My mothers' house resembles a large ski lodge. Perched high on a terraced english garden , set deep in the Australian bushland, it is an odd mix. Typical though for the period it was built.
Her bathroom is falling apart, tiles crack and fall to the floor, a testament to her marriage to my charming but irresponsible father. Bottles of hope clutter the vanity shelves dusted with face powder. Eyelash crimps I have never seen used. Even the mirror sports a bruise.
Being sixteen, my skin is pure white without a blemish or scar. Still seeing red, the location of the fault is discovered....its my nose. Methodically , I powder. Just enough to look natural.
You see, I must be perfect, soft , fragile and deathly.
We drive to the train station and no words are spoken. My mother is concerned for my well being but knows there is no stopping me and my new found self. No cars pass us , it feels like 4am , however it's only 10pm. Driving through the suburb, we pass various styles of homes. Georgian mansions, American homesteads, bungalows and modernist cubes each with manicured lawns acting like no-go zones that are threatened by the hostile bush.
The train is coming so I dash out of the car , up the ramp and on to the platform where several other aliens wait, some smoking cigarettes, chatting amongst themselves or standing alone at the end of the platform looking sullen and pained.
`Red rattlers` are old single level trains. Quite beautiful and romantic. Still smelling of tobacco and used newspapers. The seats are large, ensconced in green leather, the state rail emblem tattooed to their hides.
The doors aren't automatic but heavy, they slide back with bold determination. You can ride with your legs dangling out if you wish, but it's not advisable. The story of the school boy who lost his arm on the Harbour Bridge is still urban myth.
I sit alone, close to the window. The cold July air caressing my face through the clear glass. Hoping to glimpse the sight of the city as we round the bend near Wollstonecraft. Knowing that people are still awake there. Mixing drinks in high-rise apartments, laughing, dancing and deciding when to head down to Oxford Street or The Strand Arcade where Stranded nightclub lives and breathes the ultimate fashion , the most fantastic men and ladies, and those in between.
