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there was no more train until Monday.
Eventually the sun relinquished its torturing hold and the plains became brown and purple and gold and then black as the sky was pierced by a million bursts of flickering light from dispassionate worlds unthinkable distances apart.The homesteads were just yellow patches of light in window frames,but the train driver sounded his whistle just the same and, in the darkness, there were children waving just the same.
•
The schoolteacher shook himself into full consciousness as the train approached Bundanyabba.The city was a smatter of lights rather higher than the level of the plains, looking a little like the lights of a cluster of ships riding motionless on a still dark sea.
The teacher took off his sunglasses and tucked them in his breast pocket. The singers had given up now and were presumably devoting themselves to gathering their luggage and shaking off the fug of an hour or so’s dozing.
The Friday Train was rocking through the city and he looked out on the rows of weatherboard houses, built on tiny blocks of land as though there was a scarcity of space, or as though they had to huddle together to form a garrison against the loneliness of the outback.
The schoolteacher knew Bundanyabba fairly well from the two term holidays he had spent there. He had swum in the chlorinated swimming pool, attended the picture theatres, drunk the heavily preserved beer that had to be railed from the coast, and thus had exhausted the pleasures offered. Hewished there had been an aircraft flying eastwards that evening.
The train stopped with a relieved clatter as though glad it had arrived, and rather surprised that it had successfully traversed the plains once more. Grant carried his bags through the bustle on the station and handed the forward half of his return ticket to the collector. The other half he carefully stowed in his wallet against the time when he would pass through these gates again. He consciously ignored the torn scrap of cardboard’s silent statement that he had not seen the last of Tiboonda.
Outside the station several taxi drivers were waiting, touting for custom.The schoolteacher engaged one and gave him the address of the hotel to which he had written booking a room for the night.
‘New to The Yabba?’ said the taxi driver as he drove through the wide streets, lined with buildings affecting awnings supported by poles which looked as though they suffered from rickets.
‘Yes,’ said the schoolteacher.
‘Staying long?’
‘Just tonight.’
‘That’s hard luck. You ought to see a bit more of The Yabba than that.’
One would have thought, reflected the teacher, that thedriver was trying to sell a conducted tour, but he had noticed before that all the people of Bundanyabba seemed to be extremely patriotic.
‘You think it’s worth seeing?’ he said.
‘I’ll say I do. Everybody likes The Yabba. Best place in Australia.’
‘So? Why?’ He knew he was taking a risk, the determination of Bundanyabba people to deliver monologues on the virtues of the place required less encouragement than that. Still, he was only committed to listen for the length of the taxi journey.
‘Well,’ the driver was saying, ‘it’s a free and easy place. Nobody cares who you are or where you come from; as long as you’re a good bloke you’re all right. Friendly place it is. I’ve been here eight years. Came out from Sydney because I had a bad chest. Chest cleared up in six months but I wouldn’t think of leavin’The Yabba.’
The schoolteacher had also previously observed the friendly habits of the people of Bundanyabba, and found them crude and embarrassing. As for the city’s therapeutic qualities, the taxi driver looked sallow and drawn, and distinctly in need of a change to the kinder climate of the coast.
‘Try and stay a bit longer,’ urged the taxi driver as the schoolteacher paid him.
The teacher fancied he had been overcharged, but he wasn’t sure.
The
Eventually the sun relinquished its torturing hold and the plains became brown and purple and gold and then black as the sky was pierced by a million bursts of flickering light from dispassionate worlds unthinkable distances apart.The homesteads were just yellow patches of light in window frames,but the train driver sounded his whistle just the same and, in the darkness, there were children waving just the same.
•
The schoolteacher shook himself into full consciousness as the train approached Bundanyabba.The city was a smatter of lights rather higher than the level of the plains, looking a little like the lights of a cluster of ships riding motionless on a still dark sea.
The teacher took off his sunglasses and tucked them in his breast pocket. The singers had given up now and were presumably devoting themselves to gathering their luggage and shaking off the fug of an hour or so’s dozing.
The Friday Train was rocking through the city and he looked out on the rows of weatherboard houses, built on tiny blocks of land as though there was a scarcity of space, or as though they had to huddle together to form a garrison against the loneliness of the outback.
The schoolteacher knew Bundanyabba fairly well from the two term holidays he had spent there. He had swum in the chlorinated swimming pool, attended the picture theatres, drunk the heavily preserved beer that had to be railed from the coast, and thus had exhausted the pleasures offered. Hewished there had been an aircraft flying eastwards that evening.
The train stopped with a relieved clatter as though glad it had arrived, and rather surprised that it had successfully traversed the plains once more. Grant carried his bags through the bustle on the station and handed the forward half of his return ticket to the collector. The other half he carefully stowed in his wallet against the time when he would pass through these gates again. He consciously ignored the torn scrap of cardboard’s silent statement that he had not seen the last of Tiboonda.
Outside the station several taxi drivers were waiting, touting for custom.The schoolteacher engaged one and gave him the address of the hotel to which he had written booking a room for the night.
‘New to The Yabba?’ said the taxi driver as he drove through the wide streets, lined with buildings affecting awnings supported by poles which looked as though they suffered from rickets.
‘Yes,’ said the schoolteacher.
‘Staying long?’
‘Just tonight.’
‘That’s hard luck. You ought to see a bit more of The Yabba than that.’
One would have thought, reflected the teacher, that thedriver was trying to sell a conducted tour, but he had noticed before that all the people of Bundanyabba seemed to be extremely patriotic.
‘You think it’s worth seeing?’ he said.
‘I’ll say I do. Everybody likes The Yabba. Best place in Australia.’
‘So? Why?’ He knew he was taking a risk, the determination of Bundanyabba people to deliver monologues on the virtues of the place required less encouragement than that. Still, he was only committed to listen for the length of the taxi journey.
‘Well,’ the driver was saying, ‘it’s a free and easy place. Nobody cares who you are or where you come from; as long as you’re a good bloke you’re all right. Friendly place it is. I’ve been here eight years. Came out from Sydney because I had a bad chest. Chest cleared up in six months but I wouldn’t think of leavin’The Yabba.’
The schoolteacher had also previously observed the friendly habits of the people of Bundanyabba, and found them crude and embarrassing. As for the city’s therapeutic qualities, the taxi driver looked sallow and drawn, and distinctly in need of a change to the kinder climate of the coast.
‘Try and stay a bit longer,’ urged the taxi driver as the schoolteacher paid him.
The teacher fancied he had been overcharged, but he wasn’t sure.
The
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