbers.  Early morning light entered through large circular portals in the brickwork, creating chiaroscuro patterns on the platforms below.  At the top of some steps leading across a footbridge to additional platforms, a large, ornate clock with Roman numerals reported the time had reached 7:40am.  I doubted its accuracy, but my watch verified it was spot on.  Good old Victorian engineering!  Twenty minutes to go.

Men looking at ease in smart suits and clutching expensive-looking executive cases sauntered along the platform to the First Class waiting area.  Elegant women in two-piece suits and high heels, some in conversation, others smoking and watching the scene.  There were few tourists at this hour, and most passengers were clearly travelling on business.  There was an ambience expectancy for the inbound train.  Railway guards and ticket collectors in dark blue uniforms, some sporting thick moustaches, went about their business while burly porters heaved trolleys loaded high with luggage and parcels.  I wished I’d brought a camera and had time to take some photographs. 

I pulled my The Times newspaper from under my arm and scanned the front page: a man murdered in London, riots in Belfast, unemployed rising.  I opened the broadsheet to see if there was happier news inside.  At that moment, I heard a garbled message on the tannoy and looked up to see my train arriving alongside the platform.  I quickly folded up the newspaper and stepped forward towards a carriage door.  Suddenly, it was flung open, and passengers began to disembark.  When the last person stepped down, an old lady in a heavy wool coat clutching a large handbag, I climbed aboard and chose a table seat opposite a group of middle-aged businessmen, all immersed in their own broadsheets.  I stashed my overnight bag on the shelf above, laid my near-empty briefcase next to me, and settled down to restart my own reading.

I remember starting an article about the growing feminist movement when I felt a jerk, and the train began to pull out of the station.  You could almost sense the torque building along the chain of carriages and the powerful diesel engine straining against a colossal inertia.  I glanced at my watch.  7:50am!  I immediately glanced out of the window.  The train was indeed moving along the platform. Many passengers remained waiting, presumably for the next train to another destination.  Pulse quickening, I glanced at my watch again to verify the time.  Forty seconds past 7:50am.  A surge of unease ran up from my stomach.  Why should my 8am train depart ten minutes early?  Had they made a mistake?  Had they decided to leave early because everyone was already aboard?  I looked across at the businessmen.  They were still immersed in their newspapers, oblivious to my anxiety.  I needed to check with them.

“Excuse me, this is the 8am train to London Kings Cross?” 

Perhaps it was suppressed panic in my voice that encouraged the nearest man to quickly look up from his paper.

“No, young man, this is the 7:50am Intercity to Bristol Temple Mead.”  He paused, then added with a sardonic smile, “First stop, Birmingham New Street!”

Jesus Christ!  I was on the wrong train!  I can’t recall exactly, but I must have immediately jumped up from my seat, snatched my raincoat and bags, and, as the train began slowly accelerating out of the station, began striding down the central isle, avoiding the stares of the smirking businessmen who had all lowered their papers to get a clear view of this young fool.  I strode from one carriage to the next, peering ahead for the conductor, ticket collector or guard, in fact, any official I could find.  Meanwhile, my thoughts were racing ahead.  How to get from Birmingham New Street to Norwich?  How late would that make me? Should I pay for the ticket and make up a story about why I hadn’t arrived at the Norwich factory on time.  Would I miss the meeting that was the primary purpose of my visit?  Then, without warning, something completely unexpected happened.  The train ground to a halt, with muffled screeching, followed by a pungent, hot asbestos-like smell.  How bizarre!  We had only just left York station.  I paused and looked up and down the carriages.  I was the only standing passenger.  For a split second, I ludicrously wondered whether the driver had been informed of my plight and had stopped the train just for me.

As I continued my fast march down the central aisle of successive carriages, I began to realise that I was the only person standing and seated passengers were looking up at me with an alarmed expression.  Did they think I stopped the train by pulling the emergency chain?  Or did they think I was a villain who’d just robbed someone?  Finally, I reached the last carriage.  What now?  I turned to have one last look back up the train.  With a surge of relief, I saw a ticket collector enter the carriage and turn to check the first passenger's ticket.  Where on earth had he appeared from? I strode up to him as quickly as I could without actually running.  He must have seen my rapid approach from the corner of his eye because he stopped talking and turned to face me with a concerned expression, realising I had something urgent to convey.

“I must get off,” I blurted out, “I’m on the wrong train!”

"What train should you be on, sir?" he slowly enquired, as if trying to calm me down.

“The 8:00am to Kings Cross!” I hastily retorted.

“This is the 7:50am to Bristol Temple Mead via Birmingham New Street”.  Before I could state I already knew this, he added, “You’ll just have to sit down and wait until we get to Birmingham and then enquire at the ticket office how to cross the country to Norwich”.

I didn’t like hearing that, so with a desperate emphasis, I insisted, “I know, but I must get off now.  I have a very important business meeting in Norwich this afternoon!”

“You can’t get off, sir; it’s strictly prohibited.  The train has only stopped for a few moments for a red signal.”

I made my mind up.  “Well, I’m sorry, but I just have to get off!”

He stared at me incredulously and his tone changed completely.  “Well, if you do, mate, I haven’t seen you!”

I was momentarily surprised by his response.  Was he shedding all responsibility for my actions?  Could he do that?  Was he, in effect, just letting me get off?  I hesitated.  With every second of delay, the signal could change to green, and the train would start moving again.  I had to act!  Without another thought, I spun around, strode quickly to the end of the carriage, chose the carriage door on my right (another mainline track was on the left), pulled the window down, reached for the metal handle and opened the door.  I had enough presence of mind to check for trains or workmen, but my escape route was clear.  I tossed my coat and bags out and jumped down on the track.  I felt I must shut the carriage door, so I reached up and slammed it shut, then immediately started running back towards the station, clearly visible just a couple of hundred yards away.  I couldn’t have covered forty yards when a whistle blew.  It sounded identical to an old-fashioned police constable’s whistle.  Oh shit!  Then, I heard a man’s voice yelling.

“Come back, you idiot, you’ll get yourself killed.”  He blew the whistle again.

I didn’t look back but just kept running.  Twice, I stumbled on trackside stones and nearly fell over my luggage.  With at least one hundred yards still to go, I felt out of breath and struggled to keep running.  Somehow, I just kept going, all the while waiting for more shouts, more whistles, even barking police dogs and lines of coppers heading in my direction.  None of these things happened.  Several minutes later, panting heavily, I reached the edge of the station where the platforms protruded beyond the roof.  Rather than re-entering the station on the mainline track and risk being seen or run over by an incoming train, I veered to the right and cut diagonally across another pair of tracks towards a siding where a goods train was parked.  It felt like a scene from the war film The Train, with Burt Lancaster escaping from Nazi soldiers in hot pursuit.

Swearing under my breath at my cumbersome luggage and floppy coat, I struggled to climb over the couplings between two adjacent goods wagons.  Still, once over, it was surprisingly straightforward to run unseen behind them and back into the central part of the station.  At the end of the siding, I looked in both directions along the short platform, but there wasn't a soul in sight.  I threw my things onto the platform and then hoisted myself up.  While getting my breath, I quickly brushed the grit and dust from my suit trousers, picked up my belongings and casually strolled back under the station's canopy.  Returning to the station concourse, I simply followed several passengers onto Platform 3.  Incredulously, the 8am London Kings Cross train was just pulling in, at least according to the station announcer.  Had that crisis taken only 10 minutes?  Impossible!

Wary of boarding the wrong train again, I hesitantly approached the platform attendant, scared he would somehow know what I’d just done and arrest me.  His answer to my query was worth recording for posterity.

"Good Morning, Sir.  Yes indeed, this is the delayed 8am intercity express to London Kings Cross.  Unfortunately, there's been a temporary signalling issue, but the train is now ready to board for departure.  Have a relaxing journey”.

I must have been staring at him because he smiled and held out his arm toward the open carriage door.  I climbed aboard and found a table seat, as before.  In a Déjà-Vu moment, I noticed four businessmen sitting at the opposite table, newspapers ready.  I just had to ask.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.  Is this the 8am train to London Kings Cross?”

“Yes, it is” replied the man nearest me, smiling.  He had noticed my red face and sweaty forehead.  “Did you nearly miss it?”

I returned his smile.  “Yes, almost!”

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POSTSCRIPT

I arrived safely in Norwich and in good time for the afternoon meeting.  The tour of the factory the next day was fascinating, and I saw many of the Mackintosh products being made there, including Good News, Weekend, Rolo, Munchies and Caramac.  I also saw a more recent line, the fast-selling chunky milk chocolate bar called Yorkie. 

After I had finished work at the factory, I was offered a chance to fly back to York in the company's small aeroplane, called G-POLO.  The other passengers, including Ian Mackintosh, a company director, were driven out to a nearby airfield.   After take-off, as the newest recruit and youngest passenger, the pilot invited me to sit next to him in the cockpit.  We flew over The Wash and up the east coast before slowly turning west into the mouth of the River Humber.  I saw the new Humber Bridge, clearly visible far below and a gorgeous sunset fading over the Pennines.  It was a spectacular end to my first-ever business trip.

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