Secret places, we all had
them as kids, some were built, some were natural
and some, the very good ones, were unexpectedly
found. Along with my little troop of allies I
had a few places to which a retreat could be made.
The large oak tree in Darkmere Wood had a small
tree house, useful in summer but exposed to the
world in winter. Then there was a small cave in
the Chalk Pits, we had put some shoring up to
help keep the place stable and it was a good funk
hole in dry weather but come the rains it got
very wet, limestone doesn't exactly keep water
out.
However, our very special place was deep inside
Stafford's Wood, a large collection of oak, ash,
beech, willow and silver birch that stretched
for many miles. Nobody went there anymore although
at one time, up till about 1916 there had been
a small road running through it to the Chalk Pits
and at one spot on this road a very small village
had started to blossom. Sad to say, with the drop
off in demand for natural chalk and a dwindling
supple of the element itself, the village faded
into time and mostly sank back into the ground
and undergrowth.
Now, it wasn't the remains of the village itself
that was our very special place, rather it was
something that sat at one end of the shattered
cottages and that something was a very old, red
brick, slate roof, railway station. We found the
place quite by accident whist wandering the wood
and from the moment we stumbled into it, it became
'ours'. The rails themselves had long been removed,
two wars had seen a huge need for iron and Steele
... but, here and there you could still see some
of the old sleepers, or the rotted remains of
them. Like many did in those days, the station
had, at one time, had a track running down both
sides of it; now the sleepers appeared from the
trees at one end and vanished back into the trees
at the other. As to the station itself, well,
it had a waiting room, small ticket office, small
baggage room and male and female toilets. Naturally
it was hard to tell what was what but some of
the old signs could still be read and that helped
to clarify things. At the end of one of the two
platforms sat a single little box which held a
big lever, this would have worked a signal somewhere,
but where and why we never discovered. Oil lamps
had lit the buildings and platforms, so it had
never even got connected to the gas supply; perhaps
this was something they had always been 'going
to do'. Over the window of the tiny ticket office
still hung the faded remains of a poster advertising
'The Great Brighton Seaside Piers - Fun for All
the Family'. At one end, where the two platforms
joined each other after skirting the buildings,
we discovered what was left of the old double
side station name sign "STAFFORDS WOOD HALT"
as with Cursed Green the place had never been large
enough to have something as grand as a station
so, instead, the place was called a 'Halt'.
We had discovered the station late in our time
as kids, it was actually the summer holidays
of 1957, the last of the holidays whilst attending
Merle Common Primary School. I was wandering
with my team of mini cohorts, that is to say,
Carol Vickers, Barbara Hatson, Chris Bonney
(son of the village bobby) Dickie Warner, Keith
Smart, Tom Eager and Miles Freeman (son of the
village postman). It was just after mid July
and the days were long and warm, the temperature
softened by a light afternoon breeze that tumbled
down from the Downs to cool our little world.
The boys and Carole I have mentioned before
but I don't think Barbara was previously been
explained. Carol, as with all pretty girls,
liked to have a 'not so pretty girl' as a best
friend, I think they are more comfortable with
someone who is not competition. Barbara was
as tall as any boy and on the plump side; however,
she had what I would call an innocent yet vivacious
face. Being a farm girl she was streets ahead
of us in the realities of the world, she knew
'stuff' that we didn't. Whereas the rest of
us were still airheads Barbara was sanity &
common sense. She was the one who put a bandage
on any serious cut and laughed at anybody who
thought they were more hurt than they were.
The year previous Tom had fractured an arm and
it was Barbara that bound it up with a splint
and then made him walk to the bus stop to get
a ride to the little cottage hospital; there
were no frills with Barbara.
Anyway back to the station. At first we didn't
realize what it was, we thought it was an old
cottage; it was only after realising that cottages
don't get built on raised platforms that we
recognized it for what it was. In a way it was
all a bit spooky, here we were in the middle
of a wood, miles from anywhere and in a natural
clearing was a small, overgrown, unknown railway
station... that sort of stopped us in our tracks
(if you will forgive the pun). I can still remember
the joy and wonder with which we explored our
new find, this was the secret place or all secret
places and it was to become our home camp for
the remainder of that final summer holiday.
The problem with some things is that, no matter
how exciting they are to begin with, the interest
drops with familiarity, this didn't happen with
our railway station (we found it, we owned it)
each visit was better than the last, there was
simply so much to see and do. The girls recruited
another of their species, this one was called
Mandy (Amanda) and she was almost like a wood
imp herself. I assume having five brothers had
taught her how to stand up for herself and even
take the 'verbal' attack back to males, even
older ones.
I guess you want to know what we did with our
station. Well, we cleared the platforms of grass
and weeds, cleaned the windows where glass still
existed, swept the place out from stem to stern,
brought in chairs, tables, crockery, cutlery
and many, many tin boxes, mainly OXO, in which
to store our food for the day. We also restored
the large double sided name to its posts on
the platform and gave the waiting room (which
became our living room) a coat of paint and
carpets on the floor. This may all sound very
mundane and it would be except for the fact
of where we were, so far away from everything
that it was indeed almost another planet, one
with a temperate climate, many song birds, yet
a silence and peace far removed from anything
we had ever known. It's hard to explain but
it was almost as if that holiday was lived in
a rather pleasant dream.
During the few summer showers of that that year,
not a drop got through the old slate roof. The
water supply had long been disconnected, or,
more probably rusted back into nothing but there
was a small stream only a couple of minutes
away and a few filled large glass demijohns
gave us supply for a couple of days. Any cooking
was done over the old fireplace in the waiting
room, there were still the remains of the old
grate and Dickie and Miles did manage to 'borrow'
the appropriate brushes to sweep the chimney,
you should have seen the mess they made, so
the smoke never filled the room. Plus we did
have one further major project ...
Only a few minutes' walk back into the trees
we discovered an old rail trolley, just four
wheels and an almost rotted away top. You used
to see these around in shunting yards, workmen
put their tools and spare parts on them and
wheeled then around on the rails, I have no
idea how this one ended up in the wood and the
reason didn't really matter ... it was there and
we wanted it.
It was Keith who remembered the small boiler
that lay rusting beside the road only about
a mile away at the edge of the wood. It had
come from a small traction engine and still
had a funnel of sorts attached. The idea seemed
very simple. Get the boiler back to the station,
mount it on the old trolley, build a fire within
it so that smoke came out of the chimney and
we would have our own train standing at our
own station ... sort of. Naturally the girls thought
we were 'daft' and 'total twerps' but we went
ahead with it anyway. It took two days just
to get the trolley back to the station, (do
you realise how heavy train wheels are)? The
old boiler would have taken longer but Mr. Pepper,
one of the local farmers gave us a hand and
it was transported to within a stone's throw
of the station towed behind Angus, one of his
giant Shire horses. I don't think Angus liked
kids very much as he tried to nip us if we got
too close. It took another two days to get the
boiler mounted on the trolley and looking something
like the outline of a steam engine.
Naturally it was the girls, led by Mandy, who
wanted even more done. They pointed out that
to be a real imitation train it had to 'arrive'
at the station, even if from only twenty feet
away. To prepare for this we had to fill up
the gaps between the rotted sleepers and then
tramp it down hard, as sharp iron wheels had
to ride over it... this took a couple more days.
We then pushed the trolley back away from the
station so that, on the big day it could 'arrive',
it would, at least, keep the females quiet.
Trouble is the 'rolling back', cut deeply into
our newly trampled soil and we had to do it
all again to prepare for the return journey
Now, the one big problem with our station was
that it was about 5 miles from our homes, we
had bikes so the distance for us wasn't far,
but parents were loathe to let us stay overnight,
it was just that tad too far away. Plus I expect
they were worried about the boy girl mix, after
all, we were in that 'discovery' age group.
The last week of the holiday was almost on us
before parents, after a group discussion, decided
to give us permission to stay at the old station
for the last four nights of the holiday. Mind
you we had to do some serious promising and
we knew that the Sword of Damocles hung heavy
above our heads.
We arrived at around 0900 on a beautiful Wednesday
morning, with bedding and sufficient food for
a ten year siege ; we didn't have to be home
until Sunday afternoon so, to us, we had all
the time in the world. Having too much food
was something that had only recently started
to happen; until we were around nine years old
rationing was still the order of the day but
the past two years had seen the shop windows
and shelves again start to fill and the hunger
pangs that we had all endured as 'little ones'
had almost faded from memory ... almost but not
quite.
That Wednesday was spent in putting stuff away,
making up the bedding - girls one side of the
room boys the other and heaven help any boy
that crossed the line. We only had potted meat
sandwiches for lunch but Barbara and Tom did
cook up a meal for dinner, bangers and mash
with gravy followed by homemade apple pie .
To wash it down we had our Tizer or milk (or
both), there were no silly rules here.
After dinner Barbara made all us boys take
a bucket (heavy iron ones) and get water from
the stream. This she then heated over the fire,
nobody was going to bed dirty from the day,
we couldn't take a bath and showers were unknown
to most, but we all got a huge sponge down.
Carol might have been leader in school or the
village but here Barbara was undoubtedly 'Da
Boss'.
Even though summer was starting to fade the
days were still long and it didn't get dark
until around 9.40pm, the day being followed
by long hours of twilight that stretched into
eternity, With dinner over we spent some time
just pottering around on the platform and giving
'The Golden Arrow' as we had named out strange
train, a bit of a rub down and de-rusting; silly
really, as Barbara then made us all wash again.
That's the problem with having girls around;
they are heavily into this washing stuff. Dickie
and I made up and painted a name plate "THE
GOLDEN ARROW 11' and hung it from the chimney.
We turned in at around 10pm and the lamps were
blown out soon after, it had been a long day
and we were all ready for a good sleep.
By our one clock (no kids had wristwatches back
then) it was 2.24am when there was a great 'crash'
from the ticket office. This was followed by
someone moving around and muttering. Now this
wasn't part of the plan and for the first time
we started to understand just how far away help
was. Carol and Amanda were huddled in one corner
and us brave male types were trying to disappear
into the floor. Thank god for Barbara, she grabbed
a broom strode out the door and we heard "Shoo,
get away you, come on, out of it or I'll bong
you on the head". Taking some courage from
her voice I went out to see what was going on,
only to almost faint with fright when something
big and dark ran over my feet and out the door.
Scrambling to my feet I followed Barbara back
into the waiting room. She put the broom back
against the wall. "Badger', she said. "Don't
leave any unsealed food around at night; they
will come from miles to get it". I guess
we all felt a bit stupid and very embarrassed,
a girl had chased the demon back into the night
while we 'Knights of the Forrest' hid behind
anything we could find.
I don't remember much of the detail about Thursday,
I know we played cricket, strolled in the woods,
threw stones at cans on tree stumps, you know,
all the stuff kids used to do. However I do
remember that, that night we put some food out
on the platform and left the lamp burning. It
was only around midnight when two badgers turned
up. One minute the platform was empty, the next
second they were there. I think they knew we
were watching as they kept looking in our direction
but the great thing was that, although twitchy,
they stayed and munched to their hearts content.
What beautiful creatures badgers are, even if
they do roam around muttering bad temperedly
to themselves. If it was spring we would have
had to be more careful as they can get very
aggressive when young are around but most of
the year they are prepared to 'live and let
live'. During our short time at the station
we saw many creatures and birds, I think they
sort of got used to us being around, perhaps
the station was their usual meeting/playing
place and we were a bunch of interlopers. Badger,
hedgehog, rabbit, ferret, owl, sparrow hawk
all were in great abundance.
That night we turned in at about 11pm, leaving
food out on the platform for our new black and
white friends but this night it wasn't the badgers
that woke us up, it was the train whistle ...
I think I was about the last to come awake;
there was a noise in the background ... something
that shouldn't be there. Once awake I found
the others already sitting up and in the distance
but getting closer, was the scream of a steam
train whistle. Looking around I saw that even
Barbara was looking a bit apprehensive, this
was weird. However, I was brought up in a supposedly
haunted house and no mere train whistle was
going to make me look a fool the way the badger
had the previous night. The platform was very
dark and quite cool, although there was a faint
humidity in the air as an advance messenger
of the autumn storms to come. There was a solid
'stillness', with not the slightest breeze,
it was as if time itself had stopped. Again
the whistle echoed through the darkness, no
closer, no further away, it came from the general
direction of the chalk pits and although about
five miles away I knew the sound was coming
from the real railway line that ran through
Oakstead and on down to Brighton. This would have
been one of the night flyer goods trains and
my guess was that it was foggy towards the foot
of the downs, as it often was, and the engineer
was letting anything on the line know he was
there. So, back to bed ... Friday loomed.
After breakfast the next morning we decided
to take a wander towards the end of the wood
where the Chalk Pits were and from where the
whistle was heard. We just wanted to see how
far it was, plus we had never been in that direction
before. To stay on track we followed the bits
and pieces left from the old railway track,
it was almost like having a path and in places
the trees had become quite thick so the markers
were invaluable - and so to our next discovery.
The ground gently rose up into what was called
a hillock but I think the better term would
be 'hillette' or 'mini hill'. It wasn't part
of the Downs, just a place where the ground
lifted for a while - and through this small
hill was a railway tunnel, or what was left
of it. The entrance had almost completely collapsed
and even to our young eyes the reason was obvious.
Sticking out of the end of the tunnel was the
wreckage of an old airplane. All that was left
was some twisted bits of metal and part of the
tail. There was no way to tell what nationality
it was, perhaps a German bomber on its way to
London or a damaged Yank or Brit bomber trying
to get home, whatever the case it found a strange
last resting place, in the mouth of a tunnel,
belonging to a railway, that went nowhere. This
really is a very strange world.
We didn't go into the tunnel, it just didn't,
for some reason, seem 'the right thing to do'.
Instead we turned around and went back to our
'safe' place at the station.
The rest of the afternoon we didn't really do
anything worthy of note, just wasted time having
fun doing nothing. In the evening the girls
decided that, as we would be boarding our train
the following afternoon we needed some tickets.
OK, nice idea but we didn't have railway tickets
- evidently not a problem, we were to make them.
Each person got given a small oblong of cardboard
(cut from a cake box). On one side we had to
write 'Please Take Me To' and on the other we
had to write a destination. Destinations would
be kept a secret until we actually boarded our
train. I know that on mine (not being good in
the imagination line) I wrote 'LONDON' and I
peeked and saw that Carol had written PARIS,
no surprise there.
Dinner was actually a bit late that day not
being ready until after 8.00pm. Then there was
all the washing up and washing (bloody Barbara
again). Following that we went and fed the wildlife,
well a hedgehog that was always hanging around,
and put stuff out for the badgers ... then to
bed, it had been a long day.
Saturday dawned warm and humid, the sky was
still clear but it was 'fuzzy', today that crispness
wasn't there. This was the big day, the 'Golden
Arrow 11', would make her first and only arrival
at Stafford's Wood Halt, the greatest little
railway station on this planet or any other.
Breakfast was huge and consisted of about everything,
all fried up together in a big pan - I wonder
if this was the start of the clogging arteries?
Tom and Keith cycled down to the village to
get some black and green paint and a brush.
This was then used on the Golden Arrow, she
had to look smart today and most grand engines
were black or green. A fire was laid in the
boiler using dry grass in lieu of paper as a
starter. Trouble was, in those days paint took
longer to dry and it would still be sticky during
the event, plus one other thing we didn't take
into consideration.
Lunch was a rather hurried affair, mainly because
the females wanted to prepare a special supper
and needed our one table to do it. Barbara and
Miles went off to the village to get a couple
of last minute things. The rest of us gathered
wood for the boiler and put up some ivy strands
as decorations out on the platform (not my idea)
and generally mucked about.
3.00pm and it was time to prepare for the big
arrival. Dickie and Tom went and lit the fire
in the boiler, at first it burned so well not
much smoke came out of the chimney, so some
green grass was added from time to time and
then it looked just right. At 3.30 pm we pushed
the train into the station, where it sat making
lovely smoke that did almost look like steam.
Then we had to join the girls on the platform,
place our tickets into the slot on the counter
of the ticket window (in the old days people
would put their used tickets in this slot) and
board our train to ... everywhere. Later we would
take them out from under the counter and see
where everybody had wanted to go.
Now you have to remember that we were only kids
and our planning, perhaps, left a bit to be
desired. Think about it. Wooden topped trolley
with old, rusted out, boiler sitting on top
of it and in this boiler a roaring wood fire.
Plus fresh and still wet, very flammable paint,
coating said boiler.
I think it was Amanda who first noticed that,
not only was smoke coming from the boiler but
now flames were coming from the trolly itself.
There was a scramble back onto the platform
and then a bigger scramble to find water. Typical,
our supply was just on empty so buckets had
to be taken and filled at the stream. Naturally
by the time we got any sort of water on it the
fire had almost burned itself out, taking with
it The Golden Arrow 11. For a second or two
there was silence and them, I think, we all
started to chuckle at the same time, or somebody
laughed and everybody joined in. Again, think
about it, this wasn't a sad happening. If all
had gone to plan we would have all got aboard
and then, a few minutes later got off again,
this way was much better and the performance
could never be repeated.
At around 6.00pm, with the fire well and truly
out and all the mess cleaned away, we decided
to cycle to the Downs for one last look over
the countryside.
Twilight was not quite so clear as usual, the
air was heavy and thunder clouds were approaching
from the north east. With Carol at my side I
lay and stared at both the sky and the land
around us. The village was almost hidden but
you could see the top of the church tower and
a few pylons. Summer green was still the colour
but soon this would turn to gold as autumn painted
the leaves. Then, all too soon, the branches
would become bare and the countryside would
go to sleep until spring. Sitting there on that
hillside everything seemed so solid, so safe,
so lasting. But I only had another 18 weeks
with Carol before she moved out of my life forever.
We had been together since the age of 5, since
the day I first saw her in the school playground.
I can even remember that she wore a blue dress
with white flowers and a matching blue and white
ribbon in her hair; who could have guessed that
time was now so short for us ... Oh well.
In the distance thunder now rumbled and small
flickers of lightening could just be seen, it
was time to go.
Dinner that night was a very talkative affair,
we knew this was the end of our time in our
secret place and that also, very soon, it would
be the end of our time together at school, one
last term and then it over. No, that's wrong;
we didn't really think that, we just knew something
was different.
I must admit that was a great meal. Barbara
had managed to get two roast chickens (probably
from her mother) and Miles produced some real
oranges, both the chickens and oranges were
something usually only had as a special treat
at Christmas. Then it was Dickie's turn, from
his old duffel bag he produced a heap of fireworks,
they weren't yet in the stores for this year's
Nov 5, so must have been from last year. Roman
candles, bangers, Catherine wheels, jumping
jacks, wiz bangs, volcanoes, even a few rockets,
what a great night that was.
It must have been close to 2am before we turned
in, I think that we all wanted it to last, 'just
that bit longer', but all things have their
time and then must end to make way for the new.
Late the next morning we went home ...
1965
I had been a serving officer in Her Majesty's
Navy for close to two years and in keeping with
a vow I made, never returned to the village.
However, in November of 1965 I was motoring
from London down to Brighton (to see a lady)
and for some reason had an urge to see if the
old railway station was still there. It wasn't
much of a detour and the place where the road
had once entered the wood was still clear in
my mind. I parked my green MG (b) and rather
apprehensively made my way through the trees.
For a second or two my breath hung like steam
around my head then merged into the light November
mist. All was silence itself; winter was on
us and nothing with warm thoughts was outside.
The bluebells and snowdrops were now sleeping,
their's was time of warm breezes and clear skies,
not the present forbidding greyness that seemed
to smother and weaken all colour.
The station was still there and little changed.
The roof had fallen in a bit and all the glass
had gone but apart from that it had little aged,
perhaps it had been waiting for one of us to
call by. The visit wasn't without any purpose;
there was one thing I had always wanted to do.
Going into the old booking office I crawled
under the rotting counter and dragged out an
old tin box that had been used to catch tickets
pushed into the 'used tickets' slot. They were
still there, the tickets we had made up eight
years previous and then forgotten to look at.
They were much as I expected. Carol had hers
with PARIS, the others AMERICA FOR THE FILMS
- GLASGOW TO SEE GRAN - AFRICA etc. Only one
was different and that was Barbara's, I knew
her writing, it was bold and plain. She didn't
have any exotic destination in mind hers was
very simple. On one side was the 'Please Take
Me To' and one the other 'HOME', clever girl
the old Barbara, way ahead of her years, perhaps
she was the one with that strange insight into
the future awaiting us all, just round the next
corner, only a footstep away.
Back out on the platform I could quite easily
see it all in my mind, the badgers, the sign
repairs and of course, the fireworks. For two
of them, only this place remained of their being.
Keith had been killed in a motor accident in
1962 and Miles died of pneumonia only a year
and a half after our last summer holiday; so
sad, so very sad. At the time it made me so
angry, come to think of it, it still does. I
wandered back into the ticket office, the tickets
should be returned to the old box, it's where
they belonged. Then, when putting them back
I saw another bit of paper but it wasn't cardboard.
It was folded over and had 'For Frank' (my original
first name) written on it. It read.
"I know you will visit one day. Still miss
you very much. One day perhaps we will meet
again. All my love Carol". It was dated
12 August 1964.
It took an eternity of memories to walk back
to the car and I don't remember even one step
of the way. Suddenly I was sitting behind the
now icy wheel and it was getting dark. Time
to again go, there was a lady waiting in Brighton
and you should never keep a lady waiting.
