Open Writing

Pierre waited at the depot for the duty Inspector to allocate the routes. Leaning against a stationary tram, he grinned at the friendly banter of the milling trammies, their conversations reflecting the varying backgrounds of the multicultural crews. I'm lucky, he mused. I have good health despite nearing sixty. I have a job I enjoy, although I still get confused with figures. My friends are loyal, and most of all . . . I am free.

The early morning mist left dewdrops glistening like beads of sweat on the tram. Pierre rubbed his bony hands together, willing the sun to melt the haze and produce another glorious autumn day for Melbourne. A smell of freshly baked bread drifted past. Pierre sniffed hungrily, contorting his large hooked nose to imprison the aroma forever. The warm doughy smell and the fragrance of certain cheeses reminded him of his hometown Toulouse, in southern France. He smiled.

I tell Banija not to refer to Yugoslavia as home, yet here am I doing the same thing although I've lived here half my life. Lived in peace and freedom away from Gestapo jackboots. Why I'd probably get lost in Toulouse now . . .

Jack's strident Australian voice shattered Pierre's reverie. 'Come on dopey Pierre. We're on Route 67. Shake yer gangly leg, we leave in five minutes!' Gathering his money float and bag of tickets, Pierre followed Jack to the empty tram. Performing his Rudolph Nureyev imitation he leapt aboard, smiling to an appreciative audience of laughing trammies. 'Au Revoir Pierre,' they chorused. Pierre laughed too, the sound pushing the memories of war-torn France away.

Tram Number 67 trundled through the city streets filling rapidly with peak-hour commuters. Pierre said 'Gude Morning' to each passenger as he collected fares. There were many familiar faces. He punched their tickets before they spoke. Sally blushed yet again when he commented on her beauty. The hospital matron giggled like a schoolgirl when he kissed her hand with exaggerated Gallic gallantry. The suited business brigade hid their faces in newspapers to avoid Pierre's piercing blue eyes peering over his bifocals. Mischievously Pierre rustled their papers, pestered them to join him in song. Ignoring their embarrassed silence, he rejoiced, clicking his puncher rhythmically, 'Money, money, money eez all I want . . .'

Schoolboys bunched in the doorway sniggered at the 'loony conductor'. 'I won't deeezapont youz ma frens,' Pierre called out as he clicked the last ticket. Prancing down the aisle with practised ease, he pulled a yellow yo-yo from his pocket and flicked it in front of astonished passengers. 'Flash those concession cards, eh boys! You think I'm an old fool but I do my job well!'

The tram shuddered to a halt at Flinders Street Station. Pierre bowed with a flourish to the departing throng; satisfied, most customers left smiling. 'Roll up! Roll up! Take your seats for the next show,' he announced before the tram chugged onwards. Collecting fares, Pierre began his ritual of cheerily greeting each passenger, evoking surprised chuckles with crazy antics and candid comments.

At the end of the aisle he turned to see some downcast faces. Pierre pushed his hat sideways, made his angular face look comical, pursed his lips and whistled, Let's Twist Again. Weighed down with his satchel, he gyrated awkwardly in the confined space. Another stop. More giggling commuters alighted. A couple climbed aboard. The tram trembled before proceeding.

Pierre pretended to be Tarzan, swinging through the length of the tram using the ceiling straps. Two ladies convulsed with laughter, couldn't ask for a ticket. Pierre pulled off his hat, threw it in the air, bowed slightly, catching it expertly with his balding head. 'At your service mademoiselles.'

The tram turned into Toorak Road for the final leg of the journey. Pierre plonked into a vacant seat. Bathed in a beam of sunlight, he confessed aloud, 'Ladeez and Chentlemen, remember these words from Pierre. Smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone.'

© Mairi Neil

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