CHAPTER 3
LINES OF HOPE
It must have been sometime back in the eighteen hundreds I suppose, when they opened the rail line from Brisbane to the pineapple fields up near Caboolture, Queensland.
At one of the small stations constructed somewhere along that line, the railway company appointed a new Stationmaster and told him that rather than bringing in more experienced people from Brisbane City, he was to recruit whatever local people he could to man the station. Surprising as it may seem to us today, this was not an easy thing to do as people back then travelled very little and most of them had never seen a train or railway equipment, so railway procedures were a complete mystery to them.
After some weeks – or it may have been more like months - Mr P. Billy, Esquire, the new Stationmaster, had enough men for the initial service to commence.
What was lacking, according to the Railways Supporter’s League - a local group hastily organised by Mrs P. Billy and the upper class ladies of the district - was any provision for the beautification of the Station and its surrounds. 'We cannot allow this wonderful new edifice; this monument to progress and development; these Great Lines of Hope - to be built here and then left to decay! No, ladies. No, no, no! We must make provision for a garden. One to grace the platform, and indeed, the whole length of the Station! And... and, we must provide for its permanent maintenance. Anything less simply will not do!'
She plugged this line to her husband while brushing his top hat; hastily purchased on his appointment as Stationmaster, and proudly worn, in the absence of a uniform, with his best waistcoat and gold watch-and-chain - as his de facto badge of authority. His top hat was, after all, the only top hat in town. He did look smart too, as he strode up and down the short platform to supervise the arrival and departure of every train.
The provision of plants to decorate the station was no problem; the ladies were more than generous in making donations from their own gardens. The only problem was in making proper provision for the continued maintenance of all this tropical foliage. With the ladies taking such an interest in the gardens and a special interest, of course, in the plants they had themselves donated; there was a clear potential for trouble if the plants were not independently and carefully attended to. Regular watering was a must! There was no doubt about that!
Unfortunately, there was no provision in Railway Regulations for the appointment of a Station Gardener. The answer, according to Mr P. Billy, lay in finding a man who could be taken on as a Porter, but with some additional and most importantly, gardening skills. But, how to find the right man? That could be something of a challenge!
Now there happened to be a young Irish itinerant tinker in the neighbourhood. The poor young fellow having been left stranded in the locality after his donkey died the year before and was likely to remain there until he could afford another. He had been fortunate in obtaining a bit of temporary employment with a Mrs Brown - a distinguished lady who rated him highly as a trusted gardener and handyman.
When the dear old lady died, Patrick the peddler found himself out of work again and it was then that Mr P. Billy, Esquire, esteemed Stationmaster, suddenly realised that perhaps at last he'd found the man he had been looking for!
Patrick accepted the railway offer of a permanent job, without knowing a thing about what it entailed, on the premise that what he didn't know, he'd learn. That was quite a lot, bearing in mind that he thought perhaps a ‘rail way’, was probably not much different to the peddler's way, or the gypsy way, or the farmer's way. To be sure, he reasoned, didn't everybody do things in their own way?
Fortunately, Patrick found the chore of carrying passenger's bags and loading the goods wagons not so very different to other jobs he had done; provided you just ignored the tracks and the fact that things moved about a lot with a great deal of noise. As for the garden - well, there was no denying that in those aspects of his duties, he absolutely excelled himself. He also became popular with the passengers and staff because of his enduring good humour. He was particularly popular with the Stationmaster's family. So much so, they began to teach him how to read and write. As time went by, the Station became widely known for having possibly the best Railway Gardens in Southeast Queensland!
Also as time went by, Patrick became more skilled at his Porter's duties and was, for various short periods of time the Senior man when the Stationmaster was called away.
All this had not gone unobserved by the ladies of the Railways Supporter’s League. Nor was the fact that Patrick was clearly of marriageable age. The ladies' interest was further inspired by the suggestion of one of their members that should Patrick desire to wed, he may well leave the Railway for better paid employment as might better suit a married man - a family man. 'It is time, Sir,' said Mrs P. Billy to her husband, 'that to keep this valuable young man with us, consideration must be given to elevating him to a higher level of responsibility. Provided, of course, his new and better remunerated duties do not interfere with his special gardening responsibilities.'
The problem here was that with such a very small Station, employment opportunities were necessarily limited. However, the Stationmaster thought that he might be able to justify a re-classification for Patrick, from Porter to Signalman. Before seeking approval from Head Office, he thought it might be best to take Patrick with him on his next journey to Brisbane. Not that the higher authority would necessarily want to see him there, but so far, Patrick had never actually travelled on a train! A journey up front on the footplate, a chance to talk to both the driver and fireman and opportunity to acquaint him with the importance of signals and the mechanics of line changes, would surely prove to be an experience of great value to any new Signalman.
Surprisingly, however, Patrick was not as enthusiastic as might be expected!
'Oh... no, Sir. No Sir, I do not wish to travel on the train - not to Brisbane nor to any other place else. Thank you, Sir. Thank you, very much, Sir - but no!'
'But I don't understand,' said the Stationmaster. 'I'm going out of my way to help you gain immensely valuable experience, my boy. Help you gain a higher classification. Help you get more pay! Yet you... you refuse to
cooperate? It's most distressing. I must insist you explain yourself! Are you frightened of the engine? Come along now, Patrick. I've seen you cringe a bit when the engine lets off steam. There's no shame in admitting it.'
'No, Sir, it's not the engine. I'm getting used to all that...snorting, and puffing like some poor demented creature. I'm afeard no more of those mechanical monsters, Sir.'
'Then what is it, man? What can it be?'
'Well, Sir, I don't wish to imply any criticism of you personally, or of the Railway Company, Sir. But it's them rails... them there dreadful rails, Sir. I don't like them. I don't like them at all. I never have and I never will.'
'Rails, Patrick? Rails? What could you possibly not like about the rails?'
'Ah, well, Sir. I'm not an educated man; not withstanding all the wonderful book learning your good children have kindly given me in recent times. But I do have two good eyes in my head, Sir and I can see as good as any other man - educated or not. What I see of them there lines... well, I don't like 'em, sir. I don't like 'em one little bit and I'd just as well not travel on 'em - not as a free man. Begging your pardon, Sir.'
'Good Lord, man. There's absolutely nothing wrong with those lines,' the Stationmaster assured him. 'They're laid straight and true - as best as any railway anywhere, could possibly have them laid. Why, I was here all the time during construction. I watched the gravel bed go down; the sleepers go down; each single rail go down and every spike go in too. I watched those rails as they were joined together to make one strong, continuous, road of steel. All the way from here to Brisbane. It’s a remarkable achievement, Patrick. One that has awakened this sleepy little town and brought employment and prosperity for all of us here in this district. In time you will come to respect and love this wond
erful railway. It is not fair to go about casting aspersions at its construction, my lad!'
'I do appreciate all of that, Sir. As I have said, I know I'm only a simple working man. But... I have me eyes, Sir. Me eyes - they don't lie, not to me they don't Sir.'
'Then show me, Patrick. For goodness sake, show me. Show me what it is you think is wrong with those wonderful lines – ‘Lines of Hope’, as my dear wife likes to call them.'
'Yes. Yes, certainly. If you wouldn't mind stepping out as far as the platform edge, for a wee moment, Sir.'
Shaking his head in confused disbelief, the Stationmaster moved out to the edge of the platform as he was bid.
'Alright, Patrick,' he said. 'Now what is this nonsense about the rails? What is it... about these beautiful lines here that could possibly worry you?'
'Ah, there's nothing wrong with them lines here, Sir,' said Patrick. 'Not here. Not right here!'
'Well I'm glad to hear that, Patrick,’ replied the Stationmaster.
'But will you look, Sir - farther on up the line, if you will, Sir.'
'So? Where? What?’ the Stationmaster asked. 'I still can't see anything wrong.'
'No?' queried Patrick, in disbelief. 'Can you not see, Sir, how them lines up ahead are laid closer and closer together as they get farther and farther away?’
‘What? What?’ exclaimed the Stationmaster, in absolute disbelief!
Oh... dear. Oh, my. Yes, Sir. Indeed, Sir. To me, that gradual shrinking together of the lines; that's undoubtedly dangerous - very dangerous, Sir. One of these days them there train wheels will be pressed closer and closer by them rails like that!' he said, bringing his two hands together with a sharp clap. 'And then we'll be having one of them terrible railway accidents. Yes, I've heard tales about them railway accidents, Sir - where lots and lots of good folk gets themselves killed. It will happen up the line there one day, mark my words, unless something is done about it! Yes, I think they need to be taken up, them there rails and then be laid down again. Only... only this time, straight and proper, Sir. Straight and proper, like these ones here - but all the way up there; from here to Brisbane.'
'Ha, ha!' chuckled the Stationmaster. 'Say no more, me lad. I take your point. I understand everything – rest assured. Have no fear, we shall travel down to Brisbane together at the end of next month in absolute safety - I guarantee it! But first, I must arrange for my eldest daughter, Beth, to give you some drawing lessons. Yes, yes, that's the answer. Now then, no more worrying on your part, understand? Leave everything to me.'
The Stationmaster kept his word and Patrick enjoyed his drawing lessons with the pretty, young, lady for the next few weeks. On the Stationmaster's specific instructions, he was soon very well versed in the principles of drawing in perspective.
'I shall treasure this drawing that Patrick has made for me,' said the Stationmaster to his wife. 'You know, the way he has drawn the station with those rail lines - disappearing into the distance. I really do think he has captured something of the ‘Lines of Hope’ you have so often referred to, my dear. One can imagine them bringing all the comforts of the modern age to us - here, now, and forever.'
At the end of the month, Patrick showed no sign of hesitation as they boarded the train for Brisbane - standing up front, on the footplate, with the driver and fireman, as promised. He took a great deal of interest in the operation of the train - even helping to fuel the fire, as they left the station.
Unfortunately there had been an unusually long and depressing bout of wet and windy weather for the last two or three weeks, following a tropical cyclone which had pounded the Southeast Coast. Just as they rounded a bend, blinded by a particularly heavy and nasty downfall of rain, the train shot off at a section of washed out track; toppling on its side and tumbling down the embankment!
Sometime later, with the survivors huddled together awaiting rescue, Mr P. Billy, Esquire, Stationmaster - minus his top hat lost in the crash; tearfully and lovingly cradled Patrick's limp body in his arms and bent forward as Patrick's eyes opened and his lips began to move. 'I... I told you, Sir. Them... rails... them there rails were dangerous...'
'Aye - that you did, my lad. I should have listened to you. I should not have made you come. I'm so sorry, my dear boy. So sorry indeed.'
‘And them lines, Sir. Do you think… they really are... ‘Lines of Hope’, Sir?’
'I don't really know,' said the Stationmaster, tears rolling sadly down his cheeks as he saw the life fade from Patrick's eyes. Brushing away a tear, he held him closer and said, 'Maybe they are ‘Lines of Hope’... for some – and maybe not for others. But for you, my boy, they are most certainly ‘Lines of Hope’ and most surely your ‘Lines to Paradise’ too...’
‘God bless you my son.’ ‘Amen.'