White City Blues

John Dove

Even as my father approached retirement and was not longer required to be in his office at weekends, he still used to make the journey up to London on a Saturday morning; his excuse being that he enjoyed the luxury of having a seat on the train once in a while.

There was however another attraction that drew him to being in town at the weekend. He loved athletics and in the 1950s major athletic meetings were often held at the White City Stadium on a Saturday afternoon. He could imagine no greater indulgence than an afternoons feast of athletics followed by high tea at Lyons Corner House in the Strand. I did not realise it at the time but as I approached my teenage years and was able to travel to London on my own, I was able to be of real service to him. By inviting me to joining him at the White City and thus as he justified to himself taking him off his mothers hands, he could both indulge himself and return home on a Saturday evening a little less guiltily.

So whenever there was such a meeting at the White City, my father would leave for London after breakfast and then at midday I would follow.

Then one time in 1954 my father arrived home very excited. There was to be a special event at the White City. Christopher Chataway of Oxford University was to have a return match against the Russian, Vladimir Kutz. Kutz had narrowly beaten Chataway over 5000 metres at the European Championships earlier in the year and now the two were to run against each other over three miles at the White City. Not only were these two runners at the height of their powers but the competition had extra piquancy in the light of the cold war being at its height at the that time.

Given the importance of the occasion my father had made the unprecedented decision to leave work much earlier than usual so I needed to catch an earlier train than normal. This alteration in my travelling routine meant that I had to change trains and it was this upset to my own routine that lead to this day featuring so poignantly in my memory.

I climbed into the second train just as it began to move and in my eagerness to board I shut the door leaving my right middle finger trapped in the hinge. Common sense would have lead to my opening the door sufficiently to release my digit but because the train was gathering speed, I did not dare do other than wait until arrival at the next station allowed me to fee the fettered finger by which time it was quite swollen and blue. However the relief on opening the door was so sweet that then at least there was no great pain.

On the way up in the lift to my fathers office my finger was beginning to ache. My father was ready and waiting.

There you are well done! Lets go!

Ive hurt my finger in the train door.

I displayed my now rather angry looking appendage.

Bad luck! Now we had better get going theres going to be a huge crowd.

Normally I would happily have accepted the jostling in the queue to enter the stadium as a small price to pay for what was in store on the track but this time it was purgatory as each knock jarred my damaged hand. Once seated I did not want to detract from my fathers obvious keen anticipation and hoped he would think that it was the sharp-edged easterly wind that had me leaning forwards, shoulders hunched and hands squeezed between my thighs.

As the afternoon progressed so my finger waxed more sore and then as Chataway and Kurtz emerged from the tunnel, the crowd erupted and so I too leaped up in response to agony that I could no longer contain.

Ill not be long, I said as I shuffled past my father.

I descended into the bowels of the stadium, locked myself in a cubicle and concentrated on nursing my unfortunate finger but eventually realising that loneliness would bring no commiseration, I retraced my steps and re-emerged to see below me Chataway jogging around the perimeter of the track waving to the roaring crowd.

Well, what did you think of that? My father obviously assumed that I had made it back up the stairs in time to see the race.

Chataway had won and I had missed it!

When my father received his peach melba at Lyons Corner House, he could not have been more deliriously happy had it been served by Dame Nellie herself. No that was certainly not the moment to inform him that I had missed Chataways moment of glory.

We passed the return train journey in silence. My father was absorbed in his paper and still I coud not bear to tell him that I had been absent for the days climax. I cradled my finger and stared glumly out of the window whilst in time with the clatter of the wheels on the track my mind muttered, White City Blues clickety click White City Blues clickety clack

Now my father is dead and I never did tell him that I had missed Chataways moment of revenge. But whenever the question of the heyday of British running comes up, I proudly announce, I was there, you know. When Chataway beat Kurtz at the White City in 1954, I was there. As I pronounce this half truth I rub like Aladdins lamp an image of me slumped in the corner of that railway compartment and if I concentrate hard, I can still sense my pain-burdened brain synchronising with the rhythm of the train

White City Blues clickety click, White City Blues clickety clack White City Blues