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7: Done Up Like A Dog's Dinner! Coalville's storeroom was housed in an old building attached to the big goods shed across the yard from our booking-on point. I'd been in it on my first day at the depot when Jack Johnson, the chap in charge, took me across to issue me with a hand-lamp, smock, coupling gloves and tin of Swarfega. The stores seemed old worldly, with shelves for brake-van side and tail-lights, shunting poles and brake sticks, Bardic hand-lamps and long smocks. Plus assorted ledgers and a whole range of stationery for the clerks and train crew supervisors. 'Blimey,' I said. 'There's some stuff in here! I bet you've even got an old driver or two from the steam days.' 'Yes,' he teased back, 'you'll find a couple in that corner there. Did you want them in bib and braces?' As soon as the notice went up a gang of us turned up for our uniforms. The cardboard boxes were stacked ten high and a fair few across. Jack handed them over one by one as we signed our stores card. As I'd finished my shift all I had to do was secure the box on the back of my motorbike and head for home. Next morning I opened the box and got ready for work. It seemed strange to be putting on a uniform - though it wasn't that long since I'd been wearing one for school! The jacket was the same design as a driver's, but with silver buttons instead of gold ones. It was also made of inferior material. The trousers were awful and, like many blokes before me, I suffered a nasty rash on the legs. The trousers felt better when your skin got used to them and they'd had a wash or two. But nearly everyone hated them. Some blokes reckoned they were woven from fibreglass, while others maintained that BR had bought a job lot of old army blankets and had them cut and sewn into trousers. The slip-over vest jacket was more useful. The greatcoat was long and thick and ideal in cold weather. In rain though it was useless: the water just soaked in and added to the misery! Most men's favourite was the light blue smock, similar to those worn in steam days. With two deep waist pockets and a breast pocket for documents and diary they were ideal and though officially 'summer issue', most Coalville blokes wore them all year round. My first day in uniform had arrived. As I walked from the bike sheds I began to worry about what the other blokes would say. Like most people who have to wear a uniform, I was wondering how people would judge me. Would it suit me - or would I look like a sack of spuds? With that thought I slipped through the lobby and into the locker room. No one would have noticed anything yet as my Belstaff motorbike jacket covered all. Stashing the bike gear in my locker I crept quietly back into the lobby. By now I'd convinced myself that I was over-reacting. Surely no one would even notice! But I was wrong, as I soon found out when a fellow second-man joined me at the roster board. 'Bloody hell - I didn't recognise you.' I turned pink and nodded a greeting before turning back to the noticeboard. I wasn't looking at anything in particular - I was just anxious to avoid scrutiny. Suddenly a motley group came out of the mess room and headed towards the TCS office. 'Hey, look at Gregory!' someone shouted. 'He's done up like a dog's dinner.' Hooting with laughter they went on their way. That had really unnerved me and I spent another hour in the lobby before I could pluck up courage to enter the mess room. The two top tables were full of drivers, guards and shunters. Two card schools were in progress and the place was noisy and boisterous. I saw some of the younger second men at one of the back tables, so after taking a deep breath I headed towards them. Keep looking forward, I told myself, don't turn left. But it had gone very quiet. I'd just about reached the table when all at once a loud cheer went up. People were stamping their feet and wolf whistles pierced the air. All the second men started laughing. I felt the blood rush to my face. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. But I sat down. After a while the guffaws turned to chuckles and gradually died away. The joke quickly ran its course. As I joined in the chat, I began to feel a bit better. That was the only bit of leg pulling I endured over my uniform. Over the years I've seen many other poor devils go through it - and sometimes took part in it myself. But as far as Coalville was concerned it seemed as if the blokes were used to me and I'd had my initiation. I proudly pinned on my ASLEF badge to my lapel and became one of the lads. That year saw the beginning of the rout of the branch link. These old boys - all of them over sixty - had done their bit and been put out to grass, left with just the local trip work. Most were decent chaps, but there were a few old devils who didn't like young hands at all. We didn't get to work with them that often, but when you did it was either a good week or a miserable one. Thankfully the bad weeks were rare. A major change was about to take place, one that would greatly affect us all in the coming months and years. In that year's general election Margaret Thatcher romped home with a landslide victory. A lot of people were happy with Mrs T's victory, but many were devastated. In the early hours of the morning I witnessed my parents crying over the outcome. Earlier on that Election Day I was to have my first proper drive on the main line. Around 8 p.m. on a lovely sunny evening driver Mick Riley and I left Burton MPD with two class 20s. Crossing Leicester Junction we accelerated away past the back gardens of Anglesey Road. 'Have you had a drive yet Tony?' Mick asked. 'Only on shed and in the power station.' 'Come and sit here if you want,' he said, vacating the driver's seat and motioning me across. I didn't need asking twice. Secondmen - most of us anyway - desperately wanted to be in that seat. With some of us it was almost an obsession and it was with great pride that I drove the class 20s back. We put the locos on shedside and shut the engines down. It may have been only two Class 20s up a branch line, but it had been a great experience and I thanked Mick for giving me the opportunity. At 11 p.m. we got the 'right away' home, but because of bike trouble I would have to ride back home on a Drakelow or something. An ex-Burton driver, Jack Sharpe, approached me. 'You after a lift home, Tony? We're taking five engines back down to Burton shortly. Do you want to come with us?' 'Certainly, Jack,' I replied. 'If you don't mind.' At 11.30 we squealed off from the holding sidings with Jack's mate, Pat, in the driver's seat. As we left Coalville and headed down the dark branch, the only lights visible were the fault and markers. I stood with my arms behind my back, holding the parking brake wheel to balance myself. Jack's voice broke the silence. 'Have you driven an engine yet Tony?' 'Yes, I had my first go tonight with Mick Riley.' 'Right, Pat, shall we give him a go with all this weight on?' Due to the darkness I couldn't see the evil glint that was probably in his eye! 'Why not?' agreed Pat. Climbing into his seat I soon saw the downside of driving. My palms were sweating as the weight kept pushing me above maximum speed for the branch. In the darkness I couldn't even see where we were or what speed restrictions were in force. It was a trip of terror! And, I realised, another kind of initiation. No matter how many times I asked to get out they just kept saying 'It's alright, Tony, you'll soon get the hang of it.' By the time we reached the iron bridge I was a quivering wreck. Thanking them both I vacated the driver's seat and got off. It was just after midnight as I walked up the bank and across the bridge. The lonely tail-light of the rear loco disappeared into the darkness. I was relieved to be off, but all in all I felt rather pleased with the day's experiences and smiled to myself in the cold night air.
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