The Simple Gift (2 page)

Freight train

Not one car has passed

in the last twenty minutes.

At least the rain has stopped.

I'm sitting on my bag

looking across at the freight train

stopped at the crossing

for no good reason.

Fifty coal carriages,

empty,

heading to the Waggawang Coalfields

and one carriage

with a speedboat strapped on top.

A speedboat on a train

heading west?

To what?

A coalfield lake?

The inland river system

dry as a dead dingo's bones?

And then it hits me.

Who cares. It's heading west,

and I'm not …

so …

I race across the highway,

bag swinging,

and the train whistle blows

as I reach the bushes beside the track,

a quick glance, both ways,

and I'm up on the carriage

pulling myself into the

Aquadream Speedboat

with the soft padded bench seat,

the Evinrude outboard motor

and the fishing gear.

The train whistle blows again

and we lurch forward

as I get my ride

on a speedboat out of town

and not a lake for miles.

Cold

Two kilometres down the track

I realise

how fast trains go

when you've got no window to close

and the wind and rain

hits you in the face

with the force of a father's punch.

I unpack my bag

put my jacket on

wrap a jumper around my ears and neck

put my spare pants on

over my trousers

and I'm still freezing

and the whistle keeps blowing

as we speed through the bitter night.

I'll be frozen dead

before morning.

I snuggle under the bow

of this speeding speedboat

cutting the night

my knees tight against my chest

and my teeth clenched

in some wild frost-bitten grin

and that train whistle keeps me sane

blowing across every dirt road crossing

with flashing red lights

and not a soul awake

except the train driver

warm in his cabin

and the idiot

hunched under the bow

praying for morning and sunshine.

Keep warm

‘Hey kid,

get outta there.

You'll freeze to death.

That'll teach you

to hitch a ride with National Rail.

No free rides with this government, son.

Just kidding.

I hate the bloody government.

Get your bag

and come back to the guard's van.

There's a heater that works,

and some coffee.

We've stopped here

waiting for the Interstate.

Passengers snoring in their comfy cabins

get priority

over empty coal trains.

Say, what do you think of me boat?

Yep, mine.

I got a special deal to bring it home.

We've got a lake outside of town,

perfect for fishing

and getting away from the telly.

I'm going to sit in this tub

and drink myself stupid

every weekend.

There you go.

Make a cuppa if you want.

And here's some sandwiches,

too much salad for my liking.

Just don't tell anyone about this, OK.

I'll see you in the morning.

We'll be in Bendarat at dawn.

I'll blow the whistle three times

and I'll stop just before town.

Jump out then, OK.

Keep warm.

I've got a train to drive.'

Men

There are men like Ernie,

the train driver, in this world.

Men who don't boss you around

and don't ask prying questions

and don't get bitter

at anyone different from them.

Men who share a drink and food

and a warm cabin

when they don't have to.

Men who know the value of things

like an old boat

built for long weekends on a lake.

Men who see something happening

and know if it's right

or wrong

and aren't afraid to make that call.

There are men like Ernie

and

there are other men,

men like my dad.

Sport

I was ten years old

in the backyard

kicking a soccer ball

against the bedroom wall,

practising for the weekend.

My first season of sport

and I'd already scored a goal,

so I kept practising, alone.

And I guess I tried too hard,

I kicked it too high,

stupid of me I know,

and I broke the bedroom window.

I stood in the yard

holding the ball

looking at the crack in the pane.

Dad came thundering out.

He didn't look at the damage.

He'd heard it.

He came over, grabbed the ball,

kicked it over the back fence

into the bushes,

gave me one hard backhander

across the face,

so hard I fell down

as much in shock as anything,

and I felt the blood

from my nose,

I could taste it dribbling out

as Dad stood over me

and said

no more sport

no more forever.

He walked back inside

and slammed the door

on my sporting childhood

that disappeared into the bushes

with my soccer ball.

I was ten years old.

I didn't go inside for hours.

I looked through the back window

watching him

reading the paper

in front of the television

as if nothing

had happened.

Another crossing

Ernie was right,

too much salad in the sandwich,

but I ate it all the same.

I had a coffee

heaped with sugar

sweet and hot

and I felt warm

like Ernie had wished.

I took the champagne

out of my bag

and stood it on the table

between Ernie's coffee pot

and his lunch box.

I wrote a note.

‘Thanks Ernie.

Here's a present

to launch your boat.

Don't smash it though!

Drink it.'

I heard the whistle again

and looked out at

another lonesome crossing

and felt glad

that the champagne

was going to someone

who deserved it.

Bendarat

Dawn is fog-closed and cold.

A ute bounces along the dirt road

beside the track,

its lights dancing in the mist.

I see a street sign,

‘Bendarat – five kilometres'.

I pack my bag quickly,

warm my hands

close to the heater

and wait for the three whistles

to dump me in another State,

miles from home

miles from school,

with the sun finally

lifting the fog

as the train slows

and Ernie whistles good luck.

I climb down,

wave ahead,

and walk slowly

into Bendarat.