Darnall station was delightful. I probably didn’t appreciate it at the time, but I know I would now.
The track ran within a few feet of a row of terraced houses, and the open-fronted shelter overlooked the back gardens. For those in the know, the old lady who lived in the end house did a nice, but illicit trade in mugs of tea and bacon butties. No paper cups in those days, you got a huge white “Nit cracker” which you returned by leaning over the garden wall and placing it on a self put there for the purpose.
Here is a link with some details (about the station, not the old lady)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darnall_railway_stationSaturday morning would find the four of us, suited and booted, (Suited and booted probably meant combing our hair and sewing some of the bigger rips in our trousers) waiting for the train and, if we were flush, sharing one mug of tea and one bacon sandwich between two.
Sharing was no real hardship. The bacon sandwiches were proper dinner-plate size, oven-bottom bread-cakes, pronounced “Bret cakes” and the nit cracker mugs held at least a pint of scalding hot, sweet tea.
The Carriages were those with a corridor and individual compartments like the ones they used on such films as “Strangers on a train” or “The lady Vanishes”. Even then, I remember marvelling at the quality of the workmanship. Everything was built to last, all wrought iron, brass and hardwood.
Probably because the Darnall platform was unmanned (I don’t know if ticket machines had been invented) fares were collected by a doddery old conductor. We always used to try to hide from him, slipping into the toilet until he had passed and then going in the other direction.
Surprisingly, we often got away with it. We thought we were outsmarting him, but looking back, I think he was a lot smarter, (and kinder) than we gave him credit for.
I remember once, we played a game to while away the journey. The object of the game was to stick our arm out of the window and see who could grab a leaf from a tree. You had to be careful, solid structures like walls and posts flashed past the window with a WHAP sound. One mistake and it was goodbye to your arm, if not your life.
We finally realised how dangerous it was when a thickish branch caught Sailey’s hand. It whipped two of his fingertips off like they were the tops of boiled eggs, clean as a whistle, nails and all. Kids eh? So damn foolish. I shudder when I think about it.
If my mam reads this I will still get a telling off, maybe even a thick ear.
We had another game. “Blind Boxing” not quite so dangerous, but often very painful.
Somewhere Between Darnall and Chesterfield, The train would go into a tunnel, and it was several minutes before it came out the other end. Naturally it was pitch black inside the tunnel and to combat this, small lights would come on in the roof of the compartment. We used to try to find an empty compartment. (Which was usually easy, Saturday was not a busy day) Once alone, we would remove the light bulbs and wait for the darkness.
When the darkness came, it was total. Absolute. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Then the game would begin. The object of the game was to punch your neighbour without getting punched yourself.
I know it sounds daft, it really was painful, but it was unbelievably exciting and excruciatingly funny. I suppose it was like a high stakes version of laser quest.
We would move around the compartment as silently as possible, when you touched or sensed someone near you, you would lash out as hard as you could. If you made contact and the victim cried out, he gave away his location and dozen more blows would rain down upon him until he dropped to the floor and scurried away like a cockroach.
Sometimes you would think you has found someone, and lash out at nothing. Or worse still, you would hit a piece of the hardwood panelling and let out an involuntary squeak. Then you would panic and try to get away before the fists came out of the darkness.
We all tried different techniques. Stooping down low, standing on the seats, lying on the floor, all these methods had their advantages and drawbacks.
Tracy had great success as a seat stander. The advantage was that no one could come up behind him. The disadvantage (realised too late) was that his nether regions were now at face height and in harms way.
During one particular session, early on before anyone had landed a good blow, the only sound had been thrum thrum of the wheels and the occasional stifled giggle of anticipation. Then, there was a loud “Pop” followed by a scream so long and loud that at first I thought it was the train whistle.
Someone fell to the floor with a thud. Of course we all took full advantage of this and punched away merrily, but he made no effort to defend himself, and he continued to scream. Eventually, we got scared and stopped punching.
When we emerged into the light, we found that it was my brother Tracy who was on the floor. Apparently he had been doing his seat standing trick when he had copped one squarely in the knackers. He was in terrific pain, and he swore to wreak a terrible vengeance the next time we played.
We laughed fit to bust, but we never played Blind Boxing again, ever.
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