The traffic is heavy.
Exhaust fumes assail my nostrils. I have fifty-five minutes to wait for
a train. I’m waiting here, rather than
in the slightly seedy station. Here is
opposite the public library in Motherwell, adjacent to a bus stop, on a metal
bench that has seen better days. There
is more rust on it than paint. A bus stops here every few minutes. The buses share a unique facility – they are
all old, noisy and smelly. Motherwell
boasts pound shops, bookies and charity shops by the dozen. Most of these Scottish manufacturing towns
have had the stuffing knocked out of them by ‘events, dear boy, events’, and
they lie, decaying and slumbering, bleak and seemingly uncared for.
I ate my lunchtime sandwiches in the Duchess
of Hamilton’s Park, gifted to the town in 1917.
The old girl would have turned in her grave if she’d seen the state of
it. The Friends of the Park are trying
to drum up support for the centenary next year, but it seems that their numbers
are depleting and they have no money to do much except occasionally to cut the
grass.
The library is excellent, with a host of computers and a learning
centre. It’s in a grand Victorian building, light and airy, and I would have
stayed there if it were not such a glorious day outside. The sun is warm, which
is why I’ve chosen to sit on this uncomfortable metal bench, to soak up la soleil's welcome rays.
After my meeting, which
was doleful and grudging, as usual, I drank a cup of coffee on a table outside
a church outreach centre. The café
inside was packed with pensioners, taking advantage of the special offer of
soup, baked potato with a choice of three fillings and a cup of tea, all for
four pounds. I’d forgotten I was a
pensioner myself, but at least I don’t have to put my teeth in a glass and
drink my soup through a straw. I would
have wandered farther afield, but I fear Motherwell has little that is
picturesque to offer the uncommercial traveller.
I last trod on the pavements
of the town some fifty years ago. We
were on holiday in Lennel, a tiny hamlet near Coldstream, in the Scottish Borders. In those days, it was a tremendous adventure
to travel the 70 miles from Wallsend-on-Tyne to Lennel in my father’s asthmatic
1952 Singer SM 1500, with four inches of play at the steering wheel, to stay in
a tiny cottage entirely surrounded by sheep and cows, of which there were
remarkably few in my home town. I was a keen train-spotter in those dying days
of steam, and I took the notion to visit the Motherwell locomotive shed. I never found it, but I did miss the last bus
to Coldstream. I had to catch one to
Hawick, miles away, and I had no idea how I was going to get from there to the
cottage. Luckily my prescient father had
checked the bus timetables, for his general view was that, at fifteen, his only
son was just about useless, and had turned up in the car at Hawick bus station
to collect me.
Back on my oxidised metal seat, a
number 24 bus scrapes by, heading for a place called Cleland, wherever that
is. The livery is a particularly bilious
two-tone cabbage and lime green and the vehicle belongs to a private bus
company. It’s so old, it’s got a
starting-handle. Parked next to the library is a curtain-sided wagon, the
property of a specialist potato supplier.
The branding lacks a little in imagination – on the curtain side of the
wagon, there is a picture of a large chip holding a plate of chips. A number 266 bus squeals to a halt at the bus
stop. On its rear panel, there is an
advertisement which reads ‘Everyday Heroes Wanted,’ as opposed to the less
effective ‘Everyday Cowards Wanted.’
It’s about fostering, so we know what sort of heroes they’re talking
about. A cold wind blows up from the north and the sun goes in. It suggests it’s perhaps time for me to
lumber back to the station. I’ve quite enjoyed
my time here, watching the world go by, and I should do more of it. I will, when
I retire for good. That won’t be long
now.
