Seven-thirty was the time by the clock at the front of the coach, the precise time when the driver would let out the clutch, put in the gear and ease his party off to the Island. The Isle of Man, that is.
Only he didn't. One passenger hadn't arrived. Then it was 7.35 and the driver was still sitting on the wall reading No Sleep for Floozies. Then it was 7.40 and nails were being gnawed. Fleetwood is a long way from Gateshead and all minds were there, right on the quayside. For My Friend Harry's little party had no tickets for the boat and it was the Thursday before the Senior T.T. race and what the future held no man could tell.
The church clock was striking eight when Harry dashed breathlessly up and palpitations subsided. The driver was in his seat, the Floozies were suffering their insomnia in the privacy of his pocket, the coach was leaving Tyneside behind. Then Bowes Moor was behind them and then came the pub at Kirkby Stephen. And then the light failed and the coach plunged on in darkness and then someone said "If this is Fleetwood, what are the railway lines doing on the near side?" The simple adjustment was made by turning the coach round--and five minutes later they saw The Queue. When the party latched on to it a 1a.m., the front of it was nowhere in sight.
At least there were hoardings to read. Excursions to Barrow, for instance. By courtesy of BRM. BRM? All wondered what BRM stood for in Fleetwood.
By 3 am., the queue was still 15 deep and stonily silent. Some fly character appeared offering boat tickets at ten bob over the odds, until a copper drew nigh. "You'll get on all right, lads," he assured them and departed in a wave of burning admiration.
And so they did - aboard the Hell Ship known as the Tynwald. Below, Belsen under cover. Topsides, Belsen with air. They sank into the heaving mass of flesh, claimed their chinks of deck space and curled up like true Old Belsenians. Perchance to dream...
Perchance to sleep, even. People tramping the decks all night. Why couldn't they doss down like the rest of them and think agreeable thoughts of the luckless lot left behind at Fleetwood?
My Friend Harry awoke to a terrifying pain behind the ear, a blinding flash, an explosion of female laughter and a scurry of feet. He had been kicked by one of those infernal pedestrians; a hit-and-run walker. He sat up to let the ship spin on its axis and to let the oaths carry further. Sleep had gone for ever and, with it, night.
The Hell Ship dipped her scuppers in the Irish Sea as all hands rushed to the cry of "Land ho" or words to that effect. It was clear, sharp daylight, the water was like a pond and they could see the coolies patiently waiting on the quayside.
Should it be food before wash or wash before food, or food and no wash, or wash and no food? Fifteen minutes later they were adding to those possibilities: No wash and no food. Queues to the cafes, queues to the cloakrooms. They suspected there were even queues to get out. After a nice sit-down on the stairs for half-an-hour, Harry did manage to get a breakfast, and at the reasonable charge of four bob (20p). He'd half-decided to complain about the state of the tablecloth until he reflected that the waitress would probably complain about the state of the customers. He ordered tea. The waitress brought what she said was coffee but looked like cocoa. It tasted like all three, so he decided it was coftecoke and forced it down.
Harry's lot agreed to watch the race from Keppel Gate, part-way up the mountain. No public
transport available, so it was shank's pony. Dead-beat, they all sank back on the grass. How soft and warm it felt after a night on the ocean wave . . . how soft. . . how warm . . . how . . .
Through the semi-conscious haze, Harry heard a voice. "Look, that man with a moustache.
Don't you know who he is?"
Harry warmed to the speaker. Obviously someone with literary appreciation. Obviously another fan.
The voice of the companion was heard. "No? Who is it?" Harry smiled modestly and awaited the gratifying denouement. It came. "That's the man you kicked on the head, silly."
Harry shut his eyes and pondered in melancholy the cruelty of coincidence. He sank into a troubled doze-then leapt to a sudden roar. Kicked in the head again? No, it was a motor bike with a loud voice. Everybody leapt up. Everybody claimed it must be Geoff Duke until Harry pointed out that if it was, he was on his way to accomplishing a standing lap at about 150 m.p.h. which might not be beyond Geoff but would certainly be for the Norton fettled by Joe Craig. It turned out to be Freddie Frith, one of the travelling marshals.
Across the road, Harry spotted a Geordie he knew leisurely eating a sandwich and looking disgustingly composed and immaculate. So he should, for it turned out he had flown over.
Cissy!
Pandemonium over by the 33rd milestone. People rushing down from the skyline. Yells! Gesticulations! There was a noise in the distance. It rushed up to a crescendo, a tiny figure hurtled out of the left-hander, banked right, twitched over to the left, blasted through what was once Keppel Gate.
The Sportsman of the Year had arrived! A glance down at the near side of the rear wheel as he straightened up for the plunge down to Kate's Cottage and then he was gone. A sigh like the wind in the willows ascended from the crowds. Just that sight alone was worth the trip.
Two laps later and Harry started to make his way down the mountain. At Kate's Cottage it was the same heart-stopper as ever. Dukey seemed to leap sideways at the very apex, much to the alarm of one of the party, whose chapel-hat-peg eyes proclaimed him to be a Senior T.T. first-timer. Back a'foot to the grandstand with the roads open and the Bungalow-to-Douglas Grand Prix in full blast. Harry resolved to take out membership of the Pedestrians' Association.
Another queue at the pier and the temperature soaring. Harry remembered India and bore the discomfort like a pukka sahib. Another nautical night in prospect. Harry, aboard The Lady of Mann, would have liked to remove his shoes but feared he had 'potatoes' and he lacked moral courage.
At Fleetwood, the driver was still reading Floozies. Harry, having read the thing some time in the past, offered to tell the driver how it all turned out, but the driver said he knew. He'd read it three times already. Harry found that remarkable. Twice was quite enough for him.
They crossed the High-Level Bridge into Newcastle at 4a.m. and Harry caught the circular route bus by a hairsbreadth. Ten minutes later he discovered he was on the wrong route. Still, he was in bed by five o'clock-with the alarm set for seven thirty and a full day's work ahead.
He awoke to the realisation that he'd forgotten to send off that box of Manx kippers he'd promised them down in Kent. Never mind, he'd send them next year...
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