Train Journey to a Future by Harcourt Tendhall
18 January 2022 { Romance }
I suppose you could describe me as rudderless around this time in my life. Still studying, but with no obligations, no career, no destiny. The only definite was my destination: London. When I boarded the train at Stockport station on that cool spring morning, I had no plan of what I would do when I arrived at Euston. The only thing I was certain of was that I was going to enjoy the journey. You see, I’d splashed out and booked a First-Class seat on the Pullman, so was looking forward to a great breakfast during the journey. I’d purchased an open return; cost me a fortune, but it gave me flexibility.
I took my place, the window seat on a table for four, facing the direction of travel. I like looking at where I’m going, not where I’ve been. The other seats were already occupied by my as-yet unknown companions for this journey. Opposite me was sitting a pretty girl, possibly around my age. Long fair hair with centre parting, trendy floral pattern dress and a narrow headband to keep her hair out of her eyes. To my left was a middle-aged lady, who seemed very put out when she had to vacate her seat to allow me to take mine. I had thanked her, but only received a grunt in response. Her pink twin-set and matching hat seemed to suit the personality I had already bestowed on her. Opposite her was, I assumed, her husband. He looked to me like a banker, with his navy suit, white shirt, and regimental tie. His slicked-back, thinning hair and hooked, pointy nose reminded me of a wading bird, maybe a heron. He reinforced this image later in the journey, as he picked at his breakfast with a disdainful expression. He was definitely a lightweight, whereas his wife would easily have made welterweight.
As I took my seat, noting the banker had already turned his attention back to his copy of The Times, I smiled at the young lady, then rolled my eyes in response to the grunt I had just received. She smiled back, then put her hand over her mouth to cover a grin at my expression. I took out my notepad I always carry and jotted a note, then passed it to her.
‘The man next to you looks like a heron!’
After reading it, she grinned, wrote a reply, and passed it back.
‘I thought the woman next to you resembled a pig, being dressed all in pink. That grunt just confirmed it!’
I grinned at her and she at me, so I held out my hand. ‘Hi, I’m Jake. I’m on my way to London, but I guess that’s kind of obvious.’
She shook my hand and replied, ‘Hi Jake, I’m Samantha, but my friends call me Sam. Nice to meet you.’
‘Are you going to London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great. I’m so glad you are. I’d have been distraught to have lost you at Wilmslow.’
She smiled at that, then asked, ‘Why are you going to London?’
‘Just a tourist trip, really. I have an aunt who lives in Kensington. I was going to pay her a surprise visit and maybe tour around some of the usual sights. I’ve only visited London once before, so there’s plenty I haven’t seen yet. How about you?’
‘I’m spending a few days on an assignment, but I’m also staying in Kensington. A girlfriend of mine has a flat there. She’s got a spare room, and it’s mine for the week.’
‘An assignment. That sounds exciting. Are you a spy, working for MI5? Or a journalist tracking a serial killer?’
‘Ha, ha. No, nothing like that. I’m a model. We’re putting on a catwalk show for a new clothing collection by Mary Quant.’
‘Oh, wow. I thought all models lived in Paris, New York or London. Since you obviously boarded at Manchester, do you live there?’
‘Yes. Didsbury. It’s where I grew up. I still live with Mum and Dad, but I travel a lot with work. What do you do?’
‘I’m a design engineer; building services. Still studying full time for a HND, so not working at the moment. I’m in my final year, so I guess I’ll have to look for a job soon.’
‘How long will you be in London?’
‘That depends on my aunt, I guess. I’ve booked one night in a small hotel in Kensington. I could manage a second, but then I’ll have to come home if my aunt can’t put me up, or put up with me, more like.’
We enjoyed an excellent breakfast and continued chatting about fashion, music, and many other things all the way to London. It was amazing how much we had in common. By the time we were approaching Euston, I felt I had found a genuine friend but hoped for more.
Sam asked, ‘Have you ever been to a fashion show?’
‘No, never.’
‘Do you fancy coming tomorrow afternoon at three?’
‘I’d love to, but I’m not sure I’d fit in. From what I’ve seen on the TV, aren’t these fashion people all a bit pretentious?’
‘Some are, but not that many. I’ve got to get there really early for final fittings and rehearsals, but if you got there at two, I’d have the chance to show you what’s going on and introduce you to a couple of people before it all starts. When it’s over, you can come with me to the after-show party. I’m sure you’d love it.’
She gave me a doe-eyed look as though I might say no – like that was ever going to happen.
‘I’d be delighted.’
She scribbled the address in my notebook and signed it with two kisses.
At Euston, we parted, as she had to get to the venue before going to Kensington, whereas I was going straight to my hotel before ringing my aunt. Before she ran out of the concourse, she gave me a hug and kissed me on the cheek. I watched her depart, then floated across to the escalator to find my way to Kensington on the tube.
The next day, I visited my aunt in the morning. We caught up on all the family events and gossip and she invited me to stay for a couple of days. I told her about meeting Sam on the train and her invitation to the fashion show and party, not sure if she’d approve.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Jake. You never know who you might meet there. Moving in those circles can only lead to opportunities. You must make notes on everyone you meet. Do try to give a good impression of yourself. Sometimes in this world, it isn’t what you know, it’s who you know. Bear that in mind. Now, go and make yourself look handsome for Samantha. Here is a key to the front door. Try not to disturb me if you get back late. You can tell me all about it tomorrow over breakfast.’
I arrived at the Dorchester Hotel at five to two. I felt like an imposter, but the doorman directed me to the ballroom where the fashion show was being held. After explaining to the gorilla on the door why I was there so early, he let me in and I saw Samantha strutting her stuff on the catwalk. I stood at the end as she approached. She stared straight through me, pan-faced, then winked before she turned around and strutted away. I watched some of the other girls, and they all wore that pan-faced expression. Then I realised why they do that. Men and women gawp at them. Unless there is genuine interest in the clothes, the former might just be leering and the latter could always be jealous.
After a while, Sam came out and sat with me. She explained what was going to happen and when. She introduced me to the show manager, Max. After asking me what I did, he talked about the need for good air conditioning at shows like this, as it got so hot with the arc lights on the stage and catwalk. A well-dressed lady joined us. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. She joined in the conversation and was quite forthright in her views. Then she excused herself and dragged Max off backstage.
‘Wow, who was that?’ I asked.
‘That was Mary; she’s always like that.’
‘Mary? Oh, you mean Mary Quant. It’s her show, isn’t it?’
Sam just grinned at me. ‘Try to keep up, Jake.’
I smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry, it never dawned on me I might be chatting with someone as famous as Mary Quant. I don’t think I’d want her as my boss.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not likely. Anyway, she can be quite good fun. It’s coming up to the opening of the show; her new collection, so she’s bound to be a bit on edge.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
‘What goes on backstage, then?’
‘That’s where we get changed and have our hair and make-up done. And there’s no way you’re going behind there.’
I held my hands up in submission. A man joined us.
Sam said, ‘Let me introduce you to Justin. He’s the buyer for Harrods. Justin, this is Jake; he’s giving me moral support today.’
‘Hi Jake. Sam, if anyone’s morals need support, it’s not yours, darling.’ He looked at me. ‘Pure as the driven snow, compared to some I could mention.’
‘Is that right?’ I replied. I turned to Sam. ‘And here was me, hoping.’
‘Be careful, I might not take you to the party after all,’ she replied, grinning. ‘Now I’ve got to get ready. Justin, keep an eye on him, please. I don’t want him getting distracted while I’m working.’
‘Will do. Come on, Jake, let’s get a drink.’
Justin led me over to the bar and introduced me to a couple more people before we took our seats in the front row at the side of the catwalk. The show seemed to go like clockwork, and it fascinated me, watching all these gorgeous girls parading up and down in Mary Quant’s latest outfits. It was more like a regimented disco, with the girls strutting in time to the loud music and flashing lights. Justin, and various other buyers and fashion journalists, were scribbling furiously, noting down the details of each outfit as the girls passed. Photographers lined up at the end of the catwalk, snapping as each girl posed, before strutting back to the stage.
At the end, all the girls paraded once more to loud applause. Mary joined them on stage, milked the applause, and accepted the flowers ceremoniously proffered to her by Max, the show manager.
As the lights came up, Justin took me back to the bar, where we chatted with some other buyers for a while. I kept an eye out for Sam, who eventually appeared and beckoned me over to the side of the stage.
‘We’re going to a bar in Soho now. All the girls and everyone who was involved in the show. Are you ready to go?’
‘Yes. Lead on.’
We left the ballroom and headed out onto the street. There were a few taxis waiting, so we jumped into one with another girl, Jenny, and her boyfriend, Mark. After a few minutes, we pulled up in a narrow street. Mark paid the taxi driver, and we headed through a door, down some stairs and into a bar. I saw some of the other models there, crowding round another face I recognised. It was only Jimi Hendrix! He’d been in the club practising with his band that afternoon and was about to leave for a gig later that evening. The girls wouldn’t let him leave without autographs, but he seemed happy to oblige.
As he passed me, I said, ‘Hard life, Jimi.’
He grinned, ‘Yeah, man,’ and headed up the stairs.
The rest of the evening in that bar passed in a blur. A brilliant buffet appeared from somewhere, and I was certain they’d run out of booze before the night was over. Everyone was dancing to the latest sounds and having a ball. Sam was clearly used to this high life, but I felt like a lightweight, so paced myself, although loving the scene.
Later on, Sam whispered in my ear, ‘They’re talking about getting the drugs out. I don’t do drugs. Let’s split, before I completely run out of energy.’
We left the club, jumping in another cab back to Kensington. Sam kissed me and we got pretty passionate in the back of that cab.
When we got to her mate’s place, Sam said, ‘Pay the man, and come in for a coffee.’
I did, we went in. Her friend had gone to bed, so we had the lounge to ourselves. Sam made coffee, and we made love. I have no idea what time it was when I quietly let myself into my aunt’s house, but at least it was still dark.
My stay in London lasted longer than expected, and I enjoyed every minute. The train journey back to Stockport wasn’t nearly as interesting, but I had never felt happier, with Sam at my side.
That was back in 1968. Sam’s modelling career had faded by the time 1978 came along. Mine had taken off, and we were doing well, having settled down in Didsbury. That’s when we started the family. This year, it’ll be our Golden Wedding anniversary. Our kids and grandkids will all be there. It will be quite a gathering of the clan. We’ll have a brilliant celebration, with a grand buffet and plenty of booze. I doubt it will match the night we had in that Soho club, but we’ll certainly raise a glass on the anniversary of that night by ourselves. Our special memory.
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