‘What would you do?’
‘I wouldn’t go to either. Loughborough’s a terrible place – I was there in the war.’
I bought a ticket for Loughborough, and made a note of the cost in my diary. I was a civvy this time, and had been told to note my expenses and keep the bills. If I was lucky I would be able to claim them back.
I stood on the platform, and waited for the 10.10 to Loughborough. The platform was empty of people, and empty of trains. It was empty of everything except me. Even the pigeons had deserted it. A cold wind blew in under the glass.
Half an hour later the man from the ticket office walked up to me, and asked, ‘What you doing still here then?’
‘Waiting for a train. You sold me the ticket.’
‘You’ll be lucky!’
‘Why?’
‘The guards are on strike – didn’t you know? No trains until tomorrow.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that?’
‘You never asked.’
I nearly clouted him. ‘Can I travel on the same ticket tomorrow?’
‘Providing the train’s not full, but I expect it will be.’
‘You’re a helpful bastard, you know that?’
‘And using language like that on the railways is an offence, so hop it, Shorty, before I call a copper.’
I had a kitbag with my tropicals and a large suitcase of winter weights for bloody Loughborough. There was no porter in sight, and no barrow. My nemesis stalked slightly behind me all the way back to the station steps, not offering a hand. As I dragged myself towards a taxi he observed cheerfully, ‘Did you hear we just invaded Egypt this morning? Won’t take long to teach the ruddy Gyppoes a lesson!’ In your dreams! I thought.
I’d been there, and I guessed he hadn’t. It wasn’t the Egyptian military we had to worry about, but the rest of the world – when the canal closed, and the oil began to dry up, that’s when the pressure would come on. You’d have thought we could have at least waited until the Hungarian revolution had petered out. I wondered what effect it would all have on my Cyprus jaunt: maybe they wouldn’t want me after all.
I went down to Loughborough the next day. The train had few passengers. Its heating didn’t work, and there was no buffet. It was like being on an empty troopship. I pulled on an extra pullover, and wore my old flying jacket over that for the entire journey, and the train arrived at Loughborough twenty minutes late.
I’d intended to get a cab from the station, but there was a three-tonner in the station yard leaning against a grizzled signals sergeant. He wore one of those old sleeveless leather tank jackets over his battledress, and looked as if he’d seen as much service as it had. His beret was perched on a hedge of greying hair, and he was smoking a fag.
I asked him, ‘You’re not going to Garats Hay, by any chance, Sarge? I have to report there today, and wouldn’t mind a lift.’ Yesterday actually; but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. He grinned.
‘You look a bit long in the tooth for the call-up, mate. What happened – couldn’t you keep away?’
‘No, I’m still a civvy – I used to be in the RAF, and apparently you want some civvy radio operators to go on holiday to Cyprus. That’s me.’
‘Lucky you. What they paying you, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Thirty quid a week, all found. What does a National Serviceman get these days?’
‘Three bob a day, seven if he signs on. They’ll love you when they find out.’
‘Then they’d better not. What about that lift?’
‘Sling your bags in the back, and then hop up in front with me. I’m picking up a draft of seven lads off the York train. Another ten minutes.’
Oddly enough, it felt comforting to be back among the guys in uniform, and their green-painted lorries. I knew where I was with them. Do your job, stay out of trouble and you were OK. Welcome back, Charlie.
Woodhouse is a small village built in the middle of a large army camp. It tries to ignore the army camp, but rarely succeeds. No. 10 Wireless Training Squadron of the Royal Signals ran the set-up in my time. Quite an impressive bunch, even if it always hurts to say anything nice about the Brown Jobs. The rail strike had been on for three days: so there were Services returns and boys from the call-up arriving up to three days late, knocking on the guardhouse door, expecting a bollocking and to be up on a charge. What they were given instead was a mug of tea for their effort – while their papers were sorted – and a ticket for the messes.
‘What’s the point with punishing a kid because the bleedin’ railway let him down?’ a corporal signaller explained to me. ‘How much classroom attention would we get from a lad who’s doing eight days’ CB?’
‘If the army’s come over all live and let live, Corp,’ I told him, ‘then I’ve died and gone to heaven.’
‘Not heaven, exactly, Mr Bassett, just a technical training school. Men come here to learn how best to use our latest radio equipment, not how to salute and stamp their feet all the time. We leave that sort of thing to Catterick.’ He sounded like an educated man to me, and he smiled a lot. I wondered if the RAF had grown up too. No, probably not.
It was the sergeant who eventually appeared on the other side of the counter to sign me in. He referred to the camp as both Garats Hay, and Beaumanor, which confused me at first: the
