1st September 1979
Showgrounds Station, 1979. The timetable looked normal; the faces didn’t. People were doing that forced-casual chat you hear right before a thunderstorm: “So… bus, then?” A guard blew his whistle like it was a eulogy. The train sighed. A bloke in flares muttered, “Feels like losing a mate who owed me a lift.”
Aunty Bev rolled her shopping trolley onto the platform and announced, “I’m lodging a complaint with the universe.” Baz the Tradie nodded and revealed Plan B: a thermos of tea labelled “RAIL REPLACEMENT”. Someone’s transistor radio tried to be brave over the seagulls heckling from the footbridge.
When the last service pulled out, the crowd waved like they were farewelling a ship at Gage Roads. A tiny brass band attempted a medley and got stuck between a dirge and a disco beat. “Keep the faith,” yelled a Uni student. “Keep the receipts,” yelled Aunty Bev, rattling the trolley.
The diesel grumbled, doors clunked, and some bloke in a Westside jumper yelled, “Love ya, mate!” at 120 tonnes of rolling stock. A kid asked if the train was going to heaven. “Nah, love,” said Nana Dot, “just… bus heaven.”
Monday arrived with a convoy of buses rattling bravely into duty. The drivers were saints with gearboxes; the commuters became experts in the ancient martial art of Hanging On Around Corners. Cafés filled with strategic commuter muttering. Kids drew protest signs. Someone knitted a scarf that read BRING BACK THE TRAIN and accidentally started fashion.
Weeks turned into years. Four years later the line returned, triumphant and only a little squeaky. The first day back felt like a long exhale; the band found its key; Aunty Bev’s trolley finally got a seat. In true WA style, the city shrugged, smiled, and said, “Righto—where to next?”
* as depicted by AI - may not factually be correct