THE LAST TRAM

New Zealand Listener, Volume 34, Issue 871, 13 April 1956, Page 10

THE LAST TRAM

by

O. E.

Middleton

HE old man sat up stiffly and rubbed his eyes. Then he remembered what day it was and edged off the slats, groping for his sandshoes with his bare toes. He lit the gas-ring in the corner, put on his shaving water, and went to the bathroom. The workers were not yet up, so he took his time and came back to his own room to find the kettle jiggling briskly. From a small, curtained cupboard which also housed the gas-meter, he took his shaving mug and a small teapot. A sudden clatter from the next room told him that old Jack, who had a cleanér’s job in the city, was still in bed. The harsh clatter of the alarm went on for some seconds, and through the thin wall he could hear Jack coughing and complaining as he began his day. fr% What a rough, noisy neighbour he was, thought the old man: so different from the earlier tenant, old Joe.

Joe had been soft-spoken and quiet. He had eked out his pensién with a gardener’s job at one of the big houses in Epsom. You would never have thought he would have ended up the way he did. . . But then they still went on installing gas-rings in bedrooms, in spite of the regulations-so what could you expect? Oh, well, we all feel that way at times, he thought. But not today! He opened his razor, stropped it carefully on a broad leather belt he had owned since the First War, and stood it in the mug. He put a heaped spoonful of tea in the pot and divided the boiling water between it and the shaving mug. After breakfast, he picked up the corners of the newspaper and shook the crumbs into the alley for the sparrows. Then he went. to the bathroom to rinse his cup and found the Colonel there brushing his false teeth. Of course he wasn’t a real Colonel, everyone knew that. But he did get some kind of pension from the Army, and he had been an officer at one time. The men exchanged the formal greetings of the older generation, and the

Colonel remarked how well the old man looked. : Back in his room, he peered into the mirror over his bed. He hadn't worn too badly when you thought of all the ups and downs there had been. . . And at the end of it all, all the slow years here in this dump. . . Eating, sleeping and living in a space he would have thought too cramped for more than two of his dogs, in the old days... , But it had its good points. He was still independent, and that was a big thing. And he was very handy to the reading room and the park. And there was always the sing-song up the street on a Sunday if things got too quiet; and you didn’t have to read the messages they slipped under your plate. He got down on to his knees on the lino and pulled out a suitcase from uncer the bed. In it was a plain dark serge suit with just the hint of a stripe. They could say what they liked in their flash advertisements nowadays; you couldn’t buy cloth like that any more.

He spread the suit,on the bed and sat down beside it to give a last shine to his shoes. There was just one thing he would have liked. A buttonhole. Just a touch of colour in his lapel to show it was a special occasiom . . The landlady would not be about, as she came to this part of the city only on Rent Day, but the manageress was very proud of the small garden between the front of the old building and the street. He knew it would be no good to ask her, so he would just have to wait till she went shopping. . . * ° * bad "THERE was an almost festive feeling in the tram as it jolted and swung over the rails with its load of late shoppers and city workers. Complete strangers talked animatedly about the new trolley-bus service. What an improvement it-wil] be! they said, and when they got up from their seats and left the tram they said Goodnight in a way which seemed to include everyone. By the time the tram reached the terminus, there were not many passen-

gers left, but on the roadway at the end of the line, a small crowd had gathered. They were mostly youngsters coming home from a dance in the suburbs, and their mood was gay. They Swarmed on to the tram, singing and laughing and cracking’ jokes, One young fellow (he looked like an Islander) had a guitar, and someone else had an accordion, and as soon as they were seated they started to play "Auf Wiedersehn." It was the singing which roused the old man. He looked round at the young, laughing faces and felt confused and tired. Funny how the youngsters nowadays always had to celebrate in a way which was somehow second-hand, he thought. Always looking for something readymade to let off \steam with, Still, it did him good to see them all so cheerful. He began to hum the melody uncertainly to himself, and then he began to doze again. . .

As the tram began to grind back towards the city, the few people still standing on the road began to cheer and someone started to sing Now Is the Hour; the motorman’s footbell clanged loudly several times in answer, and the conductress leaned out of the rear door and called’ Goodbye! The old man half-awoke as he felt the tram gather speed. He began to think of the first time he had driven over the road. . . It had been his first city job, He had

grown tired of the backblocks and had come into town looking for work, and because of his experience as a teamster he had managed to get a job driving a tram. He had to laugh when he thought about it, it sounded so funny nowadays. But it was true, and for four years he had driven his horses out over this very same route to the terminus they had just left. Of course, it was all so different then, Everything so much slower and people more easy-going somehow. It had been a good job at the time, and he had got to know people all along the route-he still knew some of them-and, of course, he liked working with animals, Then one day the Superintendent had told him they were replacing the horses with modern electrical trams, and would he like to train as a motorman? Some of the drivers had stayed on and learned the new way, but, at the time, he hadn’t wanted to. It was something he couldn’t explain now. Not to these young ones anyway. A horse or a dog was never just a thing. People in the city didn’t seem to realise that any more. That was when he went back to the country and stayed, working in the bush and the sawmills and then on the sheep

station and in the shearing gangs, until he felt he had "done his whack." But it was funny how, all the past few years, he had looked forward to today; waited for these big noisy barns of trams to give way in their turn to something more efficient. . . He began to wonder sleepily what it would feel like to ride in one of the big gleaming new trolley-buses which would glide over the route in the morning. . . At one of the stops an inspector got on. He asked the conductress if she was sorry to be going off the run, but she said No, &he wasn’t, as'she would be replacing someone else on a better run in a day or so. The inspector moved. through the tram, clipping the tickets of the young singers. When he got to the old man he was just about to tap him on the shoulder when the boy with the guitar caught his eye. F "Aw, let him sleep," said the Islander with a grin. "I know he got a ticket."

The inspector nodded ‘and walked on. After all, it was the last trip. Later he asked the conductress, "Who’s the old chap up there? Bit under the weather, isn’t he?" "Oh, he’s all right," she said. "We had quite a talk earlier on. He’s been riding on this car all evening. He said he didn’t want to miss the last ride." "It sure must be well past his bedtime," said the Inspector, yawning into his fist. "I would say he was getting on for eightv."

"He’s an old-timer, all right," said the conductress. "He was telling me he drove the last horse-tram they had on this route. That was why he wanted to be here tonight. ‘For old time’s sake,’ he said. He told me he had a few brandies in the afternoon to fortify him for the journey." The conductress yawned and started to gather up her things as the tram began to come into the city proper. She couldn’t help wondering, in spite of being so tired, just what it had been like on one of those funny little horse trams. . .- : . * * x HEN they got to the depot, the guitar and the accordion and the young people had all got off and only one passenger remained. The conductress touched him lightly on the shoulder, and as she did so the red geranium fell askew in his buttonhole, giving him a comical and slightly rakish look. She was beginning to Jose patience when the motorman came to her aid. "You go and clock in, mate," he said. "T’ll look after him." And when he was sure she had gone, he felt in vain for the old man’s pulse, propped him against the seat so that he wouldn’t fall, and went slowly to the office to ring the ambulance. . .