Platform Souls

Chapter Three - Platform Soul

Wednesday, October 3rd

'Alrighty, I'm off to chemistry. Choo-choo, Jack,' said Liam – a harmless dweeb. He's 17 ¾ and collects Star Wars figurines.

'Puff-puff. Catch you later,' I played along.

I got quite a lot of this, still, three years after coming-out.

Coming-out as a railway enthusiast, that is. No, not a trainspotter, because I don't write down locomotive numbers at platform ends, and that's the big difference. Laugh at trainspotters only, if you're really that small-minded, and I'd try my best not to get intersectionally offended on their behalf.

I wish I could say that the news of me being a rail fan was greeted with a certain level of maturity, but this was year 10 at a comprehensive school in suburban London: so no, it wasn't. The revelation was thought to be very funny, for a while.

'Trainspotting! How SAD is that!?' was a familiar playground catcall until my hobby was forgotten, or accepted with lingering bemusement, over the summer before year 11.

Now it's just gentle teasing in my year group, with some of the girls intervening to tell the male jokers to hush their mouths and leave poor Jack alone with his train crush. I sometimes remind the lads that – if we're talking pointless and laughable fandom – several of them support Arsenal football club. My zinging comebacks have improved but could do with further polish.

Really, I was outed.

In year 9, conscious of my awkwardness and social anxiety, Dad coerced me into volunteering with a heritage railway, aligning my big interest with an outlet to meet new people and develop confidence. Despite my apprehension I was welcomed, made myself useful over time, and continue to volunteer one Sunday per month, plus some holidays.

Some of my classmates believe I drive steam trains, and that's the dream, but driving falls under the heading of 'safety critical', so isn't for the under-21s, and has a long apprenticeship. Instead, I've sold and checked tickets, assisted in the signal box, and learnt some basic engineering techniques in the carriage workshop. I have also met some good people – and a few cranks, to be fair – and felt valued.

During year 10, there was a grand conspiracy to out the hobby I'd suppressed at school – because the boys already had too many reasons to laugh at me, and I didn't need to gift them another. The coordinator of youth volunteering at the Wealden Railway emailed Mum, to praise my character on the first anniversary of me joining the team. In turn, Mum forwarded the email to my head of year, with whom she was in regular conversation about my action plan. My misfortune was for this to coincide with a community-themed week at school.

'Jack Dalton is a brilliant volunteer, much appreciated by our visitors; much liked by his colleagues; and a credit to himself, his family, and his school. Thank you, Jack, for all you do to support the Wealden Railway.'

Mr Turner literally read that out, word for word, to the whole of upper school in assembly. Obviously that wasn't enough stardust for me, he thought, because I was called to the stage to receive a pin badge and 100 house points for Hurst (Sir Geoff, of course), before being ushered off, dizzy with embarrassment, to a mixture of applause (muted) and sniggering (every year 11 boy at the back of the hall).

I identified the conspirators and vowed not to speak to any of them, ever again, and didn't: for about 12 hours.

The blame for my railway enthusiasm sits partly with Dad, who works for a train company – also not a driver! – and talked a lot about his job around the kitchen table as me and my sister, Chloe, were growing-up. From our chats I started to visualise the network, and when Dad saw I was engaged he bought me diagrammatic maps of the system, from when I was as young as 6 or 7, which I memorised.

As a perk of Dad's work, I get a 75% discount on rail travel anywhere in the UK. Since I was 14, I've been roaming on two Saturdays per month with my rail nerd friends, Mitchell and Georgia. Just since the summer we've been to Portsmouth to visit the Spinnaker Tower; Brighton to lose our money on the pier arcade machines, and Ipswich to get bored.

Mitchell is a great lumbering mass of a lad, who plays in that rugby position which requires being a literal wall, but not running very fast. Mitch has carefree optimism about life and a sophisticated, dark sense of humour that I enjoy. He takes neither himself, nor anyone else, too seriously. Georgia is a petite, very sweet, very tender goth-in-training, who feels the passion for railways more than me and Mitch even, I think.

I've known Mitch and George since primary school, and I'd thought we were inseparable. Then Mitch's parents paid for him to attend Brentwood School at 11, whilst George moved up to the Catholic school, so didn't join me at Rivers High. I'd lost my anchors.

I struggled badly in year 7, not forming new friendships and becoming panicked by tests and any request of me outside my comforting routine.

Despite the railway-outing in year 10, I couldn't hold a lasting grudge against school staff. When I was at my lowest point there was a whole group of year head, teachers and classroom assistants who made me feel supported and loved, and I think to know you're cared-for is to be blessed.

Referrals were made, and I was given little objectives to improve my oracy and self-confidence. It was a long-term project, though, and I doubt I'll ever feel it's complete.

I haven't, and wouldn't, take the piss against this school. Witness the lack of absences until I was puking my guts, earlier this term. Rivers had my back, and I owe a lot to them.

Evan has always been respectful of my off-trend hobby. He sometimes asks me what I got up to last Saturday, and listens actively for a full seven seconds of my monologue on why the Class 442 is perhaps the best type of train the Gatwick Express has ever had, before his eyes start to glaze over.

So, how does this rail geek afford so much pizza? Well, tipped-off by Dad, and via an agency, I landed a casual job as a Rail Replacement Bus Coordinator. This involves standing at random railway stations for 8 hours on a Sunday, wearing a hi-vis jacket, telling aggrieved passengers there are no trains and they must get on that big old bus in front of them, instead. It doesn't stretch me intellectually: however, it pays £2.05 more per hour than Evan's shelf-stacking job in the DIY warehouse, so I feel smug.

Most of year 13 know vaguely of my unusual weekend work, and those who don't think I am a steam train driver, believe I may be a bus driver.