dad was a railway detective & we rode the sydney
system/ suits, umbrellas, grey hats & the rushing/
to the cop shop at central station/ the big windy
tunnels with the potential to be filled by trains/
a low loud rumble of train thunder from the dark
& vibrations of steel tracks/ i imagined myself
stuck on them/ my eyes flicking to the platform
ladders/ would i climb up in time before the great
trains came?/ make it to the echoey stairways with
silver flecks & levels of escalators?/ my father: a
flash of a man in the dingy yellow light/ he moved
fast & was elongated like george street/ blocking
out the afternoon sun once he hit the surface/ i
followed him haphazardly/ trying to keep up with
his sense of himself/ on weekends mum bundled
us onto the trains to nanny's at matraville in the
eastern suburbs to get away from him/ in his stale
white singlet/ stretched to buggery & smelling of
ash & onions/ we lived in the west where the sun
sets/ in liverpool: low down in the sydney basin/ a
flat & scummy place/ the humid air, still pollen
& pollution/ we'd leave dad hung over in bed or
sitting on the black vinyl lounge picking his toe
nails/ the weekend reducing him to the suburban
working class man/ the saturday afternoon abbot
& costello matinee blaring out beneath the grey
venetians/ he seemed to look beyond them/ no one
watched that rubbish/ those old tarzan movies/ but
they were always on/ mind numbing & they wore
you down/ dad eventually gave in to war movies
& westerns with clint eastwood & john wayne/
we always left him in short bursts/ riding the
sydney system with mum/ carrying our lunch
boxes & water bottles/ dale & brendon in purple
parkas, grey socks & sandals/ whingeing & pulling
on harnesses/ i had nightmares about brendon
being run over by a train in the hallway at rose
street/ i was half awake/ trying to get to the toilet
when train lights lit up the blue walls & the slow
central station rumble began/ i saw brendon's
mutilated body all twisted up in the tracks of blue
carpet/ i called out 'mum i wanna drink of water'/
on the way to matraville we looked at the endless
terrace houses of the inner suburbs from up in the
train/ mum called it 'the slums'/ we never went
there because it was too dangerous/ i imagined all
the crims from the slums being able to see us up
in that train/ the detective's family on their own/
i felt vulnerable/ my nose pressed against the glass/
we mainly hung around circular quay, manly, town
hall, the hoyts cinemas & then we went home/ dad
was sitting at the kitchen bench typing at the old
clacker one fingered left handed/ i read some of
his evidence about assaults at central station/ it
was usually men attacking women/ one putting
his hands up a woman's dress as she went up the
escalator/ when she screamed he clubbed her
unconscious with a piece of plywood/ dad said
'she's dead'/ mum took the paper from me &
said 'gary don't let her read that'/ dad's favourite
saying was 'it's nothing to do with the railways'/
it was his way of passing the buck which meant less
paperwork/ it was a long trip on the train from
liverpool to sydney & there was always some man
putting his hands down his trousers/ once one was
sitting next to us playing with himself/ so mum
jammed her bag down near his leg/ she told the
whole carriage/ she said 'excuse me/ this man's
pulling himself'/ there was an old woman with a
black umbrella that kept closing the window
shutter/ every time she closed it & went back to
her seat i would open it again/ & then she would
close it/ she wanted the whole carriage to be dark
& i couldn't see out the window/ we had a window
shutter closing & opening competition/ she became
very agitated & waved her black umbrella around/
& then she started spitting/ mum made me leave
the shutter down/ she was frightened of getting hit/
so i poked my tongue out at the woman during the
trip & made my eyes wide & she called me a
'brazen hussy'/ i asked mum 'what does that
mean?'/ she said 'it means to be a cheeky girl'
when i went over to gilbert's his father showed
me his electric train set/ he said that when the
train stopped at the station little green men rushed
on & off the carriages/ i said 'i can't see them'/ he
said 'they're made of green electricity & they're
too fast for you to see'/ i believed him & became
fearful of the train set/ of the dark windy tunnels
of the sydney system/ & of falling onto the steel
tracks when the train was coming or being blown
onto them/ especially when stepping onto the train
from the platform/ when the gap opened up
between it & the old red rattlers/ i imagined other
children chopped up along the tracks/ all the
children my father had scraped up & put into
bags on the job/ & i imagined myself going under/
i said 'what would happen?'/ mum said 'it would
chop you to pieces'
