I knew the type as soon as I set eyes on him. A train buff and a bit of a know-it-all. I’d seen his kind at every railway station up and down the land, notebook in hand, flask at the ready. He was harmless, if charmless. There were actually two of them, but the other one looked more like Tim Rice and had a respectable shirt on. He was no train buff. The buff was scruffy and plump, with long, greasy hair and an untidy grey beard. He wore spectacles and sported heavily soiled khaki combat gear. He looked like Chas, or Dave, of that eponymous group, whichever one had the long Catweazle beard. The only difference was that the buff hadn’t showered for a week, and Chas, or Dave, would most likely have showered every day. The buff turned out to be a Yorkshireman. I sat on a bench near them and listed in on his monologue, for Tim Rice said nothing the whole time. ‘Loukin’ at this wall, tha' knows,’ the buff said, ‘I 'ave no doubt missen that this station 'ad another platform and another road.’ He went on: ‘It’s got a large owld yard, but 'appen it’s only used for storin’ bits and pieces o' the permanent way.’ Tim Rice nodded glumly. The buff went on: ‘I would 'ave booked t' Cross-coontry train all t'way to York, but there’s only fower look-out windows in each carriage. Any road, chances of getting’ an unreserved look-out window’s on this 'ere train's summat approachin' nil.’ He paused, reflected for a while and inclined his head gravely, as if to reinforce his message. At that moment a siren wailed out over the countryside. The buff spoke: ‘'Ear that? Yon means in a minute, they’ll start blastin' in t'quarry. T'siren's warning of t'danger.' He chuckled, and went on. 'Tha can 'ardly 'ear it - it's not reet loud.’ I sat and counted the seconds. Precisely one minute later, I heard a muted ‘crump’ in the distance. The buff puffed out his chest in self-satisfaction. ‘I were in t'trade once.’ He said. ‘T'most they ever use is 1600 pun o' dynamite. Mind you, that still meks for a tidy little noise.’ He chortled into his beard. 'Tried it out on a scrap car once. Someone 'ad abandoned it in a field. Put five pun o’ dynamite into the car and set it off. Blew t'bloody thing to smithereens. We found one o' t'wheel trims 'alf a mile away.'
I had the last laugh on the buff. Just a few minutes later, I was gazing raptly at the shimmering sea from my look-out window in the second carriage. It’s impossible to be right all of the time.
I had the last laugh on the buff. Just a few minutes later, I was gazing raptly at the shimmering sea from my look-out window in the second carriage. It’s impossible to be right all of the time.
