by Ryan Heffernan
IT’S ONE of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I watched my son playing happily with a soccer ball in the backyard. I didn’t want to bring him terrible news but I had no choice: “Sit down son, we have to talk”. “What is it Dad?” I said: “Son, they’re going to take the monorail down.”
Of course it wasn’t really the hardest thing. Bearing bad news could have been a lot worse. But that Sydney monorail meant a lot to Louis and I. The sometimes-packed and sometimes-empty carriages were a place of joy and harmony for us. At a time when joy and harmony could be harder to come by then they are now.
Louis was around 18-months-old when we moved to Redfern in Sydney and began our directionless day-long missions on the bus to Darling Harbour and Chinatown. I’d always keep an eye on the national Child Magazine calendar to see when the fireworks, circus events and other free and cheap things were on. When they were, we packed up a bottomless bag with everything from jumpers and raincoats to lunch, wipes, nappies, whatever.
I’d throw him on my shoulders and we’d go to Yum Cha to eat mango pancakes as a big time treat when we could afford it, and we’d always catch the trams, going back and forth to the end of the line until we were too tired or it was dark and I needed to get Louis home to sleep.
On other days we’d hang out at the once-humble Darling Harbour playground. He’d play with the other kids on a strange plank device with a sheep’s head as a feature. The kids would slide down, their bums bumping and shuddering on the timber all the way down, then they’d go back for more.
But the highlight was always the monorail. Round and round we’d go. Louis would suction himself against the windows taking in the harbour, the cityscape, Chinatown and Paddy’s Markets. He’d never be bored.
Nor would I. Parents sometimes asked how I could handle hanging out on a monorail and doing the same things for so long. But for me it was soothing and somehow safe, at a time when everything always seemed to be hanging by a thread with no give and no room for error. Inside the monorail, the doors shut and the ride started, circling predictably around again and again, humming gently through my body. Louis was contained, his mind-thirst quenched and his spirit alive with a quest and adventure.
And there was always a rainbow of tourists from all over with strange skin and stranger accents. As Louis grew older and more intellectual he’d start asking them his classic brand of direct questions which he still deploys whenever he is interested in someone to this day. Although the line of questioning has evolved.
“What your name?”
“How old you?”
“Where you from?”
“Why you here?”
“I like monorail.”
“You like monorail?”
I’d feed him his packed lunch of sandwiches, bananas and crackers on the monorail or in one of the grassy spots nearby. Back on the monorail I’d hang on to him so he could stand up and take in a better view.
It was on the monorail that I met a man who raised a girl on his own.
Louis had plaster on his leg after breaking his foot falling down a set of stairs.
This man demanded I take a seat so Louis would be safe.
I must have appeared stressed because just before he left to go about his day, he turned, looked me in the eye and said to me: “Don’t worry mate, you’re doing a great job. He’s a happy little kid and that’s all you need to know.”
It’s difficult to explain just how important that simple sentiment was at that time. I’d never thought of myself as having done a good job. No-one else had ever said so. But looking back, Louis and I did a bang up job.
To this day, that monorail time remains ours. That’s where I was able to observe Louis and learn him and he was able to get to know who his dad really was. And we both liked what we saw.
That was lucky. Because we were all we had. The closest thing we had to a support network was 1000km away and his mum lived out on the Northern Beaches, way out of easy reach.
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Yet, to my quiet surprise, Louis took the news of the monorail’s demise pretty well.
“Why would they close the monorail dad?”
“Well some people don’t like it mate. They think it’s old and it doesn’t look very good.”
“I like the look of it Dad. I don’t think they should take it down.”
“Me either mate. But they are going to have a big last day. We’ll be able to ride the monorail on the very last day that it will be there. Would you like to do that and we can go get some of those Emperor’s cream puffs from Chinatown?”
“Woah,” he said.
“That will be cool. Let’s do that.”
And so we did. And so did thousands of other people. There were snaking queues at every station, hundreds of people long. The gallery I’ve included is made up of images from that last day on the monorail.
Just as we were leaving Louis said: “Why would they want to take the monorail down when all these people want the monorail to stay?”
“That’s an excellent question mate. But we may never get a good answer.”
“Okay. Let’s go get cream puffs.”
“You betcha.”
A day out with dad can be unforgettable. Promise.
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