Set For Life

I thought getting a job there was going to be so simple. How wrong could I be?

There’s a beautiful, old railway station a few hundred yards from where I live. When Jack and I first saw this house for sale, one of the main reasons we made an offer for it was its proximity to the railway building. Trains no longer ran there; the line was taken up several years before we moved in. We weren’t interested in the trains for commuting purposes, it was simply because Jack ‘lived for the railway’.

After Jack passed away, I wanted to keep his memory alive and applied to be a volunteer at the Downrigg Station, to work in the historical society’s shop, located in the old waiting room; one of the many rooms Jack and a group of railway enthusiasts had restored to its former glory.

The day I walked in to apply for the position of ‘shop-assistant’, I expected to hear the words, ‘excellent, you can start on Monday’.

Little did I know how much things had changed, since my working days.

“That’s lovely,” said the old man in his pristine railway worker’s jacket. “There are a few forms for you to complete”.

He shuffled off through a green door behind the counter.

I had a quick look around the store and was pleased to see that everything on the shelves was labelled with the prices clearly marked. That would certainly make things easier. As I was straightening up the fridge magnet display, the man returned, holding several pieces of paper.

“Now, if you can fill these in for me and drop them off when you’re passing, we can go from there.”

He smiled and added, “I’m Colin by the way.”

“Thanks Colin. That’s a lot of paper work to keep me busy. And I’m Mary,” I replied.

“Good luck with it, Mary. If you need any help, just call back in. Someone will be here to help you.”

“Looks like I might need it”. I say.

“We don’t get many ladies applying for positions here. Usually men,” Colin said.

“Well, to tell you the truth, railways were always my late husband’s passion. You might have met him. He spent a lot of time at Downrigg, painting the walls, doing up the flower baskets, weeding the platform, any excuse to be here. Jack, Jack Frome.”

Colin’s face suddenly broke into a smile.

“Oh my goodness. Jack Frome, eh? What a lovely man. Of course I knew him. He never worked in the shop, mind. Always doing odd jobs around the station. He was a great tour guide on our monthly open days. He knew so much about the railway. We all miss him.”

I smiled back and waved the fistful of papers in the air. “I don’t remember Jack having so many forms to fill in.”

Walking towards the exit, I turned and said, “thanks for your help, Colin. I’ll get these back to you. Working here will be very special.”

Colin gave me the thumbs up.

A few days later, I’m on the phone to my best friend Belinda.

“Then he gives me these forms to fill in. You can’t imagine the stuff they want to know. They even asked for my qualifications! Goodness, I’m 71 years old. I can’t remember what book I read last week, let alone some exam results from fifty odd years ago.”

Belinda is laughing and she asks, “do they want your inside leg measurement too?”

“Probably. Trouble is, that measurement gets shorter and shorter every year.”

We’re both chuckling.

“I also have to complete some sort of police clearance form. Damn cheek, if you ask me. Never been in trouble with the police in my whole life.”

Belinda interrupts. “You’re forgetting that time outside the Mecca, when those two cute Bobbies told us to stop dancing in the street, as it ‘wasn’t very becoming’.”

We were both quiet for a while, reliving those memories.

“Anyway, I had to go up into the loft to dig out my school certificates. I’ve not been there for a couple of years, certainly not since Jack died. It was a bit unnerving, full of dust and clutter. But they were there, neatly filed away. Maths, Art and Domestic Science.”

“I remember you being pretty good at maths. That’s the reason I wanted to sit next to you,” Belinda says.

“So it wasn’t my wonderful personality then?”

Again, we’re both laughing.

“I found a few more things up in the loft. A school diary, which I’ll show you next time you’re over, a dress that my mum made for me, must have been for a wedding or something and, best of all, a biscuit tin.”

“A biscuit tin?”

Belinda wants to know more.

Of course I knew what was inside that biscuit tin before I carried it into the kitchen. I lifted out the block of hand carved wood and placed it on the lid.

When Jack was a toddler, his father made him a steam train out of a lump of old timber. The chimney was missing, the panels were rough and the wheels had flat bottoms – they had never spun round as they were carved into the sides of the wood. The top of the locomotive was so smooth; a real contrast to the cumbersome and harsh, sharp edges on the rest of the wood. Over the years, Jack’s hands had worn away the surface until the shape fit him like a pair of gloves. He must have pushed this toy around his bedroom for hours, leaving a clear imprint of pleasure.

The day Jack first showed me his train, years ago, I had to stifle a giggle. To me, it just looked like a piece of wood, ready for the fire. He pointed out the static wheels, the tender, the cab and the crooked footplate. They were far more than holes and scratches to Jack. He proudly highlighted a plaque on the front of the wooden steam engine.

“My Dad had written my name on the front. ‘Jack’. I had a train named after me!”

Jack believed that getting this train had ignited his lifelong obsession with the railway.

When we got together, Jack had just started his first job as a ‘sleeper maintenance staffer’. It basically meant walking up and down the track hitting solid metal joining plates into the sleepers with a 14 pound sledge hammer. To me, it didn’t sound much of a job, but to Jack it was everything; a childhood dream, turned into reality.

Six Months Later.

After some low-key training on ‘how to use the till’, ‘stock-taking’ and ‘health and safety at work’, I am finally allowed to work in the Downrigg Station shop. It would have happened much faster if the police clearance hadn’t taken so long. I’d said to Belinda, “some criminals are given shorter jail sentences than the time I’ve spent waiting to be cleared.”

I do three morning shifts a week; two of them with Colin and one with a young man from Doncaster, who is a very keen train-spotter. There is never really a need for two assistants, as the shop is rarely busy. The only occasion we have more customers, is on the first Saturday of the month: Open Morning. It is surprising how many people come along to this event. There are way more rail enthusiasts than I imagined. My Jack wasn’t the only one!

This Saturday morning, after the group tour, Colin and myself are getting ready for the ‘rush’ as the only exit is through the gift shop. The door from the station platform flies open. A bearded man, probably in his late twenties, picks up his young daughter, puts his hands over her eyes and shouts, “we’re going through a tunnel. It’s very dark in here. Don’t be scared. Choo Choo.” He rushes straight across the shop, imitating train sounds. He flings opens the door onto the carpark, uncovers his daughter’s eyes and gives Colin and myself a quick wave.

“What was that all about?” Colin asks.

“I think he was being smart. That’s the best way I’ve ever seen someone prevent children spending money on things they don’t need,” I say.

“If that’s what it is, then that’s one smart dad.”

Later on that morning, when the shop is quiet again, I take the opportunity to rearrange the window display, smarten up the soft toys’ basket and put the books back into alphabetical order. On a high shelf I spot a complete train set: A beautifully crafted, wooden edition of the Flying Scotsman. The pictures on the front of the box show the tremendous quality of its content… and these wheels will turn. Oh, how my Jack would have loved to own this amazing train set. He would never have shunted this one into an old biscuit tin.

I move the box from the top shelf to one where children can get a better look at it and then put the price tag in front. It is extremely expensive; way out of young Jack’s reach, which ever shelf it sits on.

Colin has gone down to the shed at the end of the platform, to have a cup of tea with the other volunteers, so I am alone when the entrance door opens again. In runs a little boy, followed at a slightly slower pace by his mother.

“Morning,” I call out.

“Morning. So glad you’re open. Oli has been driving me crazy about coming here. He’s absolutely obsessed with trains,” she responds.

“Well, he’s certainly come to the right place then.”

“We’ve driven over twenty miles to get here,” she adds, trailing her son around the narrow aisles, frantically putting back every item he picks up.

I watch Oli as he gushes with excitement.

When he gets to the Flying Scotsman set, he stops, picks it up and flops down onto the floor, hugging the box tightly to his chest.

“Mum, Mum,” he shouts. “Can I have this one?”

His mum joins him and kneels down. I notice her glance at the price tag and listen as she explains that it is far too expensive. “We really don’t have that sort of money to spend, Oli. I’m sorry.”

Expertly, she eases Oli towards the postcard rack. He is clearly disappointed, but seems to understand the situation.

A plan suddenly flashes through my mind.

I walk over to the aisle and pick up the Flying Scotsman. Back at the counter, I pull out a pair of scissors and a bright, red pen from the drawer under the till.

I cut open the seal.

A few minutes later, Oli and his mum place a few items on the counter: Two train erasers, a small picture book and a mixed bag of wheels.

“Have you seen this Flying Scotsman set?” I ask the mother.

“We have,” she quietly replies. “It’s lovely, but way over our budget.”

Oli gives me a sad nod.

I dramatically turn the new, red label for them both to read.

“Wait. What?” Oli’s mum blurts out.