HEREWITH a diary to warm the sleepers of Iarnrod Eireann's ferrous old heart. It concerns British Rail, Natasha Jones, her children Amber, aged eight, Beth, aged two and baby Charlie, whose ambition was to get from Penzance in Cornwall to Kirkcaldy in Scotland. At this point I have to say it's a pity Natasha didn't contact me before she started, because I would have had a word for her. The word is, DON'T.
Possibly she would have phoned me had I given her my number. Didn't think. Stupid of, me. But then I have never met her; now, however, having read of her ordeal, I feel I know her intimately. She took the journey about which I would have urged the D word, and she will never be the same again. For it is an ancient truth, known to the Greeks since Troy, that on train journeys involving three children and lots of luggage - I didn't mention the luggage, did I? Stupid of me: lots of luggage - anything which can go wrong on a short journey, will. Murphy's Law was composed for short railways journeys. In French it is known as Le Loin d'O Murchu pour trajet bref par chemin de fer. And as for long journeys...
This was a long journey. The distance from Penzance to Kircaldy, as that directest of fellows the crow would travel is about 600 miles. Natasha Amber, Beth and Charlie were not travelling crow. They were travelling British Rail.
Or rather not, as it happened.
But here I go, starting the engine without hearing the whistle. Let us foregather with Natasha, Amber, Beth and Charlie on the platform of Penzance station. A nice place, Penzance. They have rather musical buccaneers there, I gather. As in the Skelligs, they once revered St Michael in Penzance. Sir Humphrey Davy was born there. Stay, one whispers, stay, and thank providence for the lives of St Mick and Sir Humph.
Bad back
In vain, in vain, for the Jones family are determined to get to Kirkcaldy, with two large suitcases, three holdalls, several carrier bags of food, nappies and toys, absolute essentials for transporting three Jones children the length of Britain and of course, Natasha's bad back. Oops. I didn't mention Natasha, sole adult in this caravan of Joneses, had a bad back, did I? Stupid of me. She has a bad back. A bad back, OK?
The three children, the two large suitcases, the three hold alls, the carrier bags and the bad back were put on the train, Natasha's mum bidding a tearful farewell on the platform, wondering how long would it be before she would see her daughter, her three grandchildren, their two suitcases, three hold alls and several carrier bags again. The whistle blew, the guard stood back, and at 9.22 a.m. the train departed Penzance station.
It actually reached St Erth just outside Penzance before it stopped. I know noting about St Erth other than it is the place where the railway line was broken; at which point the driver put the train into reverse and returned to Penzance station, from which of course, Natasha's mum had departed. Pity.
The passengers, including the four Jones, their two large suitcases, three holdalls, several carrier bags and one bad back were put on buses for Truro. Truro. A pretty place, they say, Truro, with a railway station. The problem was that Truro railway station a) had no trolleys and b) had no porters to help Natasha Jones with her three children, her two large suitcases, her three holdalls, her several carrier bags and her one bad back. In the confusion there, her bag with the nappies and other vital items remained on the bus, while the Jones population movement made its way to the platform for the Edinburgh train.
Only to find it gone.
Return to Truro
So Natasha, her children, her surviving bags and her even badder back were put in a couple of taxis to drive to Exeter to catch up with the Edinburgh train. But a vital buggy was put on a wrong taxi so that when the Jonesian migration reached Exeter they found they were minus one essential nappy plus sundries bag and one buggy, but still plus one bad back. So, Natasha led her people back to Truro to get the missing, articles.
They were not there. The buggy had made its way to Exeter, and the missing bag was on its way to London, where they're changing the guard at Buckingham Palace. The missing bag went down with Alice.
So Natasha and her jumble of small Joneses then decided to continue their journey to Scotland anyway. Problem.
There were no more trains for Scotland. What with this and that, the Joneses had run out of the entire allocation of Scottish trains for Cornwall, Devon and the entire south west of England; and a sadder and wiser species than when it had begun the day, the Jones tribal movement returned by taxi to where it had begun the day, Natasha, mother's house outside where this story began. Yep. Penzance.
Deep breath.
Intrepid Joneses
Next day, the intrepid, Joneses, heirs to Speke, Livingstone and Burton, set out again on their journey, with their suitcases, carrier bags, holdalls plus one bad back. And the journey went smoothly enough, mind you, though British Rail charged Natasha 85p for a cup of hot water to warn Charlie's food, and there was nowhere to change Charlie and Beth's nappies. Amber, aged eight, could have been forgiven for commando crawling to the engine and garroting the driver, but not even that happened.
The Joneses completed their journey the next day at 8 p.m., 34 hours and 38 minutes after it had begun, where British Rail in compensation offered Natasha a complimentary return trip. Beth, aged two, clubbed the British Rail official making the offer to death with used nappies. Last heard of, the Joneses were seen outside a petrol station near Alloa, trying to thumb a lift. Not easy when you have two large suitcases, three holdalls, a buggy, several carrier bags... oh yes, and a bad back.