All Change for Holyhead by Alice Rosewell

 

 

Right now, like many others, I wish the world would just stand still for a while so that I could catch my breath and make some sense of the changes happening across the globe and at home.

It won’t of course, so I’m taking refuge in the past and am going to recall 12 hours from my life at age 16.

My mother had agreed that a visit to my aunt in Dublin would be a good idea (my mother and I did not get on at this age, but I was too pleased to be having a taste of freedom to consider her motivations.)

Suitcase in hand, and dressed in my black frock coat and flippity-floppity hat - very much the fashion at that time, I collected my train ticket at Temple Meads station in Bristol and received instructions to change trains at Birmingham, Crewe, and again at Chester, then go to the booking office at Holyhead where my ticket for the mail boat would be waiting.

The first leg of my journey was uneventful and I got off the train and went to find out which platform my next train would be leaving from. It seems incredible now that the only source of this information were the huge posters pasted to the wall on every platform, where people clustered trying to identify when and where their next train would arrive. The only uptodate information was given over the loudspeaker, which everyone listened to attentively in case of a last minute platform change which would send us scurrying over bridges and under tunnels to find the right one. I can feel my back prickling with the tension even now.

The train arrived. I got on. In those days the carriages all had compartments which young people today would only recognise from the Hogwarts Express. Sitting in a small space, opposite my fellow passengers, it was easy to fall into conversation with strangers. A very nice young man started chatting to me.

At Crewe I had a two hour wait for my next train. The nice young man suggested we have a walk around the town to pass the time.

I remember it was late evening and foggy, the street lamps making hazy orange spheres which cast little light. This could have been the start of a thriller or a murder mystery, but even at my most reckless and idiotic I had the vestiges of good sense. I turned back to the station.

After a long dull wait the next train arrived, and a short while later deposited me at Chester where I changed again to the boat train which stopped on its way from London to Holyhead. It was packed. For some reason my parents had sent me off over a bank holiday, and the train was already full of Irish people returning home for a long weekend. I couldn’t find a seat and stood feeling rather dejected in the corridor.

A group of very “merry” Irishmen beckoned me into their compartment. I declined as it was a first-class compartment and I only had a second class ticket, but they were insistent. I was a little uncomfortable with them, but was treated to some great Irish entertainment in the form of a lengthy and loud discussion between my new companions and the guard who seemed to think that none of us should be in a first-class compartment. In the end the guard gave up and went away. A wise decision I thought.

Arriving at Holyhead at one o’clock in the morning, I set off to find my boat ticket. It was unbelievably cold, and there seemed to be no staff to ask for help. The other passengers had set off for the gangway onto the boat which towered several stories above me. The water was black and made ominous sucking sounds as it slapped between the ship and the dockside. Again, I felt the chilly uneasiness of being alone in an unfamiliar place in the dark, and went in search of the ticket office. It seemed to take an age to find; if there were any signs, they were invisible in the dark. Only the lights of the ship illuminated the quay.

At last I found the place and was relieved that my ticket was there. With only minutes to spare I made it to the boat, my suitcase getting heavier with every moment, and heard the metal doors shut with a clang behind me. Again, I found  nowhere to sit. It was standing room only, with all seats and surfaces already occupied with people settling in for the overnight trip. Once again, looking dejected, I was beckoned over by a young man who had found a small space between a railing and the bar - now closed.

We sat huddled on our coats for the duration of the journey. His name was Burrie and he was South African. We chatted for a while and he told me that he was traveling Europe and had discovered things (like mixed race couples) which made him think he never wanted to go home again. I was intrigued and charmed, and by the time we fell asleep - my head on his shoulder - I had fallen a little in love with him. To this day, almost 50 years later, I still think of him and wonder what he did next.

My adventure ended when I was met at Dun Laoghaire by my grown-up cousin and delivered to my Aunt. My twelve hours of independence was over.

I’m a great fan of the internet and mobile phones and planes, but I do feel a little nostalgic for the time when even a journey between 2 neighbouring countries held a lot more spice.

My name is Alice Rosewell and I live in the city of Bristol in the South West of England (UK), the city where I was born.  I write in British English, so I hope that American readers will not be put off by British spelling of some words.

The first story I remember writing was at primary school, about the age of 7. This was followed by a dry spell which latest about 50 years during which I got through University, brought up a couple of kids, and had a successful career in IT.

I had the outline of a story which I’d dreamed up one evening in the pub, but that sat in a folder for about a decade until I got made redundant for the 2nd time in one year! This event coincided with the Kindle becoming mainstream, and Indie publishing an option. I dusted off my few pages of ideas and got to work. For the last few years I have been writing contemporary women’s fiction, publishing three novels: Irrelevant Women, The Kite Makers, and my latest, An End to Dreaming.  A good friend described my writing as intriguing, uplifting, and will not give you nightmares!  I think that about sums it up.