My Socks That Magically Changed Colour
Gerrard Wilson
Copyright 2015 by Gerrard Wilson
My socks that magically changed colour
My Socks That Magically Changed Colour
This story, one of the earliest from my childhood days, is about my socks changing colour. Yes, they really did change colour! I am sure you are thinking, ‘Did it really happen or was it just the result of a child’s overactive imagination?’ Read on, my friend, and decide for yourself…
I was only six years of age when we set off on our first summer holiday, to Ireland. Although my mother hailed from there, in my young, innocent mind Ireland was a far-off, exotic country. I thought it something akin to Africa, India or even Borneo, where it was claimed head-hunters roamed.
We lived in a quiet part of southern England, a place called Sunbury-on-Thames, where nothing exciting ever happened. Setting off, on holiday, to another country was as exciting as it could possibly get.
My sister, Maria, two years my elder, and my brother Tony, two years younger than I, were almost as excited as I was. Moreover, when we boarded the electric train that was our transport to London, we could hardly contain our excitement.
When I say electric train, it probably stirs up visions of sleek, shiny carriages whistling along even shinier tracks in a most efficient manner. That vision, however, could hardly be further from the truth. The green painted electric trains travelling from Sunbury to Waterloo Station, in London, were old. Even to my young, idealistic eyes, that saw the positive side of most things, they were old, run-down and dilapidated.
As our train rattled, creaked and shook its way slowly along the tracks, transporting us on the first leg of our journey, the lights in our carriage flickered on and off all the way there. Despite the flickering lights, we were determined to enjoy our ride in the train, Tony, Maria and I gazed through the windows. It was a magical, mesmerising world outside, alongside the tracks. There were parks, factories, houses and shops. We even spotted a racecourse. I was so jealous of the people whose gardens backed onto the railway line. I imagined their lives were so exciting, with trains whizzing past their properties night and day. I so wished that I was living in one of those houses.
If the gardens backing onto the railway line were exciting, the land running alongside the tracks was HEAVEN itself. In that wonderland of sidings, buffers, sheds, water towers, turntables, goods trains and, most importantly of all, steam locomotives, my heart yearned to reside. In those heady days of steam locomotion it was every boy’s dream to be an engine driver, just the thought of being a part of that magical world of fire, smoke and steam sent our hearts racing.
As we passed station after station, stopping at each and every one of them, the excitement burning in our bellies grew exponentially. The closer our train approached London, clanking its way noisily across points, where so many tracks converged on the nation’s capital, the slower it became. Offsetting the frustration we felt due to our slow moving train, the increased number of steam locomotives present, the closer we got to London, perked us up no end. In Sunbury, where we lived, with the station only one stop away from the end of the line, the presence of a steam locomotive, there, would have been a major occasion. The only thing railway related that was remotely exciting was an old Pullman carriage parked on a siding at Shepperton station, at the end of the line three miles away. With my face glued to the windowpane, I stared out in wonder, at the metal beasts thundering past us, pulling enormously long trains, heading to far-flung destinations such as Edinburgh, Liverpool, Swansea and Bristol. I was in heaven.
When our train reached Waterloo station, the end of the line, it pulled into platform one. As it inched its way slowly towards the buffers, my heart skipped a beat, knowing the next leg of our journey was about to begin. Before the train had stopped completely, we heard people opening the doors. Slamming hard against the green painted carriages, they offered free exit to the impatient people within.
Whenever she saw this, mum, my Irish born mum, said “Why is it that everyone in England is always in a hurry?”
Looking back, all these years later, I believe she was right questioning this. We rush about all of our lives, getting nowhere most of the time. It’s a pointless occupation.
We didn’t rush off the train; we had far too many bags and cases to organise, first. But let me tell you, right here and now, dad was about to show us what, being English and rushing, was about.
“Porter, sir?” a kindly looking individual enquired.
“No!” dad sternly replied. “We are perfectly capable of carrying our own bags, thank you very much.”
“But we do need a porter!” mum protested. Her words, though, failed to reach dad’s non receptive ears. Carrying his suitcase, dad marched along the platform as if his life depended on it.
“Mum!” Maria, Tony and I grizzled as we struggled, trying to carry our own bags.
We caught up with dad at the ticket barrier. Mum had the tickets; she was minding them in her handbag. “Show the man our tickets,” he told her. Mum opened the bag, searching for the tickets. “They are in a brown envelope,” dad said to her.
“Ah, here they are,” mum said triumphantly.
“Give him the tickets!” dad ordered.
She offered the tickets – all of them – to the ticket collector.
“No, no, no!” dad complained. “Only give him our tickets to Waterloo.”
“Oh, sorry,” mum answered. She put the rest of our tickets back into the envelope and then into her bag.
Although mum was a little bit doddery at times, dad chose to let her mind such things as tickets. Having an irrational fear of losing them, he thought it the better of two evils. Inspecting our luggage, particularly so how we were struggling under its weight, dad said, “This is not working.” Grabbing hold of the first suitcase, dad balanced it on his right shoulder. Then he tucked a smaller one under the same arm. Grabbing hold of two bags, he gripped them firmly in his left hand before picking up the second suitcase with the very same hand. Having done that, he said, “That’s better, so it is,” then he marched away from us. Looking back over his shoulder, he said, “Keep up with me this time!” We obediently followed dad as he scorched his way across an open area, to a place or places unknown...
However, despite trying to keep up with our fast moving dad, he got further and further away from us.
“Mum!” Maria, Tony and I whined, panicky and frightened, when dad disappeared behind a Royal Mail delivery van, on a cobblestone plaza.
“Faster,” mum ordered, “so we can catch up with him!”
Trying to avoid being hit by Royal Mail delivery vans, fast moving scooters, and dive-bombing pigeons, we quickened our pace, following dad across the cobblestone plaza.
Catching up with dad on the far side of the plaza, we found him busy, trying to thumb down a taxi.
“Why didn’t you get one inside the station?” mum asked him, after the third taxi sped past us without stopping.
Shaking his head from side to side, he answered, “No, no, I couldn’t do that! There’re far too expensive, back there.” With his hand high in the air, trying to hail the next taxi he spotted, dad watched hopefully, but it also sped past us.
“Don’t they charge the same rate, wherever they are?” mum asked dad.
“No, not all!” he insisted. “They charge different rates, from difference places – everyone knows that!” He said, convinced by the soundness of his case. “They might tell you they charge the same price, but they don’t fool me, by jingo!” Just then, he spotted another taxi. It had stopped a distance away from us. Determined to secure it, he hightailed it
across the busy plaza, luggage and all. When he reached the taxi, he opened the door, flung in the luggage and then parked himself inside it. We watched from where we were still standing, thinking dad would tell the cab driver to drive across to us. Nothing happened, though, apart from dad and the cab driver talking animatedly to each other.
A few minutes later, the cab began to move – and it was heading our way. Seeing this we breathed a sigh of relief. When the cab drew to a halt alongside us, dad stepped out from it, and said, “There you are; I told you I would get us a cab.” Grabbing hold of our suitcases and bags, dad packed them into the cab’s boot. When we were seated inside the cab, the driver set off for Euston station. Soon we found ourselves passing the large, stone lions guarding its entrance.
“Hurray for Euston!” we cheered as the driver steered his cab into the station.
The interior of Euston station
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