Memories of Robertsbridge Station and the London to Hastings line.
My parents moved to Brightling at the beginning of 1946. In the early days my father commuted by train from Etchingham to his office in the City of London – I think because it had a better train service to Cannon Street. Later when the service improved he travelled mainly from Robertsbridge station. The Robertsbridge Station Master was Mr. Alcorn (or Allcorn?), always very smart in his dark suit and peaked hat with gold braid trim. He was assisted by a station porter and a signalman – and possibly someone in the ticket office. Mr. Alcorn or the porter were always on the platform to meet passengers as they alighted from the train. In those days the level crossing gates had to be opened and closed manually – I think this was done by the signalman. Mr. & Mrs. Alcorn lived in the house attached to the ticket office and had a large garden where the extended car park is now.
My father always enjoyed talking about trains with Mr. Alcorn. Mr. & Mrs. Alcorn would sometimes come for an evening meal and Mr. Alcorn would keep us amused with his stories (but not so entertaining were a couple of suicides).
There were very few commuters in those days – they parked their cars in the small area immediately outside the ticket office. My father’s car tended to suffer from a flat battery so he usually parked on the slope by the side entrance (now the bicycle stand) in order to bump start the car down the slope and along station road (there was just the one entrance/exit in those days). Several times when I was driving Mr. Alcorn helped by pushing the car to get it started – I was so relieved when the engine picked up before we had gone far. When I was commuting my father would drive us both to the station. But there were times when I returned on an earlier train and would wait in the car for my father. If Mr. Alcorn noticed me waiting he would take me on a tour of his garden until the later train arrived. Even now when I am parking my car, I remember Mr. Alcorn’s garden with the most lovely roses.
Mr. Alcorn was very protective of his commuters. On the days my mother drove my father to the station Mr. Alcorn would ring up to let her know if the evening train was running late so that she was not kept waiting at the station. On one cold snowy day I travelled to the station in my high stiletto heels; Mr. Alcorn noticed and insisted that I borrowed Mrs. Alcorn’s wellingtons. Another commuter was not so lucky. His wife used to drive him to the station (Stonegate, I think). During the snow he would wear his wellingtons; once on the train he would take them off, throw them out of the window to his wife who was waiting on the platform and put on his city shoes. But one day having thrown his wellingtons out of the window he discovered just as the train pulled away that he had forgotten to bring his shoes.
Although Mr. Alcorn looked after his commuters, he did not approve of those who arrived at his station having had too much to drink. There was one instance when a commuter arrived back at Robertsbridge very much the worse for wear and caused a disturbance by shouting and yelling that he was unable to move his car out of the car park as someone had stolen his reverse gear. Eventually the police were called, but were unable to do anything until the car was on the public road. I don’t know what the outcome was, but I don’t think that commuter ever forgave Mr. Alcorn.
My father loved “talking trains”. He used to go to the Bo-Peep pub in St. Leonards where the railway workers congregated and spend hours chatting about trains. He was extremely flattered when someone asked him which line he was on. A great friend was a Mr. Giles. I think he was a driver, and he and his wife lived in a row of cottages near the Bo-Peep pub in St. Leonards. (Were there railway cottages near the pub?)
One evening returning from London, the train driver must have been a friend from the Bo-Peep. A colleague from my father’s office sitting on a suburban train was absolutely amazed to see my father in his bowler hat and clutching a briefcase standing on the footplate of the Hastings train as it pulled out of Cannon Street station.
I remember what we knew as “the hop pickers line” from Bodiam which terminated at Robertsbridge station alongside the main down line. We would watch the crowds of Eastend hop pickers leaving the train to do their shopping in Robertsbridge. This was shortly after the war and sweets were still on ration. Mr. Dray who had the sweetshop on the high pavement in Robertsbridge would keep the more expensive sweets under the counter when the hop pickers were around and only sell them to the locals. I was told that at night he hid them under his bed – not sure how true that was.
memories of
Lyn Wagstaff
