FACTS AND MUSINGS

Grey River Argus, 15 April 1940, Page 9

FACTS AND MUSINGS

The Railway Station news is where you find it.

(By Ken Alexander). . It is not unusual for people to imagine that all the wonder, the colour, the glamour and the fullness of life is to be found in distant places bevond the seas. Here, in New Zealand, this belief may result from inherent modesty or it may arise from insufficient confidence in our capacity to create wonder as efficiently as the next. But our Centennial efforts have opened our eyes to the creative ability existing in our midst. Such works as our Hydro-electric systems should have done it long ago. But we are still inclined to look abroad for wonders which can be found within our own gates—perhaps on a smaller scale than the wonders of older countries but, nevertheless, clear examples of our initiative and skill. . , When railways are mentioned we are prone to think of the wonders of the Canadian Pacific route, the glamour of the Indian railways, the efficiency and colour of the American systems, the romance of the Continental lines, and so on. Perhaps it is that distance transforms such intelligence to “news” whilst similar “news” in our own country is accept ed as commonplace. But, for those who trouble to examine our own railway system with an observing eye, there is “news” to be discovered, just as impressive as, and more real than the second-hand variety from overseas. , . A ten minutes leisurely survey of, say, the Wellington Terminal is guaranteed to open the eyes of New Zealanders—even many of those who daily dash into it to catch a tram or out of it to keep an appointment. Unfortunately too many are in too great a hurry to pick out the many examples of imaginatio nand efficiency modestly tucked away in unexpected corners and discovered only when the traveller is in need of a particular service which he probably is surprised to find at his elbow. The truth is that it requires only a brief tour to convince the explorer that the only convenience he can find is a bed; but he can get a pillow which is an important part of a befi. In all ether respects the station is a complete hotel (non-alcoholic, of course). The visitor can choose a lunch or a dinner, a snack in the Cafeteria or a “three-decker” in the Restaurant He can have shave or a shower, a bath or a bun. He can telephone, telegraph or write, without leaving the station. His wife can temporarily shed her maternal responsibilities in an excellent nursery while she has a sip at the Cafeteria or a snip at the hairdresser’s. The traveller can buy books or bananas, oranges or nipe-cleaners, chewing gum or luggage labels. He can even take his own photograph, if he considers it worth while. . Close at hand there is a First-aid Depot in case his infant’s nose bleeds or he bumps his shin or faints under the weight of his mother-in-laws luggage; although he need never do this because there are red-capped porters alert and ready at the iron door to make “luggage lugging a memory of the unhappy past. Even the traveller’s dog is housed and cared for, whether he is of the bluest of blue blood or merely a scion of dubious ancestry. The. railway dog-nursery makes no invidious class distinctions. The explorer will

observe well-made dog houses, ventilated, warm, and certainly cosy, for no resentful whine or discordant howl emerges from them although, chalked on the doors, are, “One dog, Auck.”, “Dog, Eketahuna,” and just plain “Dog (?).” A glance within the “left luggage” hall discloses an Aladdin’s cave of miscellaneous treasure —shelves and shelves of bags and bundles, dozens' of cycles stabled in racks, rolled rugs and umbrellas thrust through them, golfing impedimenta (with and without bags), hat boxes suit cases, sacks, saddles and crates; in fact anything and everything if is possible to transport from one place to another is neatly shelved in alphabetical order. There is no record of an elephant having been left; but no doubt it would cause no dismay. . It would merely be tethered and ticketed. But, high on a shelf, one sees a spinning wheel which looks as though it had been left by grandpa in ’7B and nev<er retrieved.

The explorer begins, of course, by entering the pillared portico into the soaringly impressive concourse. Here he finds spaciousness, light, life, and colour. People pass and repass, hurrying, loitering, carrying bags, leading dogs, buying tickets, searching their pockets for tickets, making Preservation, checking luggage and doing all those things moving humanity does. Through glass doors the explorer glimpses the glint of tableware and the sheen of white napery in the restaurant; he inhales the scent of viands released by the opening doors. He strolls towards the platforms and sees men in the waiting room reading papers over little tables and women knitting, chatting, or both. Further on he sees pyramids of pillows awaiting tired heads. The white-garbed barber appears at his door for a breath of air; two cooks carry a can between them into the kitchens. A cleaner rattles buckets and sorts mops in a corner. A jet of steam, scented perhaps with bath salts emerges from a window. A train glides into the station. The opposite platform is miraculously peopled and as magically depopulated.

He will see more, far more, than we can describe here. Let him make his own discoveries. For news is where you find it.