Life On The Leicester Line 002

2: A Lucky Break

My first job after I left school in 1977, was at a dairy farm in Rolleston-on-Dove. I'd always loved the countryside, so I figured that it would be ideal...

The six-mile bike ride wouldn't have been a hardship in good weather, but on my first day it teemed with rain. The second day brought a hard frost. And on my third and final day the countryside was blanketed in snow. Farmer Thompson had a habit of leaving me alone all day - but not without first handing me a long list of heavy tasks. At lunchtime on Wednesday I sat on a bale of hay thinking about my old schoolmates and feeling nostalgic for our trainspotting days. As I bit into my cold egg sandwich - watched by four big dirty black rats! - I heard a train go by in the distance.

'That's it,' I thought. 'This isn't for me.'

I decided to leave there and then - but not before I nearly got crushed by a huge Friesian cow! Farmer Thompson paid me fifteen pounds for my three days of farm life and I headed off back to the Job Centre.

My next job brought me a step nearer to the railway, helping to move a cash 'n' carry firm to new premises across the line from Burton MPD. Ten of us were set on, with the promise of a permanent job for the hardest-working pair. For the first time in my life I got lucky and was one of the chosen two.

One day sticks in my mind. At lunchtime I used to take my sandwiches round to Moor Street Bridge and watch the trains. At ten to two, one of the canteen ladies would come along and I would walk with her back to the cash 'n' carry, pushing my bike. On this particular day we'd just started heading back when a man rushed past us from the opposite direction. Never had I seen such a look on anyone's face - it can only be described as insanity. He stumbled by and scaled the dirt bank leading up to the railway line.

'He's a rum looking perisher,' the canteen lady exclaimed.

I couldn't help but agree, but as we neared the cash n carry we put it out of our minds.

My first job of the afternoon was to accompany the assistant manager to the bank with the morning's takings. As we passed the railway station we noticed a police car and an ambulance, but didn't think that much of it until we got back to work and saw people milling around the fence that separated the cash 'n' carry from the railway. I went over to see what was happening. Two policemen stood watching as a group of ambulancemen picked up something from off the tracks.

'It's a body,' someone said.

The canteen lady came up behind me and tapped me on the arm.

'It's that bloke we saw at dinnertime.'

I could only stand and stare, thinking that the man had been alive just an hour before. The loco that had ended his life was a Mini Brush - or Class 31. It had to be detached from its train and taken on to Burton sheds to be cleaned.

As the months went by I continued to spend my lunchtimes at Moor Street Bridge. Autumn had arrived and it was getting colder. One day - in October 1978 - I stood watching as a set of engines came off the Leicester line and stopped at Moor Street. They were preparing to go back into Burton sheds and the crew had to change ends. As they walked by me they gave a cheery greeting, which I returned. Watching the loco trundle off I couldn't help but envy the driver's mate.

'Lucky devil,' I thought. 'And he's only about my age. I'd love a job like that.'

Suddenly I had the idea that a job on the railways was what I wanted. Any job would do me. With that thought I jumped on my bike and headed for the coal wharf offices where the local permanent way gang was based. Leaning my bike against the wall I knocked on the door of an open passageway. From somewhere inside a voice called out.

'Come in, I'm down here.'

I walked along the passageway and came to the only occupied office.

'In here, mate.'

I walked in. The office smelled old and fusty and was piled high with unfinished paperwork, books, maps and other railway artefacts.

'Blast this paperwork,' the man grumbled. 'It's coming out of my ears.'

'I've just come to see if there's any vacancies as a platelayer,' I explained.

He looked up and took off his glasses.

'Well, that's a coincidence. We're advertising vacancies next Monday.'

Standing up he opened a grey filing cabinet and took out some application forms. I began to feel excited. I'd really struck lucky!

'Fill these in,' he said. 'Name, address, phone number if you've got one. Do you mind shift work?'

I shook my head and carried on writing down my details.

'By the way,' he asked. 'How old are you?'

'Sixteen.'

With that he took off his glasses and screwed up my freshly completed form. He looked irritated.

'Sorry, son, but you have to be eighteen to work on the line.'

I must have looked devastated, because he seemed to soften and take pity on me.

'Look, if it's a job on the railways you want, I've got an address here. You can apply to become a traction trainee.'

'What's one of them?' I asked.

'I think it's the first step on the way to being a train driver.'

I took the address and thanked him for his trouble. Back at the cash 'n' carry I spent all afternoon unable to stop thinking about the day's events. How great it would be to achieve one of my greatest ambitions...

Later that evening I wrote a letter to the address he'd given me, explaining my lifelong interest in the railways and how much I'd love a job with them. I posted it on my way to work the next morning but couldn't help thinking it would probably come to nothing.

Two weeks later a letter arrived from Area Manager. Second men - drivers' assistants - were required for the depots at Derby and Coalville and he would contact me shortly to arrange an interview date. I could hardly believe my luck. But even then I didn't dare take things for granted. So many of my ambitions had a nasty habit of falling at the first hurdle.