All the way to Scotland..

With his precious guitar clenched tightly in one sweaty hand, his
bulging old suitcase in the other, Alex lowered his head and charged
blindly across the road. Never touched me, he laughed as he strode
confidently through the ornate redbrick portico of Nottingham Midland
station.

"Platform number.."

"Yes. I know, thanks." Alex retrieved his ticket from the humourless
inspector and eased his luggage through the barrier. Jinking round the
knot of chattering middle-aged women that barred his way, he clattered
noisily down the footbridge. He knew the platform well enough: he'd
spent much of his childhood on that station.

The London-bound train wasn't in, as he'd expected, and Alex dumped the
unwieldy pile at his feet, wondering why he'd been expected to bring so
much useless impedimenta with him. Surely he wasn't the only one to
struggle there on public transport? Only at the last minute had he
remembered to cram in his Penguin Metaphysical Poets: leaving that
behind would have been a devastating blow.

He slipped the stiff cardboard ticket into his wallet and stuffed his
hands into his pockets against the autumnal breeze. For the first time,
his throat felt dry and the butterflies in his stomach, so easy to
ignore until that moment, had returned en masse to perform a clog
dance.

Alex had done his best to appear ultra-confident as he left home,
striding off down Perkins Street with a cheery wave. His mother, who'd
seemed unnaturally quiet as they shared that final pot of tea, had
sniffed and ducked back in quickly. It had been an emotional day all
round, and Alex wouldn't have been surprised to learn that his father
would wheel his way up the alley after work that night to discover a
tea table still set for four.

Swallowing hard, Alex glanced warily round at his fellow passengers: a
suited, superior businessman, a harassed-looking young woman rocking a
pram and coughing on her cigarette. Further along, an earnest-looking
chap of around Alex's own age standing guard over a similar case. Alex
resisted the temptation to wander down and introduce himself, as the
bespectacled stranger might just he headed for the University of the
East Midlands too, and he looked even more helpless than Alex now felt
- the sort who tags along, adding nothing to the conversation but
expecting to be looked after, screwing up your chances with the
girls.

A pair of cocksure, Brylcreemed young squaddies swaggered past
unnoticed. Grinning at his mate, the bolder of the two paused and
leaned towards Alex before bellowing:

"Where's yer 'andbag, darlin'?"

Heads turned as the comedian minced off, hand placed ostentatiously on
his hip, amusing his colleague mightily. Alex sighed wearily: this
reaction was becoming all too familiar. He'd sworn never to set foot in
that wretched barber's on the day he'd left school. And, to his
father's dismay, he'd kept his word: his notoriously unruly hair was
creeping over his collar now, flopping over his ears. Alex regarded it
as a badge of pride, a symbol of defiance and anyone who suggested that
it might imply some form of sexual deviance was very wide of the mark.
There'd be none of this oafish reaction on campus, that was certain.
Maybe he'd return at Christmas with a moustache to go with his new
scarf. Sidewhiskers, even. That'd show 'em.

His thoughts were interrupted by the carriages backing in, hissing to a
halt. Standing politely aside to let the young woman board first, he
heaved his luggage up and settled into a corner seat to wait for the
off. It wasn't long in coming.

The door was slammed half-off its hinges by an ill-tempered porter,
disturbing Alex's peaceful reverie, and the puttering diesel note
lowered to a throaty roar. Clouds of filthy blue fumes swept past the
window as the train accelerated out of the station; under the road
bridge, past the forlorn-looking engine sheds. On the skyline, the
familiar squat castle disappeared as the train picked up speed. This is
it, Alex thought; no going back now, no chickening out. When this train
stops again, I'm there.

To pass the time as the dull suburbs trickled past, he closed his eyes
and focussed on that platform as it used to be: on a curious, excited
lad in short trousers and school cap, clutching his new Ian Allan ABC
proudly. It wasn't difficult to transport himself back.

All Alex's earliest travel memories involved that station: Sunday
School outings, family visits; annual holidays to Skegness in crowded
weekend specials when it had seemed that half the city was trying to
elbow on before them, cases flying everywhere and lost children
bawling. To an imaginative boy, those pitifully slow journeys to Skeggy
had been one long adventure, though his parents retained less
charitable memories. Alex could still recall standing all the way, nose
pressed to the grimy window in the annual hard-fought contest with his
older brother Jack to glimpse the sea first, with grumbling adults
pushing past every few minutes.

The Pattersons, lacking both the desire and the means to run a car of
their own, had travelled everywhere by train. Out to Beeston to see
jolly old Uncle Len and his brightly-coloured budgies, occasionally
further afield; to Long Eaton to visit dotty Aunt Betty, whose house
reeked of cats or Vick - frequently both. Even then, Alex had always
pleaded with his father: can we go and look at the engine? Please,
please, please.. until he'd finally got his way.

He'd long ago mislaid that scuffed old ABC, but it had been thoroughly
depressing to find nothing but a drab collection of dull lifeless
diesels parked where his favourites had once simmered and hissed:
Jellicoe, Queensland, Welsh Guardsman and so many more. Sure, these new
diesels were efficient in their own way, but they lacked something
vital: they had no soul. If ever a machine had energy, character, a
life of its own, it was a steam locomotive and it would have been so
comforting to hear one up front now, huffing and wheezing as it picked
up speed.

Jack had transferred his boyish mechanical interest to cars and
motor-bikes quite early on, but Alex had remained loyal to his
fire-breathing giants. He'd patrolled those bustling platforms for
hours; scoring the engine numbers in his book, simply revelling in that
unique smoky atmosphere. He'd found interest in everything that passed
- the clanking rakes of coal empties, the fast parcels, the fussy
locals. But most of all, the expresses. The aristocrats.

These expresses went off not only to London, but also to Leeds and
Scotland. Not via Shap or the cissified flat East Coast route; but over
the Long Drag through Settle, cutting through the bleak heart of the
Pennines. Where the wind whipped raw across the viaducts and the snow
drifted deep enough to bury whole trains, passengers and all, until the
snowploughs battled through to rescue them. Enthused by these images,
Alex had always wanted to travel that route; to discover for himself
whether it was as wild and dangerous as he had been told. All the way
to Scotland.. It seemed as distant and fabled a destination as any a
wide-eyed child could imagine.

No flimsy merchantman, battling out into the roaring Channel on its
journey to the Spice Islands, ever made such a wonderful journey: no
camel train tramping the Central Asian Desert on its quest to distant
Cathay could compete with Alex's vision of those greasy, labouring
engines barking their defiance at the far hills as they strained up
towards the cloud-draped summits. Then, the worst over, they'd wind
down through the valleys towards Carlisle; passengers idly dreaming
while the exhausted fireman mopped his brow.

Lulled by the soporific rhythm of the wheels, Alex closed his eyes and
smiled at his most treasured memory. He'd been on that same platform
with his dad, watched the empty carriages being shunted in - waited for
the fresh engine to back down from the sheds and couple up for the fast
run to Leeds. A huge billow of steam and smoke had preceded the
slow-moving engine, engulfing everyone, like Alex, standing nearby to
watch. For what had seemed like an age, the boy had been blinded in the
cloud, wondering where the loud hissing was coming from. Then, the
deafening clunk of connecting buffers had rung out and the smoke had
drifted apart like some magical pantomime effect to reveal the
locomotive in place.

And there, leaning from the cab, monarch of all he surveyed, was the
driver. Sucking on his pipe, he'd looked improbably old. Still, Alex
thought, what a thing to do for a living, what a tale to thrill your
enchanted grandchildren with: I actually drove those monsters, made
them do exactly what I wanted. I shifted the levers, and they moved at
my bidding. Alex had stood, in his cap and short trousers, rooted to
the spot. Had that driver been the Emperor of China himself, he
couldn't have seemed a more remote or awe-inspiring figure.

And then, wonder of wonders, the driver had taken his pipe out, tapped
it and beckoned to Alex. The lad didn't quite believe what was
happening until his father clasped his shoulder and urged him forwards.
Pulling aside the metal sheets between the engine and tender, the
driver had called him up onto the footplate. Me? Alex had mouthed,
unable to believe his luck, and the driver had extended a gnarled hand
to help him aboard.

Alex had stood entranced as the fireman, a much younger man, had thrown
the firebox doors aside to distribute several shovelfuls of coal around
the roaring mass of flame: the wall of heat had almost taken Alex's
eyebrows off. He'd shyly asked if it was true - that they cooked their
breakfast on a shovel? His dad had told him that once, but he didn't
really believe it. When the driver assured him that it was indeed true,
Alex believed him. But then, if this demi-god had told him that the
earth was flat and that herring nested in palm trees, Alex would have
believed him.

The driver had introduced himself as Bill before taking his young guest
under the arms and hoisting him up onto his seat to examine the shiny
brass controls first-hand. As Alex had stared, entranced, along the
enormous boiler at the road ahead, the starter signal had been hoisted
to "off" and Alex had actually touched the regulator, imagining
himself, for one wonderful minute, pulling away from the platform in
charge of the beast.

Alex's father had brought his old Ilford camera that day, a fact for
which he'd always been grateful. That picture was still in the old
family album, in the front room drawer: Alex grinning from the cab with
Bill and his fireman behind him, trying to look stern and
serious.

All too soon, the coupling up had been completed, the brake pipes
connected, and Alex had been reluctantly forced to go down and watch
the departure from the platform.

"Look," Alex's father had said, chuckling.In his excitement, the boy
had omitted to look at the name of the engine; normally the first thing
he noticed.

"Sherwood Forester." It couldn't have been more appropriate.

They'd both stood there transfixed as the whistle emitted a deafening
shriek, the mighty driving wheels began to turn and the first explosive
cough of exhaust blasted a mixture of soot and pigeons out of the
filthy glass canopies. As the train pulled steadily out, the driver had
turned to Alex, smiled and shouted:

"'Bye, young Alex."

"'Bye, Bill."

He'd never forgotten waving until the red tail lamp vanished. It had
been more memorable than meeting Dan Dare.. Or Roy Rogers, Davy
Crockett, any of his childhood heroes. Even now, every detail of the
encounter sprang back as clear as daylight. Alex had always looked out
for "his" engine after that, and had seen it several times. To his
dismay, however, he'd never again seen it driven by Bill, the man who'd
given a little boy one of the most precious and memorable moments of
his life.

The clatter of the wheels through the Trent junctions jolted Alex back
into full wakefulness. He yawned noisily, and the neatly-suited chap
seated opposite took refuge behind his "Telegraph" in case the
long-haired young hooligan pounced on him.

Yes, Alex told himself: think positive. It'll be like you always
imagined. Better. Sitting up all night swigging endless mugs of coffee,
serenading appreciative girls with your old guitar. Arguing about
everything under the sun with people (preferably female) who'll
actually understand what you're talking about; maybe even ripping off
the occasional incisive, witty essay to dazzle your admiring tutor.
And, of course you'll still find the time to dash off the odd poem:
some finely-honed masterpiece that would have made amateurs like Donne
and Marvell snap their quills in envious rage.

He stared out at the flat, watery countryside, seeing nothing, his mind
racing. It was going to be all right. No, he was wrong: it was going to
be fantastic.