Graham Hutchins - Stop the Train! I Want to Get On: Rediscovering New Zealand Railway Journeys

Trains were always there. Growing up in Te Kuiti in the 1950s and 1960s the golden weather days, fading somewhat as the 60s advanced you accepted trains and the railways as an integral, intermingling force. In the less complicated years of boyhood they had a decided romantic presence. In the mounting complexity of teenage years when romance took on a more personalised character, the good old trains still steamed or dieseled their way through our small-town lives.

Friday night in Te Kuiti circa 196364. Late afternoon, after school and the action had already started. Pat and I were thumbing through the glossies at the stationery shop. Popular Mechanics, Playdate (a photo of the ugly Rolling Stones, Sandy Edmondes in tight-fitting vinyl). The stationer was edging closer as it became obvious we werent paying customers. Just looking thanks.

Well go look elsewhere.

We did.

The goods express roared north. Pat and I were joined by Sam, whose asthma was playing up as the oil smoke from the KA-hauled express wafted over the main street. Lawrence and his crowd of thugs confronted us outside the billiards saloon. Well beat you bastards tomorrow, Bug Thomas, their mouthpiece, reckoned. Tomorrow who cared? Wed beat the bastards at Rugby Park. We had the fitness. Apart from Sam.

The five oclock siren sounded. A diesel-driven southern goods ghosted in. Phil, who had joined us outside the record shop, reckoned he was getting peckish. The AB shunter in the yard made quite a commotion as it shunted that which the diesel-driven goods had bequeathed. Night was falling and the job had to be done. And Phils father, the AB driver, had to get to the club before the six oclock swill was over.

Friday night was heating up. Karen B and her friend Alison walked past in matching sweaters. Hoped they were going to the movies, as we were. Another diesel, one we didnt recognise in the half light, barked as it slid down the Waitete Embankment. Still like steam best, said Russ, who had latched on outside Jerrys milk bar.

Tom played the jukebox, number 23D. Last train to San Fernando by Johnny Duncan. Then Tom joined us as we went into Browns and ordered our fish and chips. Whats on at the movies, boys? Mr Brown asked. According to Pat it was a double feature a western followed by a black-and-white murder. Suddenly, unscheduled, a speeding JA-hauled goods train headed south.

Late freight, said Mr Brown, before ducking away to begin our fry up. Melanie Hayward, looking like Rita Hayworth, came into the fish and chip shop. Me, Pat, Sam, Phil, Russ and Tom said nothing. I think she smiled at me but she was probably drunk. Phil reckoned she was always drunk.

We wandered over to the station in good time to set up on the platform seats before the express came in. Don joined us, after helping his parents stack tins of corned beef at their grocery. Melanie Hayward clicked her way down the platform in her stilettos and fur coat. God she looked like Rita Hayworth. Similar name too, Don pointed out. Had he been reading my thoughts? The station porter, Harry, glowered at us as we put away a total of 7s 6d worth of fish and chips and a few sausages. He didnt like the notion of us vagrants eating in a public place his station as the express came in. Not a good look.

The express was running ten minutes late. Hope you fellas have finished your meal by then. Harry threw the words over his shoulder, not really sure if he had the legal right to move us on.

The express usually arrived at 7.40 and the movies started at eight. Tom did the maths: 7.50 it would be, and after ogling the passengers, particularly the pretty ones, as they either made for the refreshment rooms or sat, expressionless in their carriage seat, it would take a bit of a sprint to catch the first spool of Jack Palance, the varmint and Randolph Scott, the sheriff, deciding on the best time for the former to get out of town. Sundown probably. You could rack that up based on experience. Coincidentally, the sun had just gone down in Te Kuiti.

Doug the drunk lurched out of the shadows as the express slowed beyond the Ward Street signal box. It was a KA tonight. The most powerful steam engine. Tom was hoping for a JA, his sleek favourite. The last of the chips were quaffed and the wrappings wedged behind the seat, just as Lawrence and his monkeys loomed out of the shadows and the express, with its brightly lit carriages eased and squealed to a stop.

At exactly 7.51 a black shadow covered those passengers who hightailed it to the refreshment rooms. Melanie Hayward, as cool as you like, waited patiently until it was safe to climb aboard. God knows where she was going but you wished you knew. Harry the porter jumped around like a jumping jack as luggage and baggage is there a difference was taken down or loaded up.

It was now 7.58 and we had to go. The KA was rejoining the express after topping up with water. Melanie Hayward was on board in a sleeper, if you could believe Tom, and you couldnt always. Everyone in Te Kuiti knew what happened in the sleeper cars.