Entering the Tunnel

The Flying Scotsman that carried my mother and me southwards to England was one of the fastest steam engines of its generation and therefore an adequate symbol of our escape. I sat gazing out of the window while my mother, always talkative, conversed with the other passengers. The rackety rack of the carriage wheels as they sped over the unwelded rails entranced me; this was excitement, this was adventure. Past Berwick-upon-Tweed my mother unloaded our carefully packed sandwiches as if to celebrate her return to England; because although she had been born in Scotland she never hesitated to point out that her family's roots were English and furthermore, as if to add ammunition to her claim, she had been born a Hogarth and was therefore distantly related to Charles Dickens. Whether or not this was true or merely an unfounded boast, hardly matters; it was her belief that counted. We took a taxi from Kings Cross to the Ivanhoe Hotel , close to Russell Square, where I spent a couple of sleepless and fretful nights because of the noise of the traffic. Two days later we found ourselves in a dismal boarding house in one of the burgeoning suburbs of London.