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When the Express Comes In

(By G. King.)

To most travellers on the North Island Main Trunk Line, Taihape is just a place where the express stops to change engines, and where the traveller may partake of a cup of tea and a sandwich before resuming his journey. Yet to the average denizen of Taihape, the arrival of a through train, especially the Northbound express, which goes through the town when folk have the leisure to think of it, is something more than an episode. For, consider, the only real connection Taihape and similarly situated towns have with the outside world is that pair of “steel ribbons” that wind and wind into the hills away beyond.

I once read an article entitled “The Romance of the Rail.” Happy title! No doubt the road is as old as civilisation, and it, too, has its romance. But it has none of the glamour of travel associated with the rail. When we board a train we still experience that thrill of boyhood's days—the thrill of possession; like that we experienced when presented with our first watch, or when we wobbled, insecure but triumphant, down a street on our first bicycle ride. It is hard to define, but when we board a train we seem to obtain somehow, a reversionary right to the train—we become a part of it. Above all, there is a sense of security.

Taihape, that busy little town situated nearly in the heart of the North Island, is almost wholly dependent on the railway for its communication with the outside world. Hence the rail and all it connotes enters very largely into the life of the Taihapeans.

Visitors and passengers passing through Taihape have expressed surprise at the number of people that gather on the station at express time. “The event of the day is over,” a man was heard to remark as the express steamed out of Taihape. He was right. The arrival and departure of the famous Wellington to Auckland express is an event to the Taihapean. Hence the desire to stroll up to the station on fine nights “just to see her go through.”

On the station platform groups of people may be seen quietly talking, others strolling up and down; porters and carriers busy with large trunks and colossal hampers; prospective passengers sitting on the seats chatting gaily of holiday prospects; small boys mildly excited over a big locomotive steaming majestically past the platform; a shunting engine noisily busy in the yard—all these make up a scene of animation worth observing.

Sitting on one of the seats is a young girl. With her is a lady, obviously her mother, who is talking rather loudly to a friend. One gathers that her daughter is a shop-girl—a glance at the pale face assures one of this—going away for a fortnight's holiday. “Oh yes,” the lady exclaims, “she'll be quite all right. She's got her seat booked, she won't need to get out, and Uncle Fred and Aunt Jane will meet her at the Auckland station to-morrow morning. She'll have a great time.” A gleam of joy fluttered in the eyes of the girl as she visualised sunny hours on the beaches of beauteous Waitemata. Here is matter to reflect on. How often do we take the common things for granted? Think of it. For a few shillings, relatively, this young girl has at her command a comfortable, safe and well-appointed carriage in which her friends can leave her for the night in absolute security, and in which she will be conveyed speedily and surely to her waiting friends in the North. How many signals the driver will scan; how many pounds of coal the fireman will hurl into the engine's fiery maw before the young girl greets her friends, can only be conjectured. And besides this there is the constant and tireless vigilance of hundreds of eyes—the eyes of enginemen, of signalmen, of tablet porters, of train-examiners, of clerks, on the watch that this frail shop-girl may travel in safety.

One moves instinctively to the front of the train to view the engine. Here is a small group of admirers—boys, youths, and even men. Is there anything absurd in the admiration bestowed on a locomotive? This one, an “Ah,” as a small boy excitedly exclaimed, is a handsome specimen of the engine-designer's art. The long black boiler in which is pent up mighty forces soon to be released and used in thrusting round those strong connecting rods and gleaming wheels, is most striking, and suggestive of efficiency and power. That steady, subdued “singing” suggests that the engine is thrilling with anticipatory joy at the ease with which she will surmount the long banks ahead, and with what giant strides she will career over the plains beyond. The driver, who has been staring intently down the platform, sees the flash of a green light—he turns inside, there is a sharp screech; hurried farewells are exchanged, carriage gates are banged—and, slowly at first, amid a tremendous hissing and clouds of steam, but gathering speed as she goes, the big “Ab” draws its load clear of the platform. “She's off!” The crowd slowly wend their way “down town.” The “event” of the day is over.