Back in 2010 Southam and Lilith were stuck at Scarisbrick for about 2 months. Southam's gearbox was removed, stripped down and, after much headscratching, repaired. While the boats were there I visited at least once a week to check on them and change batteries so that Southam’s bilge pumps would keep going (Lilith has hardly leaked a drop since her rebuild in 1983). Initially I drove over in the van but, aware of the carbon footprint, I arranged with nearby Red Lion Caravans to charge batteries and had an enjoyable weekly train ride to either Burscough or Bescar Lane, taking my folding bike for the last bit of the journey.
Sometimes the train from Ashton took me all the way, but more frequently I would have to change at either Victoia or Salford Crescent. As with many cities, Manchester’s railway network grew up in a time of competing railway companies. There were once 4 main stations, but now they have been whittled down to two, Victoria and Piccadilly. This is most inconvenient for travellers. In recent times Salford Crescent station has been opened to act as an interchange between trains heading in a North Westerly direction from the two different networks.
One day, on my weekly day out in Scarisbrick, I had to change trains at Salford Crescent. It was a sunny morning and, as I waited on the single island platform, I enjoyed watching the activity as trains came and went and waiting passengers milled about on the platform.
A group of young women in party attire gathered at one end of the platform and engaged in lively banter with much giggling. As they were the most animated group on the platform, naturally my attention was drawn to them. I was beginning to speculate about the story that may lie behind them being all dolled up and full of beans at 10 AM when I heard an insistent voice questioning me.
“Dyu wanna bird?” asked the voice. I turned to look at my interrogator. There was a pause as I tried to get my head round what was happening. The source of the question was a budgerigar like man with thick greased black hair and a face remarkably similar to Eric Idle. “Dyu wanna bird?” he repeated. I must have looked incomprehending, partly because it’s an awful long time since I’ve heard a woman referred to in this sexist way. To make sure I understood he varied the question slightly, “Dyu wanna woman? I can get you one”
Unthinkingly continuing the Monty Python theme ( those too young to know what I’m on about should search you tube for “Monty Python wink wink nudge nudge sketch”) I answered stiffly “No thank you, er , I’m perfectly well supplied”. “Oh” exclaimed the miniaturised Eric Idle “well supplied are you, Eh! Eh! Well supplied Eh”! He changed the subject. “What you doing here anyway”? Quite what business he had querying my presence on a station platform eludes me, but I replied guardedly “Well, I don’t live a million miles from here”. “Not a million miles Eh! Eh”! continued the insistent budgie. “Where you from then”? “Ashton under Lyne” I replied. For some reason this ruffled the man’s feathers. “Ashton under Lyne! Ashton under Lyne”! he squawked , “It’s a ****hole”
I was now revelling in the Pythonesque quality of the exchange and stuck to the my character. I gave him a look like I was viewing something smelly in the gutter and said “I find it rather pleasant myself”. Deciding that it was time that I asked the questions, I continued “Where do you live”. Eric the budgerigar straightened his back and declared proudly “Wigan”!
“Wigan”? I screeched, mimicking him, “Wigan”? He looked hurt. “What’s wrong with Wigan”? he asked.
Our
train was just showing its face at the platform end and, as it
rumbled to a halt I replied “Well, it’s alright if you like pies
I suppose”*
I quickly wheeled my bike to the far end of the train, partly because I felt that the conversation had come to a natural end, and partly because I thought there may be a bike rack there. I was mistaken in this and I had to lean my bike against a handrail, trying not to block the doorway with it.
The carriage was well filled. I normally like to find a window seat facing forward, but there was no chance of this. The only available seat was nearby, facing back towards the door and my bike. I sat down. This particular class of diesel unit has single seats facing inwards next to each door. On one of these, right in front of me, there sat a slightly built man in his sixties. He was smartly dressed in a stylish black leather jacket and tight fitting jeans. As I sat down he turned to me and said “I’m warning you now, don’t **** with me”. I don’t know if my sigh was audible, but it was heartfelt. I pointed out that he needn’t worry as I had absolutely no intention of ****ing with him. I refrained from adding that he simply wasn’t my type as, despite his size, he did have an aura that spoke of potential extreme violence.
“Leave him alone Dad” came an order from across the train. On the equivalent seat on the other side sat a man of about 40, clearly the hard old man’s son, again smartly dressed, but much larger, chubby faced, and with an air of Kray about him. He apologised to me for his father’s behaviour and explained that he had been drinking. I smiled and nodded. The older man then launched into a tirade against his son, the gist of which was that the youngster was a lazy good for nothing who was benefitting from the business that resulted from years of hard work. The son’s response was to point out that he was the stronger of the two and no-one could challenge him, hinting that he may indulge in patricide if pressed too far.
In
the seat behind me sat a Chinese man, quietly minding his own
business. As the cross corridor exchanges with his father had reached
a stalemate, the son rose, leaned over the innocent oriental
gentleman and fiercely asked him what he was looking at. The
gentleman said nothing, simply nodding, with a look of fear on his
face, as the son continued a tirade concerning the folly of uncalled
for looking.
The situation subsided and, for a while, I enjoyed looking out for the remnants of the colliery railways that used to criss cross this part of Lancashire.
The older man turned to me and asked me where I was going. I decided to be guarded, if not downright misleading, in the answers that I gave. When I told him that my destination was Bescar Lane, he wanted to know why I was going there. I told him that I was going to spend some time in the countryside. He got up and turned on the Chinese man, once again berating him for the sin of looking. The son intervened, telling his father to leave the man alone as he had done nothing wrong. Father and son then engaged in a ding dong argument about who was the harder and most feared of them.
The old man’s ‘phone rang. He sat down and I listened to one side of a conversation. When it was finished he turned to his son and said “That was the police, they’ve arrested Billy but they won’t tell me what for. Data protection”
He began to tell me the story of his life. All his brothers and sisters had moved away from Wigan and become high ranking police officers, but he had chosen to stay and run the family business. I began to wonder about the nature of the business, but decided not to ask.
The old man seemed to want to be friendly, but our conversation was interrupted when the Chinese man allegedly looked at the son, prompting another outburst. This time it was dad’s turn to take the part of the innocent, prompting another outbreak of inter generational warfare across the train.
When
a cease fire was once more achieved, the older fellow turned to me
and said directly “I can’t make you out. You’re dressed like a
tramp with an old bike and going to a station in the middle of
nowhere, but you’re carrying a laptop. What are you”? I chuckled
inwardly. I love confusing people’s stereotypes.
Mischievously I told him that I was in fact a lucky lottery winner. Used to a hand to mouth existence collecting aluminium cans with an old bike, I had spent my last pound on a ticket and won the jackpot. This had not changed my life at all, except that it gave me the freedom to travel by train and not having to be picking up discarded cans any more. My money was invested wisely and I gave most of the interest to charity, taking for myself only the amount that I needed. I spent my time travelling about by train and bike and sleeping in the woods if the weather was fine. I had recently bought a laptop because my intention was to write a novel.
The train descended into a brick lined cutting and slowed to a halt at Wigan Wallgate station. Most of the passengers, including my two friends, detrained here. A few more people boarded and, with a psssshhht of compressed air, the doors closed. I glanced at the platform and noticed that the father and son were standing on the platform, deep in conversation with Eric the budgerigar.
The rest of my journey was quiet and I could enjoy looking out of the window. As usual, I was the only passenger to alight at Bescar Lane. A pleasant, level, mile and a half bike ride brought me to the boats. After changing batteries and checking that everything was OK, I connected up one of the inverters that are kept on Southam and plugged my newly acquired secondhand laptop into it. It worked fine and I settled down to write an article for the Wooden Canal Boat Society newsletter.
* For some reason there is a tradition throughout Lancashire that Wiganers subsist on a diet of nothing but pies, for which reason they are known as pie eaters ( pronounced piiiiiiiaytus ). Quite what the origin of this belief is I don’t know, but it’s obviously not true as I have already observed that they also drink beer and eat crisps.