TRACKS OF MY YEARS

It's 6 am on a winter's morning at Totnes station in December 1985. The platform is covered in a hard frost. There's a smell of diesel in the air from the Unigate dairy trucks arriving from the South Devon farms. I hold my mother's hand. We're waiting for the train to Reading, from where we'll take the bus to Heathrow and then fly to Oman to see my dad.

It's mid-morning for him right now in the land of frankincense and dates, and it feels a million miles from this tiny town in Devon. He starts his day with breakfast at the officer’s mess, maybe by the pool and the frangipani bushes. He showed us photos when he was last home, images of camels and Omani elders eating dates as they sat under a tree opposite my dad's flat.

I was enchanted by it all, and I couldn't wait to see this totally different world, but for now, there's an InterCity journey ahead for us. My gloves feel warm against my hands, and I can see my breath. "Look, mummy!" I breathe out and make the sound of a steam train. We've been up since 4:30 am. Mum lets out a loud yawn which echoes down the platform, and it makes me laugh.

Two men in bright orange British Rail vests appear like ghosts out of the early morning fog at the end of platform 1, chatting away to themselves and carrying large tools over their shoulders. They're saying their goodbyes and heading home. "Yeah, see you Tom, ta-ta mate..."

A tired voice across the crackly tannoy: “Train now approaching platform one is the 5:54 service to London Paddington, calling at Newton Abbott, Exeter St. David’s, Tiverton...."

In the distance in the darkness of this frosty morning, I spot the distinctive lights of a 125. Closer and closer through the darkness. There's a hard frost on the platform. We step back as the high-pitched whir of the engine passes by. It reminds me of the spin cycle on our washing machine as an icy chilly wind is sent in our direction. I squint my eyes as the blur of yellow and blue whooshes past us, and I wonder if it's even going to stop.

The slow clickety-clack, clickety-clack as it slows down, a squeal from the wheels. The diesel smell fills the air once more. Mum reaches for the door and struggles to turn the awkward handle. A porter helps us and lifts the suitcase onto the train. I step up into this warm world from the frost and cold of Totnes. The smell of diesel is replaced with something delicious, as someone walks by with a bacon roll and a cup of tea. A strong South Wales accent: "A very good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome on board to those joining us at Totnes..."

The carriage is mostly empty, just a couple of passengers who are sleeping. We have a table seat. I remove my Beezer comic from my red rucksack. We were sent Gulf Air labels with our tickets, so I put them on my bag straight away. Mum is tired and she reaches out for my hand across the table. She smiles at me. "Love you, James." She looks tired and not ready for this journey, but I'm too excited to take it all in.

The station guard is outside our window. "Look mummy, he looks like Grandad." He raises a flag, catches my eye, smiles, and blows his whistle. I see his breath. Goodbye, Totnes. We slowly make our way past the last of the town and into the farmland of South Devon. It's still pitch-black outside, and it feels more like midnight. I spot a dairy truck heading to Totnes, full of fresh milk to be bottled at the dairy by the station. Mum's gone to the buffet car and she's back with two bacon rolls and two cups of tea. We tuck in as we approach Newton Abbot. Hardly anyone boards the train on this chilly morning.

We race through Teignmouth and along the estuary towards the sea. Dawlish Warren is next, but we won’t be stopping. I press my nose to the glass, ready for this impressive stretch of railway line. Into a tunnel as the train guard checks tickets. He makes his way through the carriage, clipping holes in the corners with a “Thank you” and “Change at Bristol…should be on time.” “Morning…lovely…thank you…”

We’re next. “Morning, tickets please…” But just as Mum is about to hand him both, I ask, “Mummy, can I give him my ticket?” She hands it to me, only for me to pass it to him straight away. Totally pointless, but special for me.

“Thank you, young man…” He looks at it closely, scanning it as if it were a passport. He’s wearing a navy-blue cap with a British Rail logo. He steadies himself by holding on to the top of a seat. We’re really creaming along now. The tiny piece of the ticket that’s punched away flies into the air, ready to be vacuumed up when this InterCity is cleaned tonight. “Right…both to Reading, there you go…you are together, aren’t you?” We laugh. He has a warm smile and makes his way to the next passenger.

Aside from the track next to us, it feels like we’re almost on the beach, as waves crash in, spraying into the air. Grey clouds and a grey expanse of sea beneath it, both blending into one shade of grey on the horizon. A lady walks her dog on the pathway that runs beside the tracks. There’s a small fishing boat way out at sea and I wonder what’s happening onboard in the wintery water. I picture the freshly-caught fish and the captain at the wheel.

I drift off to sleep and rest my head on mum’s lap. She strokes my hair as she reads her Jilly Cooper book, and I sleep through Exeter. When I wake up, we’re near Castle Cary and the fields are blanketed in snow. I spot a farmhouse and it immediately reminds me of The Snowman.

We race past a tiny village, across the level crossing as the red lights flash and a Land Rover waits for the barriers to rise. A blur of Christmas lights in a living room window, as another train passes us by and makes me jump. We play I spy, mum has a doze, and I watch the snowy landscape as we race to Reading.

I take out my small sketchbook and felt-tip pens. I start to draw a picture for dad. “Dear Daddy, we’re on the train to Reading.” And I draw a picture of what’s on the table. Two empty cartons of Just Juice, Tracker bar wrappers, Mums’ book, my felt tips, and my Beezer comic.

Just as I finish, there’s an announcement: “Ladies and Gentlemen we will soon be arriving at Reading…change at Reading for services to Wales, The Midlands, and the North, Gatwick Airport, and the Rail Air bus to Heathrow. Reading is your next stop, thank you.” Snowy fields have been swapped with the urban landscape. Life looks busier in this part of England.

More people, more trains, more buildings, more everything. I think about our little house in South Brent and the teddies I’d put in bed. I picture my toys in the room and the Airfix Concorde attached to the ceiling with fishing line.

Jackets on, bags ready, and we head for the door. Brakes squeal and the train rocks with a slow clickety-clack as we approach the platform and stop with a jolt. A man ahead of us pushes down the window, reaches outside, and opens the door. The smell of frosty air and diesel. Mum pulls the black Samsonite suitcase behind her. I have my red rucksack over both shoulders.

The suitcase wobbles from side to side as we weave in and out of oncoming passengers. I hold her hand and we follow the signs for the Airlink bus. Commuters walk briskly in every direction; some are running for their trains as guards whistle echoes across the station. Announcements fill the air, “Platform 4 for the 08:20 service to Gatwick Airport, calling at Wokingham, Farnborough..."

"Mummy, is that us?" "No, we're going to Heathrow with a bus." Oh yes, I'd forgotten that. Still that smell of diesel. We don’t have long before the bus leaves. In and out of the crowd we weave and outside into glorious winter sunshine. There's no snow here, but still a chill in the air. The Salvation Army is playing "Once in Royal David's City.” We're not going to the birthplace of Jesus, but it feels somewhat mystical and magical to be flying to the Middle East at this time.

There it is outside the station, engine on, bags being loaded by the driver. “Mummy, look at the London taxis!” I’d never seen black cabs outside of London before. The bus is very busy, every seat is taken, and I wonder where everyone is flying to. The heating is on, and the bus feels cosy. Mum hands me a Trebor mint from her bag. We’re off, following signs for the M4 and London. The traffic is heavy, as are my eyes and by the time we join the motorway, I’m fast asleep and dreaming of distant lands…