Open Writing

Recently I was invited to spend a weekend with friends and travelling by city train service for the first time, I set off on the 90 minute journey. An hour’s ride from home I disembarked to change trains, found the ticket office, received directions and lugging an overstuffed suitcase, climbed the steps of the over pass to a station across the tracks. There I took the first train that came along only to realize five minutes later I was aboard the wrong train. With surprising agility I leapt off at the next stop to find myself at a tiny station in the middle of nowhere and not a soul in sight, everything shuttered and empty.

An old man appeared and directed me to the ticket office across the tracks. There I explained my plight to the assistant who phoned ahead to someone called Joe. Joe would look out for me, he shouted as he bundled me onto the next train.

Back at my original change over station I was escorted like royalty to the train I should have caught and which Joe had kept waiting for me. Everyone was very nice but I had the feeling they thought, ‘Little old ladies. They should not be allowed out on their own.’

I had three wonderful days up north. Perfect weather. Excellent company. In truth I was spoilt rotten. On the day I left torrential rain was forecast and we eyed the black clouds hoping the rain would hold off until I was safely home.

Aboard the train I settled back in my seat believing the knowledge gained on my northbound trip was enough to give me a hassle free journey home. I thought having managed the first trip, I was close to being a pro. My smug thoughts must have caused great mirth among the powers-that-be, hidden somewhere up there behind the dark mass of cloud that was appropriating large areas of blue sky, and having decided my education was far from complete, they set out to teach me a thing or two.

Half-an-hour down the track my companion passengers and I were ordered off the train. We formed an obedient lamb-like mob and without complaint moved from the train, up the steps, across the over pass and down the other side. Given there were elderly folk with walkers, babes in strollers and most of us carried heavy bags, we made it across in good time and settled ourselves in a rail service bus. There we waited until a short little fellow toting a large mobile phone and who looked remarkably like Benny Hill, appeared at the door of the bus and said without a trace of Benny Hill humour, ‘They’ve changed their minds. They want you all back on the train.’

Well, everyone sorted themselves out and mumbling a bit, began the climb back up the stairs moving a bit slower this time. We had no sooner resumed our seats than the train moved off. People checked their watches, made phone calls and appeared unconcerned by the delay. A few minutes later a polite voice over the speaker system informed us there was a problem on the line and we would all be transferring to buses at the next stop. The consensus was if we must, we must and wedged about by people who were no longer strangers but united travellers, I lugged my bag up a flight of stairs for the third time.

While we waited for the buses, the clouds began to leak a little. There was no available shelter and I wondered how people would behave if there was a full down pour of rain. The buses arrived and filled quickly with many people standing in the aisle. I managed to find a seat beside two small children and their mother with who kept an anxious watch for her husband and two more children. As the driver started the engine, the husband ran up calling out, ‘My wife’s in there.’ A space was made for the children who were passed down the bus like travelling parcels, their crying replacing the usual musical accompaniment.

There was much muttering as the bus proceeded south to Petrie where we were again met by a phone toting rail employee and told to return to the train. At this news the muttering became malevolent, rose in volume and was interspersed by a variety of four letter words. No longer lamb-like the mob moved en masse, stamping out their displeasure as they trod up the stairs and down, myself being carried along with them.

By now the train was running two hours late and I needed refreshment. I decided to go into central station where there would be more frequent trains and I could buy a cup of coffee. No, I did not miss a train. In the eight minutes available between trains I managed to visit the loo, buy a muffin and coffee and ride the lift to the correct platform where I ate my lunch before boarding the train.

I finally arrived home five hours after leaving Landsborough. Mission accomplished. I think I should get my wings now. (Or whatever the equivalent is for train travel.)