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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 13, Issue 6 (September 1, 1938)

Facets of Life Behind the Facade of the Wellington Station

Facets of Life Behind the Facade of the Wellington Station

Is not the thought infinitely tender that behind the lines of traffic and the waiting ranks of rolling stock, above the restless travelling public and on top of that great fixed community of industry which centres in the Wellington Railway Station, there are babies playing with their toes. This is not something separate from the whole system, but a delicate part of it, like that intimate pulse in one's own wrist which is forgotten until one needs again to feel its small steady assurance.

The executive heart of our major transport system beats with the pace of modern efficiency, swiftly, steadily, and its ordered confidence is reflected in the happiness of children up there, near the sky, in their little heaven of nursery land—kiddies pushing bright trains about the floor, and babies hushed in sleep. Are their deep lashed dreams about Jumbo and Hippo and all the touching fantasies we tell them?

Somehow their presence is unexpected, a whimsical afterthought, kin to the poet's hint of God's laughter when he made small comical ducks and turned them upon a serious world. Indeed, the nursery was an afterthought. For the building was first planned with only the usual rest rooms and lounges, a mothers' feeding room, and the accepted and customary attentions to women travellers, all well done, it is true, in russet and cream panelled walls and deep arm chairs, luxurious and correct.

But it seems that someone looking up suddenly from the plans heard a child's voice, and then crowned this building with youngsters' happiness.

And just as the voice of a child sets the last fine note to family life, it here illumines and lifts up the cadences of industry, until one is aware gradually, if one is a stranger, of a sort of family essence in the large fraternity of railway men and women.

One Year Old.

The Wellington Railway Station is one year old now, but the building holds a spirit that is mellowed with experience and continually expanding through all the new environmental facilities into a more satisfying pleasure in work.

Because I am a woman and not mechanically-minded I shall not try to give you the machinery of this great and constant endeavour, this co-ordination and co-operation between a thousand people of all degrees of qualification and culture; the mechanic and the cheerful waitress, the technicist, draftsman, the college man and the graduate of the old universities of other lands. But I shall attempt to pass on to you some—only a small part—of the subtle spirit of this place as it rose up to the mind of a woman in an hour's exploration.

And it is not alone by my own natural inclination that my thought begins at the nursery floor. My guide was a man, presumably less given to sentimentality. He began there.

It is hardly possible to show the preciousness of this little heaven. Watch this lad, pushing his tricycle among the castles of his fancy.

Little Camel, when you left your coat in the other room you forgot your name. They pinned on to you the sign of a camel (or was it an elephant, or a bear?) and now you are known as a little animal in this happy interlude. Perhaps you forget that you are anything at all, or you are a wizard manipulating trucks and trains from the shelves of toys, bright as all the colours in this room.

You are a king, to-day, with servants or starched bodyguard—that nurse and page 42 the kindergarten woman—and your very curtains wave with drum majors in the folds. The doors of the palace open on to a roof with the world below. And on the roof there are love birds with feathers marked like shells.

In a little kitchen of cream and green enamel someone is getting ready prune pulp for you—Plunket feeding, even in heaven. But there are also baked apples, and pumpkin, cabbage, potatoes, and fish in the oven. It's a jolly world.

The tiny kiddies and the babies sleep in their small cots in rooms as restful as green fields. Their little bodies are still bundles under coverlets fresh as the busy windmill patterns mothers love for babies' cots. Their bunny friends and the chickens, Donald Duck and an owl or two, a funny long-legged beetle and a white mouse are having a picnic in a low freize on the wall just on the level of the babies' eyes. The simple, kindly friends of bed-time stories will greet them again in the bliss of awakening.

It is all so warm and snug and safe here. No wonder children leave it very reluctantly. Yet as they go away they drop down in the lift past other little worlds, and these are worlds of toil and sociability like those they may themselves be heir to.

The Brain Centre.

If these children were in their teens, and fairy tales were grown to ambitions, and if a genii could take them unseen, lest they be awed by the lustre of executive office appointments, into the General Manager's office they might find there an urgent vision or hear a message as pressing as Dick Whittington's.

More than one glass door of simple but fine panelling would swing silently behind them as they went through the noiseless passage to this room. Its suggestion of expert workmanship touched with beauty would give them thoughts of industry where usefulness might be the handmaid of loveliness and good taste serve utility.

The windows overlook the intricate system and mechanism of acres of railway yards where there is constant synchronized movement. A new line is thrown out to Johnsonville and traffic is continuously, daily and nightly, drawn from old lanes of traffic. The whistle of trains and their smoke do not come very near except as a symbol of thought and progress. For the thought, the conferences and the planning go deeply through a thousand details behind the whistles and the smoke.

The room, when it is empty, is like a well styled reception room; carpet of soft green on a compressed inlaid cork floor, furniture of mottled kauri with green leather easy chairs, walls panelled with a Georgian suggestion, generous curtains of dull rust, green-grained New Zealand stone about the fire place, and through all the modern simplicity we are slowly adopting into our homes.

Before the General Manager went to the Conference of Australian and New Zealand Railway Commissioners in Sydney, in July, he studied the plans of the new Christchurch Railway Station at the desk in this room. He took a photostat copy of the plans away with him, and on the day the photostat was being developed I watched the lines of it come up on the paper in the developer.

The department where this work is done is very fascinating, even to an unmechanically - minded woman, but when I try to catch again the feeling of the place I know myself to be a mere impressionist among the blueprints. The courteous and technical explanations fall on my mind as music does on the untrained ear, as sounds in which there is a meaning, but from which one gathers a spirit more than a set of facts.

Here are machines which photograph a tracing from one paper to another in any of a choice of colours without the necessity of a negative.

In a little room where a light filter is used—all the red is taken out of the light—one becomes aware that one has assumed the colours of a Frankenstein because the hands of the operator are also a weird green, pitted with purple.

The lines on the prints come up in the baths of solution while men talk, and one bends again over tracings of minutest detail which have taken many months to draw.

Patience, a satisfaction in work and modern processes, and a respect for the diligent and painstaking co-operation page 43 of other men pervade the monotones of conversation in these rooms.

And I look again out of a window, across to a small building apart. It is the staff social hall fitted with a library, a stage, and showers. And I think of the other halls in the main building, which are cafeteria for the staff in the day time and in the evening places for an occasional dance or a lecture. This is a club with both occupational and social ties. There is a binding and uniting fraternity in these things, and the few that I speak of are only facets of the community life that springs up, almost complete in itself, within the great structure of modern transport industry.

Grow Fat and Laugh.

One more glance. The kitchen.

It requires a descriptive succulence and a mouth-watering toothsomeness in words to convey the sense of the raising of a domestic art, here into the realm of high industry. Magnify the home dining-room until it serves 1,200 meals a day, in holiday time up to 2,100 meals a day, and throw in a few extra 1,600 served in the cafeteria. Then imagine the kitchen organization, not as something impersonal as large figures suggest, but a place that will make you smile at the sight of good food in the necessarily large quantities. Moreover, you will chuckle in contact with enthusiasm bubbling over a stock pot, as the manager shows you all the devices of his electrically equipped kitchen.

Thinking of his eager and vital delight in it all I felt that somewhere I had met him before, perhaps not the man, but at least his spirit. It is linked with a mental picture of a slightly built, quick Bavarian engineering student in Cologne. He was showing a bevy of British colonial women students the cathedrals of the city. At every corner he counted his flock, talking eagerly at the same time of architecture, and taking this place and that almost at a run, until having exhausted religious art, and his audience also, he led the women to the original eau de Cologne shop and doused them with scent. Then he cupped his own hands and, with a supreme gesture of satisfaction, washed his face in the cooling liquid.

The same self-abandonment in a cause was here. But this spirit and enthusiasm, instead of being expended on the culture of Gothic, or Romanesque appreciation, reached up to something that touched a more urgent craving in every man, and something that every woman aspires to on a smaller scale to satisfy that three times daily recurring craving.

It is no descent into the mundane to stand by a tier of electric ovens, or a long bench of gas automatic fish friers, to watch a cutter that will chop up anything from beans to breadcrumbs, and even grate cheese, and to marvel at the simplicity of electric potato peelers which take the drudgery out of culinary art. Art, indeed, now. Everything reduced to a fine art.

It is heart-warming — when the stomach is full the heart glows—to see the soup urns, the pie urns in the steam-heated serving table, the carving of the brown joints, which, when disposed among the vegetables, would make a picture for one of those full-bellied old masters who spread their rich pigments over the scene of Dutch domestic life.

Ah! That is who should paint the picture of the Wellington Railway Station. A Dutch master doing lofty interiors, but one sufficiently modern to joy in the light of many windows.

page 44
“Lynn put his arm around her waist and lifted her across his saddle and then covered her face with kisses.”

“Lynn put his arm around her waist and lifted her across his saddle and then covered her face with kisses.”

Part IV.

Well, Mr. Kingswell, found out anything?” asked Jasper.

“Only that I'm convinced they are the two ‘wanteds’. Next Thursday night, I expect some developments. Those two are anxious to get away. If they give notice next Wednesday—well, we can look out for something. Now don't be surprised at what I am going to ask you. What is your opinion of Wynder?”

“I can't make him out, Mr. Kings-well. He has rarely come out of his office during the last few days. I have been naturally interested since you told me about the revolver. I had a look in his office when he went to lunch, and I don't think he has touched a thing for weeks,” said Jasper.

“Um! Try and have a look at the journal and cash book to-morrow. I am honestly afraid this man is more to be feared than both our whiskered friends. Just go on the same, Jasper. I am counting on you if anything happens.”

“I am with you, Mr. Kingswell.”

“It's an awkward position altogether.

The names of people in this story are wholly imaginary, though the incidents referring to some of the employees as being refugees from the Law are true. In the early days the remoteness of some of the mills made it quite possible for “wanteds” to hide in seclusion for many months.

One does not want to jump to conclusions about Wynder. There's just something. His behaviour at the house is like a gentleman's though I have noticed a lack of sincerity. He is often absent-minded. Yet women are supposed to be better judges of characters than men, and Miss Cushla apparently likes him.”

“So do I, in a way, but there's just that something, as you say,” replied Jasper.

“Well, let us go in. Perhaps Miss Cushla will take a hand in a game of bridge.”

“Come on, Mr. Kay,” said Jasper.

“You and I against Cushla and Mr. Lynn.”

A little later Wynder came in.

“Been for your usual constitutional, Mr. Wynder?”

“What is the promise of the weather for cricket to-morrow?” asked Cushla.

“It looks all right, Miss Cushla,” said Wynder.

“The stars like little orbs of light,

Pierce through the darkness of the night.

They tell the morrow will be fine

And sunshine bring to thee and thine.”

“Good for you, Mr. Wynder,” said Jasper. “But look here, listening to you I nearly revoked.”

Everyone hustled through their work on Saturday morning, so the afternoon would be unbroken for cricket.

* * *

It was astonishing what Jasper had moulded out of the material he had to hand. He captained one team, and Hawkins the other. Mr. Kay had provided a large marquee where afternoon tea was dispensed by Miss Cushla.

An outsider dropping in on the scene would have been amazed to see, in this page 45 out of the way place, a cricket match in full swing, and every member of the team in white.

Mr. Kay said that the good feeling which existed among the men was mostly due to cricket, and the good influence of Mr. Jasper. Lynn assisted Cushla with the afternon tea, Jasper also lending a hand.

“By Jove! this does you credit, Jasper. Some of your old friends here play quite a good game, and for a fairly rough ground they field well.”

“It seems that all hands turn up to watch the game,” remarked Lynn.

“Yes, but I notice three who are absent,” replied Jasper.

“You mean Higgins, Holt and Wynder?”

“Yes. It seems funny. Wynder always turns up. The other two, only sometimes.”

Wynder, at that moment, unseen by anyone, was taking a circuitous way to the road, carrying a hand-bag which contained a change of clothing, a considerable amount of cash, a spare revolver, and a fair quantity of ammunition. He reached the gate, and followed the road about five chains along, then disappeared into the tea-tree. Ten yards from the road he placed the bag on the ground, and
“With deft hands, not disarranging anything, he searched the whole outfit.”

“With deft hands, not disarranging anything, he searched the whole outfit.”

covered it with scrub. Returning to the road, he took his pocket knife and stripped a piece of bark off a fair-sized tea-tree in order to mark the place. He then returned by the track he came and went to the house. Presently he found his way to Lynn's room and with deft hands, not disarranging anything, searched his whole outfit. He found nothing, however, and was turning to leave the room when his eye fell on a writing pad. Turning over the outside cover, Wynder read a partly-written letter which Lynn was writing to his father. There was not one word in it which would show anything other than an ordinary family letter.

Little did Wynder think that this letter had been written with an idea that he, Wynder, might see it. There was nothing in it, or in the saddle-bags to connect Lynn with being a spy or with any ulterior motive. If Wynder had found the letter in a conspicuous place he might have thought it was a subterfuge.

Wynder communicated the information to Higgins that same evening and they felt more at ease. He told Higgins where he thought would be the best place for a hold-up—near a small bridge about five miles from the gate. Both approaches had sunk to such a degree that a car had to slow right down to negotiate it. As the car eased down, Holt was to approach and point his revolver while Wynder and Higgins were to spring out simultaneously on either side, demanding “hands up.” If Martin showed fight, well, he had himself to blame.

Martin was to be bound, if not killed or wounded, the car turned round, and a get-away made with as little delay as possible. The telephone wires were to be cut. Wynder calculated on upwards of four hours' start.

“Have your tea as usual,” he told Higgins. “Immediately afterwards, make for the road, under cover, until you reach the gate, then continue to the bridge and wait for me. You and Holt better take what belongings you want, and plant them on the road somewhere, so that you can pick them up. If you can get away with some food, all the better. Meet me here next Wednesday evening. That will be all just now. Good-night Higgins!” “Good-night, Colonel.”

* * *

Lynn had taken a great fancy to Cushla, and it was not surprising when he suggested they should go for a ride down to the beach. She readily consented. It was a lovely evening, and the two chatted away about the cricket, the lovely bush, and the life at the mill. A two-mile ride brought them to the beach. There was always a swell, but on a calm night the rollers came in only about three or four feet high and, as they broke, they sent a line of snow-white foam, as far as the eye could see, along the beach.

“What a glorious night, Cushla. I don't think it is possible to find a place elsewhere where there are so many attractions,” said Lynn.

“No, Dad chose well. There's years and years of timber without breaking in on the beauty spots, and he has promised to leave quite a number of acres here and there.”

“Ah, but you see you've got an exceptional Dad, Cushla. What about a canter down the beach and then for home? They will be thinking all sorts of things if I keep you out too late.”

“All right! Let's go,” agreed Cushla. When they returned to the road and up the slope to the bush road Cushla said: “Are you going again with Martin on Thursday?”

“Yes, Cushla. But, as before, I don't want anyone to know.”

“You would not go unless you thought there was some danger to Martin.”

“Perhaps not, Cushla.”

“Then to please me, don't go. I'm afraid for you. I know you would stop at nothing, and if Martin were stuck up, you would take all the risk.”

“No,” replied Kingswell. “Martin is a brave, honest fellow, and would run more risk than I.”

“Then just this once more, Lynn.”

“I'm sorry, but so long as I think there is any danger to Martin, and a loss to your father possible, my duty is to go where my services are required. You would not think much of me if I shirked, Cushla, and I value your good opinion.”

“I think you know you have it.”

“And I intend to keep it, if possible, Cushla.”

“Then why not trust me and tell me your reasons for thinking there is trouble brewing.”

“Because I have only suspicions. You know from what I have told you that Higgins and Holt are a pair of pretty tough customers, but neither of them is plucky enough to carry off anything page 46 page 47 where there might be gun-play. They require a leader.”

“And have they got one?”

“That's just what I'm trying to find out, but never mind this business. We came out to enjoy ourselves, not to discuss the possibility of trouble. Anyhow, to change the subject, to one very near my heart. Cushla it's no use beating about the bush—I love you, and have loved you from the first day I met you on the road.”

“You're very sudden, Lynn. Do you townspeople always declare your love on such short acquaintance?”

“Just you say that you think there is hope for me and I'll never want to go back to the city to find out.”

“Well, supposing I said that there was, what would you do?”

“I would make old Scotty carry two people instead of one.”

“Well, suppose you try, Lynn.”

There was a sudden movement and then Lynn leaned over, put his arm around her waist and lifted her over across his saddle, and then covered her face with kisses.

“Well, that's that,” said Lynn, as he lifted her back on to her saddle. “Now, young lady, there is just one condition before we become properly engaged. I am going to ask your father to send you away for a month or six weeks. I can't spare you any longer, and give you a sporting chance of falling in love with somebody you may fancy better than me.”

“You old silly, Lynn. There is nothing going to change me. I am sure and I'm sure also there will be no trouble with Dad. He is fond of you, and he said the other night that with you and Mr. Jasper cruising around there was nothing left for him to worry about.”

* * *

“Here, young man, this is more than two hours you have been out,” said Mr. Kay as the pair entered the room.

“We stopped to look at some beautiful glow-worms,” said Cushla, blushing.

“So I would think by the colour of your cheeks.”

“Well, it's this way,” said Lynn. “I asked Cushla if she would ever care enough for me to be my wife, and notwithstanding my poor prospects she was kind enough to say that she had leanings that way already, so, of course, you being the head of affairs, we have come to ask you what you think of the matter.”

Mr. Kay chuckled: “I would gladly give my consent, but Lynn, I think Cushla should have a chance to find out if her feeling for you is lasting. She ought to go away for a time to the gay city—go to dances, evenings, and so on.”

“Exactly what I suggested,” said Lynn. “If she could stand a month or so with that sister of mine and come back the same there should be no misgivings for the future.”

“Anybody would think I did not know my own mind, but I shouldn't object to city life for a short while, especially if I could take Lynn with me,” said Cushla.

“That would upset the whole contract,” replied Lynn, “because I would never let you out of my sight.”

“Now you toddle off to bed, young lady. I want to talk to Lynn. I'm not too sure if he is in a fit state of mind to discuss serious things, but you toddle—prompt.”

Cushla threw her arms around her father's neck and kissed him. “You are the dearest, sweetest Dad there ever was.” She then turned to Lynn, kissed him, and rushed out of the room.

“Now, Lynn, come right down to earth and tell me what you discovered during your stewardship.”

“Not very much, but I think it would be wise to get rid of Higgins and Holt,” Lynn said.

“Are they not safer where one can keep an eye on them? If they are what you surmise, they might amble about and make a night raid.”

“You could transport them either by car or the scow to a safe distance,” Lynn replied.

“Yes, that is so, but you have not told me who the third one is.”

“I could not do that. But meetings are being held, and whether there is a third party I'm going to try and find out to-morrow night.”

There were other things that Lynn could have told Mr. Kay, but they were, after all, only surmise, and he was sure that any untoward action on the part of himself would not only put the suspects on their guard, but possibly provoke such hostile acts as might lead to gun play. Three men, well armed, could do great harm before being overpowered. Lynn was perfectly sure that no attempt would be made in the immediate vicinity, but if they were planning robbery, Martin was the one who was going to bear the brunt. Wynder was not fool enough to think that his untouched work would remain unnoticed for any long period, and he reckoned that any time a show-up might eventuate.

The following day Lynn questioned Jasper as to Wynder's movements.

“Only an increasing amount of work, and on Friday he will have to produce the usual monthly balance sheet to Mr. Kay. If that is not forthcoming reasons will have to be given.”

“This news is important, and tonight, I'll know fairly well what to expect when Martin returns. At 9 o'clock the car generally arrives back. If it is not up to time, ride out to meet it, and go armed. Remember, if anything happens there are three fairly desperate men to contend with, and your advent may be extremely opportune.”

“You're running a bit of a risk, are you not, Mr. Kingswell?”

“Not more than Martin, and I have put him on his guard.”

(To be continued.)

page 48

page 49

—(Continued from page 16).

fine co-ordination principle became firmly established as a working force in the community.

The study and production of drama was no longer the privilege of the large centres of population. The figures are most impressive. There are nine schools of drama, two-day or longer, with approximately 300 students. The Women's Institutes' special drama groups number no less than 160. The Farmers' Union Women's Division have 30 special drama groups. Of the League proper, there are groups comprising societies, drama groups, play reading societies numbering no less than 460. The aggregate membership must be more than 12,000. For a population of a million and a-half this is a fine record.

The list of place-names is a romance in itself: Appleby, near Nelson; Para-paraumu, Omihi and Ohoka in North Canterbury, Pio Pio and Taupiri in the Auckland Province, Stokes Valley, are just a few. Here are busy committees of folk engaged in the splendid task of cultural endeavour comprised in drama study.

It must be remembered that this can
(S.P Andrew, photo.) mr leo du chateau, the moving spirit in the foundation of the wellington repertory society.

(S.P Andrew, photo.)
mr leo du chateau, the moving spirit in the foundation of the wellington repertory society.

not be narrowed down to the mere playing and reading of plays.

There are all the useful and entertaining jobs of dress designing, contriving and setting up scenery, the selection and arrangement of properties, and a host of collateral activities. These are all stimulating and instructive as well. But there is an increasing purpose which is higher and more valuable still. There is no fellowship so golden in result as the fellowship of people who are engaged in the mutual pursuit of some intellectual end. It is a sweetening and wholesome task, doing good in the widest possible fashion and in a measure no other activity can rival.

The special triumph of the British Drama League is its success in bringing this magical instrument of happiness and enlightenment into the remote corners of our country.

The League has a library of no less than 350 plays. It employs a tutor who travels all over New Zealand and has proved of matchless worth.

It is true that we can claim Marie Ney, Shayle Gardner, and one or two other outstanding London figures in drama.

But this triumphant advance of this form of culture among the masses of our fellow countrymen and women is of far more importance.

It is one further shining sign that, culturally, New Zealand is growing to full nationhood.