5 DOWN BY THE STATION I was down by the station the other day when I thought I heard a whistle blow and a clickety-clack from the railway track echoing times long ago you don’t know half the story these sounds all seemed to say none of this town would even have been built if it wasn’t for the old railway so hail George Stevenson the man who paved the way hail George Stevenson where is your spirit today? Back at the Metro I half expected the old busker to be there, still plaintively warbling between coughs, splutters and asthmatic gasps. o Had he been real or a quirk of my imagination? o Just a sad case I‟d mistaken for Arthur and who, thinking it might be worth a few bob, had taken me for a ride? o It was treatment day after all. Maybe my perceptions were off, the hospital having slipped me a Mickey? o But he was real enough once - many years ago - wasn‟t he? o Only one way to find out - check the number. o But did I really want to call - and maybe discover the truth? Could I handle it? o Open up what might - what most certainly would - be a can of unholy worms? Clutching my reassuringly familiar bag of groceries, I got on the train, sat down and looked around. The carriage was nearly empty now the morning rush was over and even the sun had made a lukewarm appearance. Determined to enjoy the suburban scenery - the back yards and gardens which tell us so much more about people‟s lives than the carefully manicured facades out front - I peered out the window, refusing to even touch my mobile. As mentioned, I seldom travel by bus or train, despite constant nagging from the new puritans; those climate-change doom mongers who‟d drag us all back to the horse-drawn dark ages if they could. Instead, I like to glide along in my own air-conditioned bubble, listening to nothing but personally chosen sounds, not hassled by ticket collectors, drunks, gobby layabouts, bellowing phone users, pan handlers and all the other riff-raff that seem to see me coming whenever I board public transport. Selfish maybe but, having had to make do with decrepit rust buckets, wobbly bicycles or frequently shanks‟ pony for most of my life, now I reckoned I deserved better - and why not? (1) Actually, despite this rather reactionary attitude and, provided a train isn‟t too sardine- like, lacking in decent facilities, dirty, late, freezing, over-heated, or reeking of late night celebrations, once sat comfortably aboard I quite enjoy the luxury of not having to worry about driving. You can relax and feel free to move about, read or listen to music, maybe even have a bite and socialize, or simply to stop and stare, knowing there‟s nothing better to do. Peace of mind, in other words - provided you can manage to forget the exorbitant fare you‟ve had to fork out. On this occasion, however, I just couldn‟t settle and though my eyes veered across assorted walls and fences searching for signs of interest - amusing graffiti, scurrying wild life, unsocial or even criminal behaviour if I was lucky, my heart wasn‟t really in it. Here was a mini soap opera emerging in my own back yard, so why was I pretending it wasn‟t? All I had to do was punch in a few numbers to find out what was going on, to catch up with the latest plot development so to speak. It may lead to nothing, or… well, how bad could it be? What harm could an old git from so long-ago do me now? I mean, like being accosted by an unwelcome salesman or bigoted evangelist, it was easy enough to say no - wasn‟t it? What‟s the worst that could happen? He comes out with some pathetic sob story and hits you for a handout, a little more subtle than a subway bummer perhaps, but the angle‟s the same. You say, „Shove off!‟ Politely maybe - but then move on. Big deal. Before I know it the phone‟s in my hand and I‟m dialling quickly, eager now to get it over and done with. „Hi, is Arthur there.‟ „Uh-huh.‟ I recognise his creaky voice before a word has been uttered. Then immediately feel bad about the way we parted. I‟m sure he meant no harm. Maybe I‟d jumped to conclusions – not let him explain properly. Not given him, or myself, time? There was only one way to find out. „Yeah, look Arthur. You know... I err…‟ „S‟okay man. Tell you what - I was out of order too.‟ „Call it quits eh? Start again and all that?‟ „Right. So? Meet for a drink?‟ „Actually,‟ said Arthur, „I was going to suggest somewhere - you might know the place. It‟s near you.‟ „Yeah?‟ „The Railway Tavern - on the Byker road?‟ As it happened I did know, not from visiting - though I‟d often passed leery looking crowds hanging about outside - but from a flyer I‟d seen recently in a shop window for open mic nights. Then it occurred to me, how‟d Arthur know where I live? „Right,‟ I say. „About eight?‟ „Sure. Oh, and don‟t forget your box. What is it now? Still got your rusty old three ply jobbie?‟ He cackled a while, then wheezed out a barely audible, „Sorry mate.‟ I nearly cut him off at this point, but before I could he said, „Oh by the way – you never finished your bread pudding. Want me to bring it along? In a napkin, of course.‟ It was so stupid I just laughed along with him. Then he said something that really did knock me sideways. „Don‟t know what you‟re missing man. Then again, maybe you do. Black Mountain dew and all that?‟ I didn‟t reply, just said I had to go. The previous bad feelings were all gone, but the bread pudding remark had hit me hard – the belly-aching way it could when undercooked. My mind was whirling again, so much so I nearly missed my stop. It was the late Fifties - I was eleven years old - in the shadow of those forbidding Welsh hills. We were camped in a field alongside a swift flowing river, our green canvas ridge tents pitched in an uneven line with makeshift kitchens roped off nearby - an idyllic spot for outdoor activities; football and other team games; swimming, canoeing, rafting, trekking; or building rope bridges and other improbable structures. Our Scout troop, the Ditton Donuts, ran excellent camps to far flung locations which, for many of us, were the main motivation for sticking the weekly meetings. Although some people make snide comments about the Scout movement, its quasi militarism, quaint dib-dobbing customs and the suspect motivations of grown men spending unpaid time in the company of boys, for me it was simply another chance to escape (2) - something I was always up for. It gave us many exciting opportunities, not only to visit wild and unfamiliar places with like-minded mates but also the confidence, skills and knowledge to confront testing challenges. Many of those experiences were not only fun but actually life changing, encouraging self-reliance and widening our horizons - however naff that sounds. Those were the days before anyone bothered with health and safety regulations, potential insurance claims and so on, when there was little but common sense to go by. Cuts and bruises, even broken bones, were par for the course and boys in particular weren‟t expected to make a fuss about a little discomfort. In fact, returning home with a few scabs or scars, or at least torn and muddied gear, was the sign of a good camp. Some of the „wide games‟ we played, roaming the mountains and forests in all weathers, day or night, attempting to avoid capture from a crazed „enemy‟ (mad old blokes in makeshift disguises banging pots and pans and screaming like banshees) weren‟t too far off commando training exercises. What‟s more, holidays away from home for kids from poorer families then were a rarity, so roughing it was not complained about. Despite all this, after a few days in Wales I wanted out. It wasn‟t home-sickness but some flu-like bug. My head spinning and unable to eat, I even brought up any liquids Skip persuaded me to try. After three days I was all for throwing in the towel and accepting the offer of a lift home when Arthur, then leader of Badger patrol, offered me some of his Auntie‟s bread pudding. Having been a Boy Scout is something he may not want made public, but there we go - many other great men and women were also in Baden Powell‟s gang (3). Even Keith Richards, in his recent autobiography, says, „One of the best things that happened to me at that time, believe it or not, was joining the Boy Scouts.‟ He recalls it was just before he really got into guitar playing (about thirteen or fourteen), and partly because he „…wanted to know how to survive.‟ Adding that, „It was a kind of miniature SAS training.‟ (4) But Arthur‟s pud was just about the last thing I wanted back then. Even one swift look at that big brown fruity chunk, served up in an ancient biscuit tin, was enough to have me reaching for a bucket.