It is like a scene fromHarry Potter – Sydney’s Central Railway Station, July 1948.

The black steam enginewith its coal tender showing in gold letters, “New South Wales GovernmentRailways.” Not Hogwarts’ apprentice wizards, but boarders from the Great PublicSchools in their ‘preppy’ uniforms: girls with round straw hats, the boys intheir boaters, school emblems on their left pockets, all ready to return totheir ‘country’ homes.

Pistons wheezing steam, itsiron driving wheels scraping the rails, the train pulls out from the station. “Nomore school for three weeks, whacko the diddle oh!”

Carriages pass slowly bythe old stone mortuary siding where coffin’d corpses await motor transportationto the Sydney cemeteries – wealthy farmers not wanting to be buried in theirsmall towns. Their school days are definitely over.

We pass thru the bluecollar suburbs without giving a second thought to the mums preparing their‘ubby’s teas. We are a class above them, or so we think.

In the winter twilight,bored by the several hours of chatter, we look out at the backyards of somesmall country town, sheets hanging from the wash line propped up by its forked,eucalyptus branch. Cats sit on unpainted windowsills, dogs laze in the yard andchooks peck at their scratch. Smoke rises from brick chimneys protruding fromthe corrugated iron roofs. Much later looking out at the darkness, the air isice, the black heavens are swept with winter stars white and still. The darkhills just visible by starlight.

Staring out the trainwindow produces thoughts now long forgotten - surely not the recent exams orwhat my future holds. Turning out the dull compartment lights I see the bright,tiny lights of settlements far in the distance - large sheep stations, small hardscrabblefarms. A train on the other line, flashes by in the opposite direction too fastto see its passengers, Another flash! We pass a fettlers’ hut but it’s too lateto expect a cry for “Paper” their usual request given to the daytime trains forthe latest Sydney Daily Telegraph.

Midnight - the conductoryells, “Werris Creek”. I jump up and race to the exit. It’s coffee time andonly two hours to go.  Hurry to thecafeteria, “Milk coffee and a meat pie, please.”

“One and three, son.”

I fork over the money andthe midnight meal brings me to life.

--ends--