My Socks That Magically Changed Colour

This is one of my earliest childhood memories: the time my socks changed colour. Yes, you read that right. They actually changed colour! Now, you might be wondering—was it real or just the fantasy of an over-imaginative child? Read on and decide for yourself…

I was six years old when we went on our first family holiday to Ireland. Though my mother came from there, in my young and curious mind, Ireland was a far-off, exotic land—something like Africa, India, or Borneo, the kind of place where head-hunters might still lurk in the jungle.

We lived in Sunbury-on-Thames, a sleepy part of southern England where nothing much ever happened. So, setting off on a holiday to another country was the most exciting thing imaginable.

My sister Maria, two years older, and my brother Tony, two years younger, were just as excited. We boarded an electric train to London, barely able to contain ourselves.

Now, when I say “electric train,” you might picture sleek, modern carriages gliding along shiny tracks. Ours was the exact opposite: a clunky, green-painted relic that rattled and creaked, its lights flickering as it wheezed its way toward Waterloo Station.

Despite the flickering lights, we gazed out the window in wonder. Parks, factories, rows of terraced houses, shops—and even a racecourse—flashed past. I was envious of the people whose gardens backed onto the railway line. Imagine! Trains thundering past all day. That, to me, was the height of excitement.

Even more magical were the train sidings, water towers, sheds, turntables, and, most glorious of all, steam locomotives. Every boy dreamed of being an engine driver, immersed in a world of smoke, fire, and steam.

The closer we got to London, the more steam engines we saw. Our excitement grew with each clank and screech of the train. In Sunbury, seeing a steam engine was a rare thrill. But here in the capital, they roared past us on tracks stretching in all directions, heading for far-off places—Edinburgh, Swansea, Bristol. I was in heaven.

When we arrived at Waterloo, our train pulled into Platform 1. Even before it stopped, doors flung open, passengers leapt out. Mum, ever the philosopher, muttered, “Why is it that everyone in England is always in a hurry?”

We didn’t rush. With bags and cases to wrangle, we let the others scurry past. But Dad was about to prove he could rush with the best of them.

“Porter, sir?” a man asked politely.

“No, thank you,” Dad replied firmly. “We can manage on our own.”

“But we need a porter!” Mum protested. Dad didn’t hear—or ignored her. He hoisted one suitcase onto his shoulder, grabbed a second, and gathered a flurry of bags with his free hand. “That’s better,” he said, marching off like a man on a mission. “Keep up with me this time!”

We struggled after him, Mum trying to herd us and the luggage. Dad vanished behind a Royal Mail van.

“Faster!” Mum urged. We darted past scooters, vans, and dive-bombing pigeons, until we finally caught up with him—trying to hail a taxi.

“Why not just get one from the station?” Mum asked as yet another cab ignored us.

“They’re too expensive back there,” Dad declared. “Everyone knows that!”

Eventually, he flagged one down across the plaza, hurled the luggage inside, and climbed in. We watched, wondering if he’d tell the driver to pick us up. After a brief chat, the cab pulled up beside us.

“There you are,” Dad said proudly, as if nothing odd had happened.

We piled in and rode to Euston. Two stone lions stood guard outside.

“Hurrah for Euston!” we cheered.

Inside, chaos reigned. Delivery vans, scooters, pigeons—it was Waterloo all over again. The driver finally spoke: “That’s two pounds, please.”

Dad nearly choked. “Two pounds? We agreed on one!”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said with a grin. “But your bags cost extra.”

Dad paid, fuming. As we got out, he forgot to close the boot.

“Excuse me, sir,” the driver called. “You failed to close my boot.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll shut it.” Tony, Maria, and I all smiled.

“Why so happy?” Mum asked.

“No reason,” we lied.

Then we heard the taxi driver yell, “NOT A STINK BOMB! NO!”

Mum laughed. We laughed. Dad didn’t. He was already looking for our platform.

“Tickets, please,” a cheerful man at the barrier said. Tony greeted him with, “Hello, black man.”

“And hello to you, little white man,” the man replied.

Mum was mortified. “I’m so sorry!”

“No offence taken,” the man said warmly. “I’ve heard worse.”

We found our train and climbed aboard the maroon-liveried carriages—old but splendid. Dad pointed to a paper stuck inside the window. “Carriage twenty-three. See?”

The corridor ran along one side, and we found our private compartment. Dad claimed an empty seat: “That one’s ours too. Pull the blind down so no one sees it.”

The compartment was perfect. Comfortable striped seats, holiday posters above them, and a little table. “What time’s the train leave?” Mum asked.

“Seven thirty,” Dad replied. “Plenty of time.”

He grew restless. “Just popping out,” he said.

“To the café,” Maria muttered knowingly. Tea was Dad’s one true love.

When he didn’t return after half an hour, Mum fretted. “Maria, go find him.”

“I want to go too!” Tony said.

“You’re too young.”

“I’ll go,” I volunteered. Mum agreed.

Outside, Maria warned, “Stay close.” Naturally, I didn’t. She marched to the cafeteria. I darted off to explore steam engines.

Platform after platform, engine after engine—then I saw it: the Mallard. Sleek, blue, and magnificent. My heart skipped.

I needed to see it up close. A ticket collector blocked the gate.

“You need a platform ticket,” he said.

I dashed to the machine, got one, and returned breathless.

“We could use lads like you,” he said, clipping it. I beamed.

The Mallard was everything I’d dreamed. I climbed aboard the cab. It was like the TARDIS—small outside, vast and wondrous inside. Levers, dials, pipes—heaven.

I spotted the driver’s seat. It was high. A stool rested atop the coal pile. I clambered up.

“Got you!” I said aloud.

“Got what?” a voice asked.

An older man in overalls stood there. “One of the Black and White Minstrels, are you?”

“I just wanted this stool,” I explained.

“To climb into my seat?” he asked. I nodded.

“You’re the driver?”

“I am. But not for long—I’m retiring today.”

“You don’t want to?”

“They say I’m too old.” He lit a pipe.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

We chatted. He introduced himself: “Joe. Joe Bloggs.”

I laughed. “That’s not a real name!”

“Oh, it is.”

He made us tea using the engine’s boiler. I sipped it solemnly, pretending to like it.

Then he gave me a tour—explaining every dial, every pipe, every rivet.

“You should get back,” Joe said after a while. “Don’t want to miss your train.”

I nodded, reluctantly. As I walked away, a blast of steam engulfed me. When it cleared—Joe was gone.

I felt something strange. My socks were wet. I looked down.

They had changed colour. From blue to yellow.

My hands? Clean. My clothes? Spotless.

“Magic!” I whispered. I ran back. “Joe? Joe?” The cab was empty.

The ticket collector greeted me. “Did you enjoy that?”

“I did. But where’s Joe Bloggs?”

He looked puzzled. “Joe Bloggs? He died a year ago today. Right there. In his seat.”

I walked back in a daze.

Maria was furious. “Where were you?”

“With Joe,” I mumbled.

“Dad’s in the café—on his fourth cup of tea!” she fumed.

“Go get him!”

I found Dad nursing a beaker. “Train’s leaving!” I shouted.

“Go! I’ll be right behind you.”

Maria and I sprinted back to the train. We made it just in time. Mum was livid.

Then we saw Dad—running along the platform with two teas.

“Open the door!” Mum shouted.

The Chinese man in our compartment leapt to help. Dad climbed aboard.

“Bit early, isn’t it?” he muttered.

“Thanks for the tea,” Mum said dryly.

Dad propped his feet up. “I need a rest.”

The Chinese man entered.

“This compartment is full,” Dad said.

“I’m in it,” the man smiled.

“No one travels alone!”

“I do.”

He produced a boiled egg from his bag. “You want egg?”

“Much better than curry,” Dad said.

“You got any tea?”

“Of course,” the man replied.

And so began our first holiday to Ireland. No one believed my socks had changed colour. No one believed my hands were suddenly clean. But I knew. I met Joe Bloggs—the ghost of a man who had the best job in the world. And he shared a little magic with me.

THE END