by Tony Watts

A passing train was a rare enough event that we would run to the middle of the intersection of Hill and Oxford streets to look down at the railway line behind Ferry Street, several blocks away. Usually a freight train, probably transporting the wheat harvest from nearby silos to places then unknown to us. The warning signal as it approached the railway crossings, a long loud ‘toot’, would be repeated several times as it skirted the town. Count the carriages, run back into the yard. Resume whatever we were doing as if nothing had happened. It might be a week or two before we see another train.

The passenger train (singular) did not use the freight line. The Forbes Mail always arrived from the north, from the direction of Parkes, and departed again to the north. If you stood at the end of the platform you could see it curling its way towards Forbes from  a considerable distance. It helped to pass the time, standing and watching, pacing back and forth, peering into the distance again. Despite its lengthy stop at the Forbes Railway station, we were always on our feet and ready to  promptly board as soon as the final hiss of the brakes signalled a complete  stop. Uniformed railway guards fussed busily on the platform, as mailbags and other parcels were unloaded onto large carts and other, outgoing deliveries were loaded onto the train.

Large suitcases accompanied us on our train journeys, usually to Fairy Meadow via Sydney. Visiting Bern and Min,  Sarah and Kevin, Col and Ash -all great destinations in the same vicinity. On the train, we had to find our compartment, where luggage was then stored in the overhead racks and bench seats faced each other across the floor. It was a wonderful way to travel, our own private “cabin” – who would want to share with us! The smell of the burning coal, the smoke, the steam, the old railway timber, and the clickety-clack of the train on the track. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, the hypnotic repetition of the  railway song, lulling you to sleep. On cold winter nights the railway staff would bring large metal hot-water bottles into the carriage, to rest your feet on and stave off the chill. Sleep beckoned, with one ear out for the conductor calling, “tickets, please!” and punching holes in the offered documentation. Occasionally the train would stop at some other station, either for passenger pick-up or set-down, or a change of engines, or carriages coupled or un-coupled. The delays seemed interminable, considering the already lengthy travel time in motion. It was all we could do to sit quietly and patiently, or to give the appearance of doing so. When the train began to move again, it always seemed to be without any warning or fanfare; there would be the sense of motion, looking out the window and trying to decide if the platform was moving away from the train or the train was leaving the platform. It would be a long night, with the prospect of arriving in the city at dawn.

 

The City! Sydney’s Central Station. How different it was, a world away from our experiences in Forbes, let alone the remoteness of Rostella!