The Ned Wood Archive

Wish again,
and you will stand before me

So, on one of those trips down south, that June. Or May. Or July. Whenever. On one of those trips, on the way back, the train stopped somewhere up north. Actually, it always stopped somewhere up north. At some point north of Preston or Lancaster, the engine would slow down and stop. You’d get that release of gas wheeze that trains always make when they decide to take a break, like the sound you make when you breathe out when you can finally sit down after climbing up Arthur’s Seat. And then silence. We’d sit there for ten, twenty minutes, maybe more, calmly waiting, and then get going again. Mostly it was at Carstairs, but sometimes it was other places. Old out of the way stations that nobody got out at or got in at. Carnforth. Penrith. Lockerbie. And nobody asked why. The delay was never explained. We just accepted it like good school children.

This time it was Carnforth. That’s what the sign said. It was a bit misty, which was wrong, cos it was a summer evening. You get mist in winter and on wet summer mornings. You don’t get mist at this time of day at this time of year. Maybe it was smoke. Anyway, I was at a convenient point in the book I was reading, so I was looking out of the window. There was a bloke on the platform having a cigarette and talking to a guard. I went to the door and pushed down the window so I could have a better view. The guard turned to look at me, so I asked him how long we were stopped for.

“Ten or fifteen minutes,” he said

“So why have we stopped?” I asked

“Oh, the usual.” he replied and I knew that was all I would get.

Feeling adventurous, I got out. Lots of railway stations feel like the middle of nowhere and this one was no exception. I walked down the platform looking for something interesting. Nothing. No-one. There was a big clock, so I noted the time. Twenty past. I’d got ten minutes to look around. More than I needed. I watched the clock for a few seconds to make sure it was going. Those big clocks they have at stations – you can see the minute hand moving. Little jerks like the smallest of twitches; but regular, insistent. Suddenly I bumped into someone. I hadn’t been looking where I was going and she hadn’t been able to see. Like I said, it was a bit misty. Maybe it was steam? Everything seemed to be indistinct. Like an old black and white movie.

“Sorry”, she said, “I had something in my eye.”

I hadn’t said anything, but I must have looked stupid cos she looked at me like I was a bit strange and then asked me if I was OK. Then, before I could answer, we were sat in the buffet and there was a cup of tea in front of me. A proper cup in a proper saucer. I didn’t remember seeing the waiting room or agreeing to go and sit down, but there we were, sat down across from each other at a small round table. Other small, round tables to our left and right, but no-one sitting at any of them. Pictures of steam trains on the walls at each end. Behind the counter to my left is an old dear with a massive teapot, just like the ones in the Southampton coffee bar. To my right a window out onto the platform. Beneath the window is one of those big old radiators like they had in school. The sort you can play like tubular bells. If I turn to the right, I can see the platform clock out of the window. If I turn to the left, I can see the waiting room clock over the counter. Excellent: they both tell the same time. Just after twenty past.

Opposite me sits the lass I’d bumped into. I can’t remember her name, but we must have introduced ourselves, because she knew mine. I can only vaguely remember what she looked like: fairly short, wavey hair, big, unhappy eyes, wearing a long coat even though it wasn’t cold. I took a sip of my tea. It was an excellent brew, so I finished it off and then looked up to check the time. Still not much after twenty past, but as I could just about see the train through the window I kept turning round to look at it to make sure it hadn’t left.

“You going to Edinburgh?” I asked.

“No.” she replied in a vague, unspecific way.

I took another drink from my cup – there was still plenty in it, even though I thought I’d emptied it. There was cake on a plate on the table. A slice each. Sponge with jam. I took a bIte and washed it down with the rest of my tea then looked back at the train, still standing waiting for whatever it was waiting for. The carriage door that I’d jumped down from was still open. The guard that perhaps knew the reason for the delay was still talking to my cigarette smoking fellow passenger. Not twenty five past yet. I drank my cuppa quickly just in case. However, the next time I looked down, the cup was full again. I guess she’d filled it up again one time when I looked over my shoulder at the train.

I could hear something schmaltzy and dated playing somewhere. Piano music. I walked over to what I thought was a juke box and found what looked like an old radio. A bit like the radio me Dad used to have. Where you had to rotate a dial to change the station. You would get these brief snatches of broadcast between static as your reception tracks through the wavelengths. If you’ve heard the start of Burn It Down off the Dexy’s album, you’ll know what I mean. I fiddled around a bit, but wasn’t getting anything. Then this lass, whatever her name was, came right up, touched the dial, and there was the Raincoats album blasting out of this old radio in the old tea room on the old platform of that old railway station. I’d heard Pall’s copy once or twice, but this sounded much clearer.

A unique sound. It’s like they’re inventing rock and roll from first principles. It feels fairly shambolic, like it could all come tumbling down at any moment, but it never does. The drums are all over the place, changing the tempo and changing the mood all the time. Forwards and backwards. Scratched jagged guitars. A bit of ringing Tom Verlaine here, a bit of noodling there. Some crazy violin like chalk on a blackboard. A touch of whining Lora Logic Sax wailing all over the place. Sometimes amateurish, sometimes hesitant, like they’re trying to summon up the courage to start. All a little bit mad. All an enormous bit different. All so refreshing and beautiful.

So I said what I was thinking, which was that the Raincoats sounded like a Velvet Underground tribute act from Mars.

And she said: “Ned, tell me this. How come you’ll listen to the Skids and the Undertones. And you’ll listen to Tom Robinson and David Bowie. And you’ll listen to Otis Redding and the FourTops. And you’ll even listen to Plastic Bertrand and Kraftwerk. But you won’t listen to any of the music we make.”

“Look, I’d better get back on board,” I said. “I don’t want to be stuck here.” She smiled. “I know. Goodbye.”

I climbed back on board and went to my seat. I picked up my book, but didn’t, couldn’t read. I looked out of the window. There was no-one there. No passenger, no guard, no one. The clock had moved on maybe a minute or two. Still not half past. The wheels jolted and clanked back into life. The train pulled forward. Looking out again, I thought I could see her once more. Sitting alone. I smiled and waved. No, it was just a shadow. Like I said, it was a bit misty.