Postcard From Antebellum Birmingham

“You know there isn’t going to be any war,” said Scarlett, bored. “It’s all just talk. Why, Ashley Wilkes and his father told Pa just last week that our commissioners in Washington would come to–to–an–amicable agreement with Mr. Lincoln about the Confederacy. And anyway, the Yankees are too scared of us to fight. There won’t be any war, and I’m tired of hearing about it.” – Scarlett O’Hara, page one of Margaret Mitchell’s American Civil War Antebellum epic ‘Gone with the Wind’.

A travelling gentleman of any age or level of experience does well to ask the advice of fellow Puffins before packing the quinine, folding the mosquito nets one more time and finding the hoard of 1982 square Pesos one-sided coins. Those are the ones whose soft metal edges make them manipulatable into every slot in every vending machine anywhere in the world.

Whether striking out for Bristol, Plymouth, Trans-Jordan, on yet another cruise, Kenya (from the mid-1950s to the present day) or even only planning a stroll to one’s own greenhouse, a Puffin or three are on hand to advise.

In May, Mrs AWS and I took a day trip to Edinburgh on the train, en route enjoying Beattock Bank, the infant Clyde and a misty approach to Old Reaky after addressing the curve at Carstairs Junction. In the subsequent telling of the tale we paused for thought at the scenes of the tragedies of Lockerbie and Qunitinshill and allowed our mind’s eyes to be distracted all the way across Asia Minor to Syria and the Persian Gulf.

But the food was poor, at least in first class. It wouldn’t be so bad if our chagrin revolved around warm wine or over-crisp roast swan, but the problem was a limp sausage sandwich and only one cup of coffee. On the way back we forewent First Class, travelled in Standard Premium and boarded the train with our own Burger Kings.

As the only difference between First Class and Standard Premium is the food, the penny, or rather several thousand of them, dropped. If we have our day trips in a declassified sans-food First Class carriage, we can go further. Birmingham New Street called. The trick is to travel off-peak, book and reserve seats well in advance and purchase a rail card.

Myself and Mrs AWS have a Two Together card which gives a third off the fare when we travel. If you’re tempted to take someone else, hard lines, the sneaks at Network Rail insist your photos upon the card. One last thing before you leave the front door. Log on to your favourite politics website and, as if striking out for the West Country, the Lavant or the Carribean, make an unread comment asking for travel advice. Don’t even think about reading the replies, let alone repeating them. Oh, alright then, just this once:

‘Don’t go.’

‘Learn Urdu.’

‘Wear a yashmak.’

At those non-refundable prices, we’re still going. Some of my Urdu remains, albeit somewhat provincial. As for the yashmak, Mrs AWS is one of those irritating people who not only keeps everything but remembers where it is.

Within seconds, she was draped in an impressive example of the aforementioned. Left over from our time in the Malay peninsular, it was last worn at a bad-tempered maharaja’s tea party, after which a fourth cousin of the Sultan of Brunei never spoke to us again. I digress.

A gentleman reaches a certain point in years when he can’t work a car park ticket machine. By chance, it coincides with that other Age Of Man where a daughter can run him about. After being dropped at the railway station, standing on the platform and waiting for the train can be the best part of the day – especially if the destination is halfway between Wolverhampton and Birmingham International. One gets to see passing engines and might even catch one the last of the soon-to-be-withdrawn Class 325 postal trains.

The rainbow-liveried Pendolino could be present, but if you’re as fortunate as me, it will be hidden behind your southbound service as it slows into Platform Four bang on time. Talk of the rainbow train is a reminder of today’s obsession with minorities, multiculti and identity. Hold on to that thought.

Later, the Blue Pullman passed, heading for its upcoming journey around Scotland’s West Highlands. An HST in pale blue and white, the livery harks back to the Nanking blue of the 1960s Pullmans, all First Class units arguably most famous for their businessman’s St Pancras to Manchester Central run.

Back on the platform and disinterested in pointy, smelly, noisy things going up and down the tracks, Mrs AWS’s feminine intuition picks up on something at the human rather than mechanical level.

‘They’re expecting something, waiting for someone, looking out for somebody,’ she whispers.

‘Eh?’

My wife nodded towards the transport police. Two officers are on the platform, eyes alert, while having a discreet word with the platform staff. Hmm.

On the train, the countryside looked well. Heading in the opposite direction to Edinburgh, we follow the River Pettril, curve through Penrith and strike out for Shap Summit. Pasture turns to moor. On the other side of the top, we zig-zag alongside the River Lune through its gorge, tucked beneath that johnny-cum-lately called the M6.

Back at sea level by Hest Bank, we glimpse across the mud flats of Morecambe Bay and spy the Coniston Fells. Rolling into Lancaster over the Carlisle Bridge, we cross the now tidal River Lune. Somewhere along the way, I pulled the old trick of removing the Standard Premium antimacassar for the Instagram perfect life snap. Taps nose.

Hammering south, the land seems perfect. Although the farmer may never admit it, this summer’s mixture of not-too-warm and not-too-cold in between spells of wet and dry makes England the most fertile and blessed country in the world.

But all is not as it should be.

In the mad world of ticket pricing, our day return costs £145. If we had booked the day before and travelled First Class without our railcard, it would have been £706. Which, a hungry mathematician will tell you, means the frugal have £560 to spend on Kitkats, sandwiches and coffee – with still a pound to spare – in the shop in Coach C.

With Malteesers at £3.30 a packet and £4.50 for one of those little plastic bottles of wine, it can be done. As a travelling gentleman of a certain age, who touched base with the final days of the golden years of air travel, I’m reminded of the mile-high club joined by consuming an intercontinental airfare in complimentary drinks.

However, during my treks from our luxurious table for two in Coach H to the pricy end of Coach C, the transport police are about the vestibules. Is there something we should know?

On the return leg, we were late leaving Birmingham New Street. On-train announcements mentioned a ‘check’ and an ‘incident’. Walking down to Coach C yet again, I could see nothing more suspicious than a full train. Some were standing in the vestibules. On the ever-latening service, others gave up and were getting off. Perhaps the incident or delay was in Coaches A or B?

In the olden days, an Alert State Warning hovered about the intentions of the rotters in the IRA and the Warsaw Pact. Nowadays, it’s called a Risk Level. One suspects that day the level was high and, with that wonderful thing called hindsight, understandably so.

Our trip was on Thursday 25th July. Tuesday the 23rd had been a bad day. Unbeknown to me then, but as we all now realise, things were about to get much worse. Within days, talk of Civil War spread, with myself, Mrs AWS and Birmingham at the epicentre.

To be continued…
 

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