The Cheltenham to Manchester Piccadilly Adventure

I managed to time things perfectly – I had a conference in Manchester after day one of the Cheltenham festival, which our friend Bob hasn’t missed since 1953, so we all went to see the first day of Gloucestershire v Hampshire (starring Wisconsin’s own Ian Holland!) at Cheltenham, and I booked a rail ticket from there to Manchester Piccadilly (via Birmingham New Street, naturally) for late in the day. Dad always liked to leave a red ball match shortly after tea, so he and Bob left me to watch an additional hour of play before getting the train.

I wandered off with plenty of time to spare and, as I approached the station, had that sense of dread known to most who regularly use English railways. About 150 people milling around outside the station even as two busses, both clearly replacements, left the station forecourt, bade ill for my trip.
ON investigation, all services to New Street were cancelled indefinitely. We were told, definitively, that no more replacement busses could be found. God knows why I cared – to be honest I’d be as happy spending the night in Cheltenham as in Manchester – but there were a lot of disoriented and pissed off people milling around. I was chatting with a very distressed young woman (20ish) from Bath University who was hoping to reach Middlesborough (good luck) when, looking at the announcements board, an alternative occurred to me. And this is what I love about the English.

The young lad (I suppose he was in his mid-to-late 20s, but he looked 13 to me) who appeared to be in charge of the whole business was, let’s say, stoical, despite being besieged by hundreds of people many of whom were being quite rude to him, poor chap. I sidled up to him and said “So, there’s no trains to New Street this evening right? Probably a death on the line?”. He confirmed my worst fears. “But: trains are still running to Worcester Foregate?” – he assented. “And, presumably, we could all get the next train to Foregate street, change there, and get a train from there to Birmingham Moor Street, from where we could walk to New Street?” (It’s a very short walk). His eyes lit up: “Yes”, he said, “What a good idea! That would work brilliantly!”. Then his face fell, “But how would people know how to get from Moor Street to New Street?”. “Well”, I said, “The most absurd strategy would be to tell them to follow me since I know what I am doing. Or – they nearly all have phones, so could navigate themselves. Another option would be to send an employee to lead them across the city”. He chose the most absurd option.

And so it was that I led about 200 people onto the train to Worcester. Funnily enough, when we reached Worcester Shrub Hill the station staff seemed to know what was going on and told everybody to get off there rather than carry on to Foregate Street, presumably because it facilitated getting an earlier Birmingham train out.[1] By then I was kind of stuck with the 20 year old woman – she was using my portable battery to charge her phone (god she was anxious) and on the one hand I didn’t want to weird her out by talking to her much, on the other hand I didn’t want to lose my portable battery, which I was going to need. With us were a young man from Hull who I genuinely couldn’t understand, and had to pretend to be deaf every time he said anything to get him to repeat it, and a slightly more comprehensible young woman from Derby: I thought they were a couple – more on that in a minute. As we all approached Birmingham I worked out that Snow Hill is as close to New Street as Moor Street is, and I knew it was an easier station to exit; combined with the fact that we’d reach Snow Hill 3 minutes sooner than Moor Street I suggested to the whole train that we all exit there for the walk to New Street. Bold, because I’d never actually walked that particular route myself.

Everything worked out though, and I successfully led my couple of hundred passengers from Snow Hill to New Street, feeling triumphant.

Until we reached New Street.

Unfortunately most of the trains northwards out of New Street had also been cancelled. God knows why – nobody would tell us. I reclaimed the battery from the Bath to Middlesborough girl, who was by now very distressed indeed, although she at least had a functioning phone. I looked up hotel rooms, and resolved that if nothing happened I’d get rooms for the youngsters as well as one (in a different hotel so as not to unnerve them) for myself. But I didn’t tell them that. There was still a chance some of us would get out. The Bath to Middlesborough girl suddenly burst into tears and I asked her whether she had any friends near Birmingham. At this she brightened tremendously, and remembered that she had a sister in Droitwich, A pity she hadn’t remembered this when we were in Worcester, but whatever – one phone call and she was off. All I had to do was look after the couple and myself.

Actually the couple weren’t a couple. They had met on the train literally as they sat down opposite me and the Bath to Middlesborough girl. When I realized this I wondered whether I should get them separate hotel rooms or, as my guess was that they both would rather enjoy (especially the Derby girl who seemed kind of smitten, not inappropriately because he was just as adorable as she was), just one room for the two of them. But: at 9.15 the board suddenly showed a train leaving at 9.18 for somewhere in the northeast, that would get them to Derby and Hull. I pointed it out, and pushed them to the right platform, thus relieving myself of my dilemma and depriving them of a night which might have been a lot of fun or extremely awkward, who knows?

And now: I had only myself to look after. Could I get to Manchester Piccadilly that night? Nothing came up on the announcement board so, at about 10.20, I gave up. Before actually quitting, I decided at least perhaps I should inquire at the information office.

“I take it there are no trains to Manchester tonight?”.
“Oh yes there is one in 6 minutes”.
“But its not on the announcement board”.
“No, I know. We’re not announcing it” [I swear he said exactly that].
“But no-one will know that it’s there”.
“You do, though”.

He pointed me to the correct platform and, as he had predicted, the train pulled in, stopped for about 2 minutes while only I got on, and pulled out again, getting me safely to Manchester Piccadilly about 5 hours late.

There’s a postscript. My friends from Harvard had rented an Airbnb in Moss Side where, the next night, they hosted a party with masses of Indian food. I stayed later than I intended. The other Brits got a cab into town at about 11 having freaked the Americans out by saying Moss Side is really dangerous, because of the riots, so it wasn’t safe to walk outside the house. I pointed out to my Harvard friends that this was rather like getting a cab rather than walking in the West End of London in 1980 because one feared the bombing campaign by the Luftwaffe – Moss Side’s riots now being more distant in time than the Blitz had been from 1980 (I suppose, on reflection, a cab wouldn’t have been better than walking during the Blitz, but you get my point). Somehow, though, they’d gotten into my head, and I was genuinely a tiny bit nervous walking back to my cheap hotel at 1 am. And, well, on the course of my walk, 3 different delightful young black men separately came up to me as I was walking, and said variants of “Are you alright, Sir? Is there anything I can do to help you?”. One of them stuck with me most of the way back either because he genuinely feared for my safety or because, having recognized that I was wearing a Worcestershire County Cricket Club bucket hat, he was rather keen to chat about the cricket, about which he was remarkably well informed.

A delightful experience all round.

[1] Its entirely possible I am getting Shrub Hill and Foregate Street the wrong way round. I only know them because I have often the train from Oxford to Worcester to watch cricket at New Road.