Back at Whitchurch it was quiet now, but there were lots of parcels, newspapers and mail to bring over to the Down platform, also livestock — calves with legs tied in sacks, pigs in crates, day-old chicks and racing pigeons. The parcels porter would deal with all these when he arrived at 6am. In the meantime there was only one place where all these living creatures could be accommodated, and that was in the general waiting room, next to the telegraph office! The parcels porter would clear the room, open all the windows and brush up before the passengers could venture into the bleak, cheerless room.

After departure of the 3.15am train there was peace again, except for the animal noises next door. Gas lamps were turned off and the station went back to sleep, leaving me to study Block Signalling, Parcels and Booking Office correspondence courses, and to carry on drawing. An occasional visitor about Beam was the local ‘Bobby’: “Everything all right, Sir?” I was not sure that everything was all right, as prowlers during the night would rest in any room that could be found. The telegraph office would be firmly locked and bolted! Another visitor at that time was the shed fireman, clocking on early to light the fires on the engines at the small steam shed. He would stop for a chat and a brew.

In winter the telegraph office was a scruffy, but cosy and warm little den, with a gas fire and gas stove working on and off all night, brewing up tea and keeping the place warm, even when the icy winds and snow swept between the platforms. It was the only habitable room during the night, and there were times when stranded passengers off the York train would spend several hours in the telegraph office waiting for daylight before moving. No drawing those nights! The general waiting room was open all night, but with no comforts and no heating, not to mention the livestock; it was no place for humans!

The Saturday night/Sunday shift was a different routine. The 10.05pm (SO) train from Chester arrived at 10.53pm; all the passengers came in a bunch, and a wheezing, popping gas lamp was the only light at the ticket barrier to see what tickets were handed over, and they were by no means all valid. After inspecting them in the telegraph office too late, the passengers were miles away; the dud tickets went in the waste-paper basket.