Kalgoorlie Miner (13): Prospector - Part One

I sit aboard the Prospector bound for Perth, feeling very proud. The hostess said “Oh you’re the boy that writes those lovely things in the paper”. Recognition at last. Pitfalls of fame I suppose. Assistant failed to pack Groucho Marx disguise. Note to self: sack her.

An old English gentleman’s pre-recorded voice is giving me the lowdown on the finer details of the journey. Michael Parkinson or similar. Englishmen’s voices sound important, distinguished. Australianmen’s don’t.

I imagine Paul Hogan: “We will arrive at East Perth Terminal at approximately 1:30 pm”. Or Bryan Brown: “A gap exists between the train and the platform”. Insincere. Passenger confusion over whether the piss was being taken. Australian humour is all in the eyes. That’s why I can’t wear sunglasses. People try to fight me – especially foreigners. Kiwis are OK.

A teenage boy sitting across the carriage to my left is wearing sunglasses. Large aviators. Completely unnecessary in a train on an overcast day. Looks like a junior Beckham. He and mum going backwards. Dad and younger sister opposite, going forwards like normal people. Better to look forwards than backwards, or so motivational people and books say. Have to look backwards sometimes though. One can see what goodness, badness, happiness, sadness or sameness is left in one’s wake.

Junior Becks’ glasses are designed to hide embarrassment. Family train trip to Perth for Christmas I suspect. Beneath the surface indifference he still loves Christmas though. Young enough for receipt of material goods to triumph in struggle with rising cynicism. I’ve got all I need. I can afford to be cynical. George Orwell: it is fashionable to be cynical when times are good (or something). Biting the hand that feeds you. True.

What is the “true” meaning of Christmas? If “truth” is what most believe then – at this moment and in this country – Christmas is a time to give and receive increasingly more expensive presents. And nobody can deny, as the song goes. There’s the cynic in me. Stop it.

Junior Becks’ old boy is listening to headphones. He speaks up about something out the window but does so far too loudly, as people are prone to do. Wife and son groan in unison. “Dad, shut up” threatens Junior Becks, with slow emphasis on the latter two words. Fair call. Dad laughs uncaringly. Junior Becks shakes his head, mouth open. I suspect that a squint of disbelief lies beneath his shades. The reflective glasses deny his father the intended effect.

Stop press: he has just taken his sunnies off. Goodness and intelligence in his eyes. Cruelly held captive before.

He has a pen and notepad. Like me. Pen in mouth and eyes wandering, then a burst of pen on page. Like me. Good Lord, could he be writing an alternative view on life aboard this carriage? Judging me as I judge him? Misjudging me as I misjudge him? I vainly adjust my hair. Just in case. My appearance is a bad way to judge me, the speed of my speech is worse. Only one person I know talks slower than me. His name is Christian.

Just returned to my seat from the snack bar. Cup of tea, cheese and biscuits. Prospector tradition. Driving tradition is a cheese sausage at Southern Cross. No license at the moment though. Pissy driving on Kal Cup day. Silly me.

Unfortunately the tea is in a paper cup. I prefer a proper dainty cup and saucer, so I can pretend to be a moustachioed British Officer riding a first-class train through a newly conquered landmass. Tracks laid by oppressed local savages. Safari suit. “I say, this looks to be good grazing country. Now where’s that brandy chaser? Three huzzahs for the Queen old chaps!”

I finish with a piece of cake, baked by my housemates during an unusual fit of domesticity. Christmas treat. Moist. Icing on the cake was, for me, the icing on the cake. Thanks boys.

Not even in farming country yet, but so much written. Part two next week. Merry Christmas to all.