Another Self | ‘We were soon comfortably ensconced in . . .'

Another Self | ‘We were soon comfortably ensconced in a first-class carriage with twenty minutes to spare . . .’

James Lees-Milne

The impression London made upon me as we drove across it bolt upright in a high-roofed taxi with large windows is not very distinct. It seemed incredibly large and incredibly ancient. I do not suppose that the squares and crescents on our way to Euston station contained more than a dozen buildings of later date than the Regency. There was hardly any traffic and our taxi kept to the crown of the cambered, cobbled streets. I can hear to this day the soothing purr of the metal studs in the tyres as we sped along. It was however interrupted by the driver ceaselessly pressing a fat rubber horn like a ballcock attached to a brass serpent, which undulated over the right mudguard. The noise emitted was disappointing – the thin chirrup of an insolent sparrow. My other strong memory is of a deliciously sweet smell of petrol fumes, mingled with that of horse droppings and antirrhinums.

The unloading of our luggage from the taxi to the train passed without incident. I rather think we obliged a postman to stagger under the load, which must have taken him at least two shifts. For my mother refused to discriminate between one uniform and another. Anyone under a peaked cap – and the more gold braid the more peremptory it made her – was a railway porter, if that was what she was wanting at the time. If she happened to be thinking of affairs of state she was apt to make a similar mistake, in reverse as it were. A year or so later I recall her addressing the hall porter at Brown’s Hotel with the words: ‘Well, Field Marshal, and how is the Peace Conference getting on?’

We were soon comfortably ensconced in a first-class carriage with twenty minutes to spare before the train was scheduled to leave. By this time I had worked up a bit of an appetite. My mother thereupon took the opportunity of preparing our picnic luncheon. The contents of a basket which she had been carrying were spread upon both seats, and a methylated spirit lamp was balanced precariously upon the empty upturned basket. This was lit and applied to a Cona coffee machine. On no account, she explained, must the lamp be allowed to burn while the train was running, or the whole apparatus might explode. Such a thing had been known to happen even when a train was stationary. As I was a nervous child the warning slightly alarmed me. Then an unfortunate thing happened. My mother got bored.

This was by no means an unusual state of affairs with her. But I secretly wished she had not chosen this moment to leave the carriage in search of a newspaper. I was left alone with the methylated spirit lamp and a vast globe of glass, at the bottom of which a few drops of discoloured liquid began angrily to bubble, while up a tube gushed a fountain into a steaming cylinder of coffee grounds. While I watched, fascinated and impotent, the carriage gave a lurch, and the train drew out of Euston station. I dashed to the window, vainly scanning the crowded platform for my mother. There was not a vestige of her to be seen, and we plunged into a tunnel.

I was panic-stricken. Here I was alone for the first time in my life, in a train, bound for I knew not where. Like an idiot I had not had the curiosity or the gumption to enquire the name of the station we were booked for. As for the name of the school, that had escaped me. Going through a tunnel can at the best of times be an alarming experience. For the first time in a child’s life it can be his idea of hell. A stifling, sulphurous smoke soon filled the compartment, while outside a roar of wheels was accompanied by sparks. The carriage however was not pitch dark, for on the picnic basket the blue flame from the methylated spirit lamp was wrapping itself round the empty bowl in a perfect frenzy of rage. Clearly the explosion and an end to existence were imminent. What was to be done? I adopted the only course available to me. I lost my head and, clutching my waist and tripping over my trouser legs, ran bellowing down the corridor.

The first thing that ought to be inculcated into children is that grown-ups of every age and every country are invariably nice to them when in extremis. They are seldom very nice to each other, and not always nice to children who have nothing the matter with them. But in order to melt the stoniest adult heart a child, howsoever unattractive and displeasing, has merely to appear slightly out of sorts. Thereupon the gruffest old maid and the most dyspeptic old colonel will instantly drop her knitting and his Times newspaper, and rush headlong to its support. I was unaware of this simple truth when I made a frightful hullabaloo in the first-class corridor of the 12.52 from Euston that day. Mercifully I soon found myself in the enormous hot bosom of a surprised lady passenger, who without hesitation administered succour and comfort. Through my tears I feebly pointed in the direction I had come from. It was as well that I did so. The lady’s companion, hearing a deafening report, dashed to my compartment where the glass bulb, having indeed exploded in a thousand fragments, had not extinguished the spirit lamp which continued to blaze merrily. With great presence of mind the heroic companion hurled it out of the window.

Once I had recovered my composure I was bombarded with questions. What on earth was I doing by myself boiling water on a wicker basket in a railway train? Who was I? And where was I going? To the last question I was unable to give a satisfactory reply. To a school, I answered, to a large school of over 100 boys. Had anyone a notion where such a school was to be found? Or at what station I ought to get out? My new friends were at first nonplussed. They suggested at length that my wisest course would be to disembark at the next stop, which was Hemel Hempstead, and put my implicit trust in the station master. He would no doubt eventually establish my identity and possibly my ultimate destination. I fell in with this sensible proposition.

At Hemel Hempstead the train drew up. I got out, and my kind friends lowered the seven pieces of luggage, plus the picnic basket, on to the platform. Before I had time to collect my wits and wave them goodbye, the train chugged off. I did not have long to look around. Suddenly a familiar voice screamed out my name, and there, running towards me was, of all people, my mother. To my surprise she was in a most extraordinary state of disorderliness and dirt. She had lost her hat, there were smuts on her face and hair, and her pretty dress was crumpled and covered with oil stains. My joy and relief were so great, however, that it never occurred to me to criticize her behaviour, which was at once explained in a breathless volley of excitement. On leaving the carriage at Euston she had failed to find a newspaper stall and, instead, had got into conversation with the engine driver, the most charming, the most sympathetic engine driver that ever was born. He had begged her to get into his cabin so that he might show her the most marvellous brass gadgets, all brightly polished and so clean you could see your reflection in them. Before she knew what was happening the whistle had blown and they were off. One of her life’s ambitions was now fulfilled. She knew I would understand and not mind. Had the station master seen? And if so, would he arrest her? How clever I had been to get out at Hemel Hempstead and not get carried on to Crewe, or wherever the next stop was. She was ravenous. Had I eaten all the sandwiches and drunk all the coffee?