Journal Entries
The Vagrant and The Policeman.
Posted Oct 23, 2004
Peter Cain was a Manchester Policeman in the 1960's, his regular beat was London Road Station, that was a premier posting and he was the best.
Peter was a proud decendant of the Vikings, a giant of a man in every way, over six feet tall, about sixteen stones of solid bone and muscle with a heart of solid gold.
One of the regular frequenters of the refreshment rooms was a young man with the nickname, "Dirty little Jimmy." He was not outstandingly dirty, but he was hounded by some of the officers, never by Peter, or by anyone else in his presence.
Peter wouldn’t appear to actively encourage Jimmy, but he would always allow him to finish his tea before moving him on. Peter told me that Jimmy had lost both of his parents in an air raid during the war, and he had been dug out of the remains of his home after being buried alive for days.
Jimmy had a classical way of making a few extra pounds on top of his social security money. He would get someone to write a letter applying for a job in a hotel kitchen at Bournemouth or some other seaside town. The Hotelier would send him a train ticket, and off he would go for his day out.
They would take one look at him; give him a meal and a train ticket back to Manchester. Jimmy would have had a good day out at the seaside, free travel and a good meal.
Some time later, after I had been taught the art of observation and deduction by Peter, I would learn a great deal more about the things I was seeing, but not observing.
Jimmy had a damaged right arm, and he carried it low in front of his body as he shuffled his way off the station when he was moved on by some of the officers. Usually there was a wry smile on his face as he did so, as if to say, “ I know something that you don’t know,” and I found out later that he actually did.
When Peter moved him on, Jimmy actually grew taller, the shuffle was not as obvious, and the smirk completely disappeared.
Eventually, one night I went into the office while Peter was having his supper, and he said, “ You haven’t thrown Jimmy off the station, have you?” “ No, he is in the Midland waiting room.”
Peter then started to leave the office and I said, “ Goodness Peter, the job is straight up and you have only just brewed the tea.” “ That’s alright, I am not suggesting that you have not done the job properly, pour a cup for yourself and I will be back soon.”
Having learned quite a lot already from Peter’s very patient lessons, I had a very speedy cup of his tea and then I followed him out onto the patch, just in time to see him escorting Jimmy off the station.
Jimmy was very carefully placing an envelope into his pocket. Now all was crystal clear to me, Peter was writing Jimmy’s job applications for him. Imagine the thoughts of those hoteliers down on the South Coast as they compared Jimmy with the immaculate copperplate handwriting of Peter Cain.
Sad to relate there was no happy future for either the down and out Jimmy or his benefactor and protector Peter, a few short years later Jimmy no longer quietly appeared on the station for his regular cup of tea, and Peter my own tutor and protector, died at only forty seven yearsof age.
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Latest reply: Oct 23, 2004
Yes!I Believe in Miracles.
Posted Oct 23, 2004
The bell of Big Ben was sounding, the year became 2004 as I first wrote that the age of miracles is not yet passed, they do still happen. At this very moment I was dramatically reminded of a miracle that did happen to a boy of about 12 years of age, in Manchester about 1960. There was a radio call to the mobile section of The British Transport Police, and all available units instantly attended. We were informed that an express passenger train had hit a young boy, and there were still other children on the lines in serious danger.
Having moved them to a safe place, and questioned the boys about the accident, it was revealed that the express had indeed struck one of them, but he had run away afterwards. There was a small amount of clothing recovered from the embankment, together with a pair of shoes obviously the worse for wear.
Having obtained the name and address of the boy, and fearing the very worst, one mobile team set off to break the terrible news to his family. Another team with a van set off to take the rest of the children home, and inform their parents about the accident. The two officers drew up outside the home of the boy, and prepared themselves to deliver the terrible news to the boy’s mother when she answered the knock on the door.
Even before the officers said a word she said, “ I know, he has just arrived home with scarcely any clothes on at all, and he says that he has been hit by a train on the railway.” The policemen had a good look at the boy, and there was scarcely a bruise on him. Having advised the lady to take her son down to Ancoats Hospital for a check up, the two officers went back to the office in wonderment, for a debate on the matter and to make the out the required reports.
The established facts were unbelievable, and the remainder of the story even more so, but this is probably what happened. He was standing right by the lines as the express passed Longsight Locomotive Shed en route to London Road, (Piccadilly Station.) The speed of the train sucked him into the side of the engine, tore off his shirt, pants, and shoes, and carried him along on a cushion of air, then as he reached the space between the locomotive and the first coach, the change in air pressure just threw him away from the train, and onto the grassy embankment with scarcely a bruise to show for it.
Experience taught us, that it is a common occurrence for an engine or a train to remove a person’s clothing, especially the shoes on impact, but never had it been known previously for anyone to walk, or run away from such an accident. Perhaps it was merely his light- weight, or lack of resistance to the force being inflicted upon him that gave him the assistance he needed, or perhaps, there was indeed yet another guardian angel on duty that day.
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Latest reply: Oct 23, 2004
A Right Royal Intervention..
Posted Oct 23, 2004
Here is a lovely little story from an age in our history completely unknown to most of our present generation. A story almost beyond belief, fiction writers could never in a lifetime imagine it and the media have never even heard of it, but I can assure that it did happen, as I disclose this long kept secret.
Before anyone doubts the authenticity of my little story, which is condensed in my normal manner for easy reading by anyone or indeed any age group, I would respectfully mention that H.M. Our Queen does know the full story quite well, and has given her permission to publish it.
Her Majesty Queen Mary, the widow of King George the Fifth, Her Majesty The Queen’s Grandmother was a formidable lady who did not suffer fools gladly, and she certainly knew just how to deflate a pompous one when necessary. My great, long lasting friend and tutor ex Chief Inspector Terry Shelton then a young constable, and his legendary police-dog Big Ben were on night duty at the Royal Residence, and there was a very serious complaint regarding the alleged, anti -social behaviour of the police dog during the night. The Head Gardener had spotted a nasty looking yellow stain on a perfectly painted, extremely white wall and Ben was getting the blame.
Terry was furious about the matter, as he always defended his work mates to the highest degree when it was deserved. He refused to let Ben take the blame for the misdemeanour, and when Her Majesty Queen Mary heard about the incident from some source or other this very Royal lady decided to sort it out for herself. First she asked the Head Gardener to show her the evidence of his complaint and he triumphantly did so. Jubilant at being singled out to escort this very important lady around the Royal Gardens, he began to feel very important too.
Armed with the usual knowledge possessed by most of our Royal Family, regarding the animal kingdom and its habits. Queen Mary very quickly reached a conclusion, but she did not immediately disclose her knowledge regarding animal and human behaviour.
“ I will wait here, will you please go and bring a tape measure, a pencil and a piece of paper to me “ she said to him. “ Yes Ma’am,” he replied, still unaware that a conclusion had already been reached.
On his return Queen Mary said, “ Please measure that stain from the ground to the very top where the paint is still white.” When he had done so, and at her request carefully written down the measurement, she very sweetly said, “ Do you want to go and measure the guardsman who was on duty last night or are you satisfied with the evidence that you have seen? ” In absolute silence, he just stood there with his mouth wide open as the lady walked away, unescorted by him this time. Memories are made of this!
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Latest reply: Oct 23, 2004
The Mission.The Mission. A Play for T.V. Or Film?
Posted Oct 23, 2004
The Mission. A Play for T.V. Or Film?
Scene One. The Pentagon. The Year 2005.
Oval Office. A New Round Table. All Chairs Occupied Bar Four.
Usher, “ Ladies and gentleman, be standing for the new and ?????? President of the United States, President J.F. Terry.” Terry, still standing behind the chair at the traditional head of the table, now the middle one of the row of vacant chairs, begins to speak. “Welcome; and thank you all for your very prompt attention at such short notice, please be seated. Most of us have a great deal of practical experience in many ways, but the threat facing our great nation and all free peoples of the world today, is one that has never even been visualised in recorded history.
There is no need to emphasise, illustrate, or really even mention, the endless atrocities of death and destruction that have already been carried out in many countries of the free world. I can inform you now, that they are of the same opinion as ourselves and they will also tolerate it no more. I speak to you now with the full authority of those countries; who collectively denounce terrorism as an evil to be stamped out without mercy wherever it is to be found.
Obviously you have noticed the change in the shape of this chamber, the far end of the room is now separated by a bullet- proof screen with one-way vision and an emergency exit in the floor. The newly enclosed space and its facilities are available to you all at reasonable times, but occasionally authority may be temporarily withdrawn and security heightened due to business requirements.
Over many years, the strength and powers of The United Nations Assembly have been drastically weakened, resolve and determination deteriorating despite the dedication of an exceedingly skilful President. Without going into any of the sordid details or laying blame in any direction, lack of support, greed and self-interest appear to be the main culprits. Therefore it has been decided that a New League of Democratic Nations will be formed from the ashes, most certainly not the League of Gentlemen, all viable tactics will be used, and reasonable suggestions to further our cause will be earnestly considered. The chairs in the new section of our office are reserved for member-guests at critical new meetings except for four; one chair is reserved for myself, and two for special delegates appointed by this Committee. Many of our guests will probably speak good American English that we can all easily understand, except for the English ones of course, but their will be interpreters and computerised aids to assist.
The joke entombed in the last paragraph may not be the best one related at this table, but I insist that it must be the last one for some considerable time. Our intent is deadly serious from now on, with all frivolity and personal ambition discarded. At some later date I promise you that we will celebrate in style, once the difficult task is completed. You will have obviously noted that when the two special delegates to the new forum are chosen and seated by my side in these vacant chairs, there will be one more chair vacant, the same will apply at the new assembly when it first convenes, that space is reserved for!!............ No questions today, consider our way forward and return with your questions and ideas for the success of Our Mission.
Scene Two.
The Same Round Table. Seven Vacant Chairs.
President J.F. Terry, the Chair.
“Good morning thank you for your attendance, ladies and gentlemen, and straight to the business of the day. First item on the agenda is to select seven representatives of our committee to occupy the vacant chairs by my side at the top of the table. I merely ask that the choice, which is yours alone will be a sound one, and that it will reveal our strongest associates, the strength of single- minded purpose and dedication desperately needed in our fight to defeat the usurpers, universal terrorists already established within our borders.
All policies debated in this chamber will be subject to our established legal procedures and practices, but all relevant material and ideas will be taken forward by our elected panel of representatives to the adjoining chamber, and then returned to this committee for final approval. You will have noted that we still have one empty chair in each office! Due to the extreme need of swift, effective action, I propose the election of a coordinator to be seconded to our forum, not an invitation to invite a brother-in-law or relative for the position, but the most suitable person available irrespective of colour, gender or religion.
In order to do this vital job efficiently, the successful candidate must be appointed to a rank equivalent to the highest police officer in every state of the Union. As the Co-ordinator will be our representative in all areas of government and law enforcement it is essential that his or her rank be equal to theirs in every respect, a police warrant of the highest rank covering all states and government property is required to enforce our directives not only fully but instantly.
I propose at this time that the measures outlined at this time are subject to full debate at once, and any new security measures of any kind may be submitted from the floor of the chamber. I propose also that the measures we take are emergency ones subject to repeal or further consideration immediately the situation is under full control.
On relinquishing the chair, I hand over to ............. for questions comment, and suggestions.
The scene is set for Play or Film.
Now enter characters, expand plot details etc, and carry on writing in the direction decided, the scope is unlimited.
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Dialect-ion of Duty
Posted Oct 22, 2004
Dialect-ion of Duty.
Edwin was a fully dedicated, world- war two, steam engineman, six feet tall, thin as a lath and topped with blazing Red hair. At about seventeen years of age his habit of lapsing into the thickest of Lancashire accents, was an act that allowed him to come out on top in any arrangements involving food, overtime or money. The city youths were to find themselves completely outclassed when they tried to pit their wits against this apparent country bumpkin, because when it came to grabbing a bit of overtime, Edwin was a passed master.
Food was his main concern in life next to money, and it was said that Edwin could eat a potato more than a pig. This was found to be correct, when for a small bet he ate a potato pie baked by his mother in a washing up bowl. It measured more than twelve inches across and it was about five inches deep. It took Edwin a full hour to eat it, but he did, every scrap. The pie crust alone was enough to feed the average man, but Edwin was far from average, the country yokel appearance masked a razor sharp mind, and a great deal of natural ability.
One morning George Stanley the Boiler Smith verified that fact the hard way. Edwin was in the workshop and George said to him, “Edwin, will you go over to Mrs Yarwood’s shop and get me a cake and you can get one for yourself.” “Great,” said Edwin and he was off like a shot. On his very speedy return Edwin pressed the change into George’s hand and he said, “Thid nobbut won’n I adit.” Translated, this meant, “ they had only one and I have eaten it.” George could only laugh, and it gave him and many others entertainment for years to come.
With his usual immaculate planning, Fred Wilson the Shed Manager, had decided to put vast stocks of coal into store for the Winter of 1947, and this proved to be a very wise move indeed. The circumstances of stacking the coal in the good weather, prior to the approaching very severe Winter produced more than a little fun, and at the start Fred had craftily detailed his lads into pairs. Then he suggested that Edwin and his mate could beat any other team at emptying a ten-ton rail wagon onto the coal stack. To secure even more interest, he then offered two shillings to the team who emptied their wagon first.
Edwin did not win and, and the following morning Fred went round to the stack to see how many wagons had been emptied. Just the one, all the others were still half full or half empty if you wish, but to Fred it just did not matter, he wanted them all emptying. When the shed lads came on duty at four p.m. Fred was waiting, “Empty one wagon between two of you and you can go home.” “What about the two bob,” from Edwin? “Alright,” he said, and away he went, Fred was finishing at five p.m. and he knew quite well that everyone would work very hard to go home early.
The lads had only been on duty for three and a half hours, and by about seven thirty the job was finished and tidy. “How about going to the pictures, there’s a good one on at the Regal?” said one of the coal-dusted figures with just two white eyes showing, it is difficult to recall who that was with the heavy disguise of coal dust. Off to the second house of the pictures trooped half a dozen partly washed, but still filthy teenagers, resplendent in their railway issued overalls and enginemen’s highly polished peak caps. No one said a word as they wended their way to the cheaper seats. But! Lo and behold, just as they were going in through the door, He! was coming out, Fred was just leaving with one of his friends; he studiously ignored his young workforce by turning to his friend as they went by, then he glanced at the watch on his massive wrist before moving off down the street, without even a glance in their direction.
2.
The following day at four p.m. once again, into the mess- room came Fred, he had obviously done some more calculations, and he had decided to double the workload. “Right lads, empty one wagon each and you can go home again, I will leave two bob with the foreman for the first wagon emptied. Five o clock on the dot and away went Fred, big and heavy though he was, he just padded silently on his feet like a giant cat.
They all watched him go and then off to his locker went Edwin, quickly returning with a pack of playing cards. “Adjourn to the Sander, we will all empty one wagon for the two bob, then we will play pontoon for it.” The Sander was a very warm, comfortable little building with an enormous fire for drying the sand used by the engines to prevent the wheels slipping. A small amount of coal was thrown out of five of the wagons, but only one was emptied completely. About midnight the end of the shift, everyone went home leaving everything tidy, but almost as it was at the beginning. This saga was obviously going to reach a conclusion the following day and it was a well-known fact, ”you don’t mess about with Fred. But he also knew the quality of brainpower beneath the thatch of Red hair under Edwin’s polished cap, and fortunately he had already conceded defeat.
Once again Fred’s presence loomed in the open doorway of the mess room, and everyone was beginning to have doubts, had it really been wise to tweak the lion’s tail, were they all due for a formal, nine am invitation to a Red carpet confrontation and the issuing of a Form One each? In other words the most feared, official please explain your conduct satisfactorily, or else form.
There he stood, his giant frame filling the large doorway, with the “I am in charge” expression on his face, and his fully attentive audience literally shaking in their boots. Yet all was well, as the expression on Fred’s face changed, accompanied with a burst of laughter that almost shook the room, right down to its enormous well -scrubbed pine table and stone flagged floor. Looking straight at Edwin he said, “Right lads, one wagon between two men, no two bob for card playing but you can all go home as soon a you have finished.” The crafty devil had silently observed every move that they made and rather than disturb them, he had left them to carry on thinking that they were fooling him, this was man management at its very best, and I firmly believe that we all improved our own education at the same time.
To illustrate the story further we have to reset the year to nineteen forty five, the war was only just over and already the minds of persons in high authority, were set on taking possession of the enormous assets of railway property, including vast tracts of land, stations, docks, ships, hotels, hostels and private houses. The plans now being secretly formed also included the deliberate destruction of a unique transport system that had most certainly saved the country from defeat in the war, by efficiently transporting the essential armed forces and equipment required.
Soon the mature, middle aged and elderly locomotive staff were devastated as they were discarded, together with the most promising youth of the day. While they were all extremely efficient in their own field of expertise, very few of them could cope with the few alternatives on offer. The train services were withdrawn and two mature engine drivers, purchased motorcycles in a determined attempt to reach the nearest working depot, one was killed outright on a frosty road the other one was badly injured. Even the ever-resourceful Edwin was overmatched, he also fell victim to the tragic series of events inflicted upon him by a greedy, ungrateful government and Edwin died, accidentally killed even before his expected maturity.
3.
Looking back all those years, in the mind’s eye I see him as he was in 1945 as the war ended. Just like many teenagers at the Locomotive Shed, Edwin had also fired passenger trains into and out of Manchester Victoria Station as the bombs were falling on the city. Perhaps it should have been realised that these very young railwaymen had already done their bit for their King and Country, and they should have been left in peace to get on with the rest of their lives.
In Edwin’s case that precious time was to be very limited indeed, and two years of his very short life would be taken away from him immediately. Just like many of the teenagers who had worked on the footplate for the last two years of the war, Edwin had now become eighteen years of age, and he received instructions to go into Manchester once again. This time university trained graduates including a doctor, interviewed him. They had only one thing on their minds, and that was to make Edwin into a fully trained soldier within the two years of National Service allocated to that task.
They must surely have received a course of further education themselves as they interviewed this apparent country bumpkin. Immediately Edwin arrived, he went into his long practised act and assumed the broadest Lancashire accent possible; the interrogators could not understand a single word that he said, although the occasional word did seem to be English. Little did they know, that if they had asked him a sensible, practical question like,” do you know anything at all about the classics, or music,” they would have received quite a surprise, because he would have dropped the act immediately. Edwin was very well educated himself when his favourite subjects music, and musical instruments were being discussed.
After the eye test and the swift physical examination, one of the doctors asked him several questions that included, “ Have you had many illnesses?” “Wee’ll av ad all thwarks.” “What do you mean?” said the doctor. “ We’ll av ad thed wark, back wark, n belly wark.” That was the end of the interview, and he was drafted into the army for his two years National Service. This time Edwin had lost the game, and for those not quite as educated as he was in the dialect, wark means ache.
In conclusion, it may be said to the people of the Rossendale Valley, and perhaps the whole of our Nation, as the last British Rail, main line steam engine whistle, made its final wail, “Ask not for whom that mournful whistle blows, because it blows for you.”
THE END.
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Latest reply: Oct 22, 2004
LMScott
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