Route 6: Nova Weetman
Image by Connor O’Brien
Route 6: Love on the number 6 by Nova Weetman
He lives in St Kilda. South side of the river.
She lives in Brunswick. North side of the river.
Both have sworn allegiance to their own side. Sold their cars because they believed they'd never have to cross the mighty Yarra. When they met out of town at a festival, they argued playfully over which side was better. Now the only way they can see each other is by tram. About 40 minutes on a good day will take him to her, or her to him. Plenty of time to see things differently, and to fall in love.
The optimum place to listen to it is on the route 6 tram, starting at stop 126, Stewart St and Lygon St, and ending at stop 46, Fraser St and High St, but it can be listened to on any tram at any time.
Credits
Written and read by Nova Weetman
Commissioned by David Ryding
Edited by Elizabeth Flux
Recorded at the State Library of Victoria
Produced by Beth Atkinson-Quinton
With music by Steve Hearne
Tramlines is a podcast created by Broadwave in partnership with the Melbourne UNESCO City of Literature Office.
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Love on the number 6 - Route 6 by Nova Weetman
[SFX A tram travels towards the listener. Rumbles along the tracks. People board.]
Intro (various voices): Tramlines, Tramlines, Tramlines (laughs), Tramlines, Tramlines, Tramlines, um T-R-A-M-L-I-N-E-S, Tramlines.
[SFX Tram doors open]
Beth Atkinson-Quinton VO: This is Tramlines: part audio book, part spoken word and part locative literature. These are stories written to be listened to on a tram.
[SFX Tram dings and journeys on. Theme music fades out. Episode theme opens]
Beth Atkinson-Quinton VO: Today’s journey is a new fiction work by Nova Weetman: Love on the number 6. The optimum place to listen to it is on the route 6 tram, starting at stop 126, Stewart St and Lygon St, and ending at stop 46, Fraser St and High St, but it can be listened to on any tram at any time.
Nova Weetman VO:
Stop 126 Stewart St and Lygon St
For once, the tram is on time. I scamper up the middle set of stairs, and scan left, then right. Checking, always checking for the safest place to sit. I’ve chosen badly before. Selected a companion I thought looked harmless only to be harassed until I moved.
But this morning the tram is half empty. There’s nothing worse than being wedged in tight with your face tucked under someone’s armpit. It makes me feel small.
Today my favourite seat has been left for me. It’s half way down the tram, facing forward and leaning against the window. As my flatmate Jenna says, I am a creature of habit. Same breakfast cereal every morning, same blue and white striped coffee cup, and the same scuffed Doc Marten boots that need repairing.
Usually even the same boyfriend type. Scruffy long hair, guitarist or drummer, with soft hands and faded band t-shirts.
My stomach growls angrily and I nibble on the unbruised side of the apple. I can’t face food this morning. I’m too jittery. It’s like I’m going for a job interview, and my body is getting ready to run. I reach for my phone like it’s my security blanket and then I stop, deciding to leave it tucked away in my bag. Instead I lean my cheek against the cool glass and watch the world.
I see a guy I serve sometimes in the bakery. He always has his kid with him – a wild little thing with dark hair and staring eyes. For months now I’ve tried to soften up the kid, offering all sorts of free samples. From fruit bun to cheese scroll, but it never works. My offers are always refused.
Today his kid is trailing after him, wearing gumboots that seem too big for his feet. He trips and tumbles along, stopping to pick up something from the footpath. Then the tram shunts on and I can’t see them anymore.
This is my tram. My number 6. I take it to uni, to the city, to my friends.
But not to him. I’ve never caught it that far before. My skin tingles at the thought of seeing him. Of seeing Lucas.
Stop 125 Blyth St and Lygon St
The tram grinds to a stop so an elderly couple can clamber on. They look a little like our Italian neighbours who love to share their homegrown silverbeet with us.
The man helps the woman up the stairs. She’s bent so low that I can’t see her face, just a circle of silvery grey hair crowning her head. I’m ready to stand for them in case they need my seat, but they head for the empty double one nearer the front.
The woman settles first and the man sits close. He pats her on the arm. She nods her head. No words are spoken, but they are clearly together. A package deal.
As I watch them scrunched close into their chair, their limbs lightly touching, I’m taking it as a sign that catching this tram is the right thing. Maybe it means that Lucas will be my package deal.
Stop 124 Victoria St and Lygon St
When I first met him in the pub at the end of my street, he admitted that he’d never ventured this far north before. I joked about all the dangers of crossing the river. Told him there’d been a body dumped last year in the rubbish bins out back. He grinned and his hair flopped down over his face and I couldn’t resist pushing it out of his eyes. My housemate Jenna dragged me to the toilets to hiss that he was “all wrong” for me. He looked corporate, she said. I kissed him anyway.
Now I dig around in my bag for my lip balm. It’s a little melted so I dab it carefully onto my mouth, remembering that kiss.
Stop 123 Albert St and Lygon St
Still rubbing my lips together, I notice a skateboarder whooshing along the street. He’s fast. His pants hang low and I wonder if there’s any risk of them sliding down and tripping him up.
We pull away, chugging along my favourite stretch of road. Past the big white building on the right where we used to go for cheap pub meals. Where we once saw pop singer Pink eating a vegan burger when she was touring. Now it’s apartments. No more live music. All just quiet and dull. I glare at a man coming out of the building, phone to his ear. I wish it hadn’t changed. I would have taken Lucas there.
Stop 122 Glenlyon Road and Lygon St
A car horn toots loudly and I look up, outside, searching for the driver. He’s red-faced and swearing at a cyclist. The cyclist gives the driver the finger and rides off fast. I smile. It could be one of my friends.
My phone beeps and it takes ages to find it at the bottom of Mum’s hand-me-down leather bag. The lining is ripped and my hand always goes into the wrong compartment. It’s just Sarah, my other flatmate. She wants to know if I’m “there yet?” Sarah liked him even less than Jenna did. Warned me about dating outside my rank. I told her she was a snob. She said he was slick in his fancy suit with his styled hair.
I try and think of something sarcastic to say, but I have nothing. So I toss my phone back into my bag and look back out the window.
Stop 121 Weston St and Lygon St
It’s only been about five minutes since I boarded the tram, but it feels like ages. My left leg is twitching. It does that sometimes when I’m anxious or nervous or impatient. Jenna can always tell when I’m not enjoying something by the twitch. I wish the tram would hurry, but it’s stuck behind cars, slowly crawling down the road. It’s going to take hours to reach him at this rate.
As we pass a narrow lane I try and read the fresh graffiti but the words look strange from this angle. From here it’s a mess of colour and lines, reminding me of the bubble writing I used to practise on my maths book when I was bored in class. It makes me wonder about who has sprayed the walls, and when. Do they sneak into suburbs wearing balaclavas and dark clothes like jewel thieves? Their handiwork will probably be painted over by the time I return.
Stop 120 Brunswick Road and Lygon St
The old man stands up to press the button for the tram to stop just as a car cuts in front of us. The tram jolts and screeches and I watch the old man teeter, until I hear my Mum’s voice telling me to help. And I’m up, my hand held out in his direction, but my head not quite committing me to move towards him, as the man leans forward for an impossible second before gravity yanks him back into his chair. And I plonk down again, feeling a little like I failed.
We pass my favourite café where the lighting is never bright and the music spins from a record playing South American jazz. Jenna thinks I only go there because the barista is cute, but really I go there because they know my coffee order and there is something reassuring about that. It makes me feel like I belong.
Stop 119 Park St and Lygon St
As the tram stops to let a bunch of people on, I spy a girl I used to see around uni. She’s wearing a floral dress with little capped sleeves that shows off her arms. She looks edgy and cool. Perhaps I should have worn a dress too. I could have borrowed Jenna’s blue one with the white flowers. Instead I’m wearing the clothes I usually mooch around the house in. The Ramones t-shirt I sometimes wear to bed, and my oldest, most faded jeans. Sarah joked that I was dressing to prevent date disappointment. I told her I was dressing to be who I am, but maybe she was right. Maybe I dressed like this so I could pretend it was my clothes he didn’t like if the date went sideways.
I try and sniff my right armpit to see how I smell. It’s not great but it’s not too awful. Hopefully he won’t notice. I’ll have to keep my arms down.
Stop 118 Pigdon St and Lygon St
From the window I watch the man in the florist pick the heads off some dying gerberas on display and puff them so they look saleable.
Then the tram stops and a couple of little kids get on, one holding a woman’s hand and the other with folded arms to avoid being forced to touch anyone. The woman tries to tap their MyKis for them, but the kid who won’t hold hands yanks the card away and tries to tap on. Then the other kid joins in and they start snatching and squawking at each other. The woman looks around to see who is watching and I pretend to be staring at the floor.
Then I remember I haven’t tapped on. I slide my MyKi out of my purse, hoping it has money on it. It does, just enough to get across town, but definitely not enough to get back, unless I leave as soon as I arrive. Is it a sign that I shouldn’t be going?
Stop 117 Richardson St and Lygon St
I take my phone out wishing he’d text. Wishing he’d make contact. But there’s just my screensaver staring at me. It’s my Mum’s dog Mister drooling at the camera like it wants to eat it. Mister never remembers me when I visit. He has the memory of a goldfish. One circle of chasing his tail and he forgets the world.
The tram doesn’t stop. It slides on through, ringing its bell as someone does a speedy U-turn right in front.
Stop 116 Fenwick St and Lygon St
My legs are jiggling like they don’t belong to me, like they have their own rhythm. It’s only been twelve minutes but it feels like hours since I climbed aboard. I should be at work today. I called in sick so I could travel across town to see him. Jenna said I was mad ditching a shift. She reminded me about rent and the gas bill, but I shrugged like it was nothing and grabbed the last apple in the bowl. Maybe she was right. There’s only $17 in my account and that won’t be enough for much.
A bubble of yelling snaps me out of my thoughts. I see an arm pull back and a punch land on the smaller of the two kids. Then the other kid starts kicking. His short legs moving like pistons. The woman leans down so I can’t see her face behind the edge of the seat and says words too quiet to hear. But the fight stops. And the tram trundles on.
Stop 115 Melbourne Cemetery
I realise we’re passing the cemetery. I suck in air and try to hold it because I’m not wearing anything red. Someone told me once about the spirits of the dead. That if you pass a cemetery and you aren’t wearing red, you must hold your breath until you reach the other side, or the spirits will rush inside you. I catch a glimpse of my cheeks puffed up in the reflection and let go of my breath. It’s just a silly game. And also it hurts my lungs.
Lucas doesn’t smoke. I don’t either. Not really. Just sometimes when I’m out. He lectured me about it that night, when Jenna stuck a rollie in my mouth. I joked about not really inhaling, but he didn’t laugh. So I kissed him to stop him talking.
I hold up the front of my t-shirt. It doesn’t smell like cigarettes. Not really.
Stop 114 Princes St and Lygon St
My phone is still sadly quiet. I wonder why he hasn’t messaged. Deciding to be more like Sarah who is so front-footed on her approach, I snap a photo of the stop number out the window. 114. And I text it to him without any words before I can change my mind.
And I wait for the three little dots that suggest he’s replying.
And I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Stop 113 Lytton St and Lygon St
There’s still no reply. Maybe he’s cleaning up his house for me. When he told me the address of course I looked on Google maps. Just a peek. It’s red brick and impressive with an actual garden out the front with actual plants growing. Not like our front yard with overgrown grass and empty stubbies from the last party that nobody has bothered picking up. I haven’t told him my address yet.
I’m still staring at my silent phone when the tram stops outside the housing commission flats and two women get on, each wearing colourful hijabs curled around their heads. They bring the world up the stairs and into the tram with them. Noisy and laughing, the air seems to change. I stare, wishing I were with a friend. Someone who makes me laugh, instead of travelling alone for over an hour.
Stop 112 Lygon St and Elgin St
The tram sweeps around the corner; bending past the late-night fluoro-bright pizza place selling soggy slices that we eat sometimes after gigs, and into the long stretch of Carlton, where I once spent all my time. He still hasn’t texted. So I send another. Explaining that 114 is a stop number because maybe he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t catch public transport. He has a car. None of my friends have cars. We have bikes that we’ve rescued from hard rubbish, and well-used MyKi cards. I don’t even have my licence. I told him that, when we met, and he laughed, thinking at first that I was joking.
Stop 1 Melbourne University
We stop at my sometimes uni. I’m taking a break this semester. Or maybe I’ll never go back. Two years in and I realised that I wasn’t interested in anything I was learning. I haven’t told Lucas that. I told him I was studying bio-medicine and he seemed impressed. I wonder how he would have reacted if I’d told him I work in a bakery at the end of my street.
Bread is a little like science. It relies on precision and patience. And it smells much better than the lab. I start early most days, before five. I dress in the dark, pulling on the same clothes as the day before, and sneaking down the side so my flatmates don’t wake.
The baker starts at three. She doesn’t talk much in the mornings but she is teaching me things. How long to prove the baguettes. How to plait the brioche. How to score the loaves with a razor blade.
And I can eat at work. I was always hungry at uni.
Stop 3 Lincoln Square
I haven’t told him I work in a bakery.
I haven’t told him I wear my clothes to bed.
I haven’t told him I eat beans on toast most nights.
Or that we use Jenna’s dad’s Netflix login because we can’t afford our own.
Or that the lady at the op shop knows my name.
Or that I have never even visited the suburb where he lives.
Maybe he knows all my truths. Maybe that’s why he isn’t texting me back. He’s changed his mind and he hasn’t worked out how to tell me.
I stare at my phone, until someone swears a mouthful of words, and charges the air.
Stop 4 Queensberry St and Swanston St
The swearing stops as the man passes out across four priority seats. While he sleeps I watch him, taking in the cardigan pulled tight with a safety pin for buttons. The matted hair, dreaded in places like Jenna’s. And the boots worn at the toes like mine.
My phone beeps. I nearly toss it into the air in shock. There’s just one word. Hurry.
Stop 7 RMIT University
I’m smiling as the tram stops outside RMIT. I’m smiling at my reflection in the window, smeared by years of grime.
He wants me to hurry.
Hurry.
Hurry.
If I say it over and over then the word stretches and pulls in my mouth. If I whisper it sounds pleasing.
I keep smiling.
Stop 8 Melbourne Central Station
We stop in the heart of the city. The tram idles, as people alight and climb aboard. The tram fills, bodies press tight. I wriggle closer into my window seat, as a young guy sits down next to me, his large bag pressing against my knees. He smiles and tries to rearrange the bag so that it doesn’t squash me, but I tell him “it’s okay”. My voice sounds strange. Like I’d forgotten what it would be like when I spoke words aloud and not just in my head.
The young guy smiles again and I see his teeth. He has a nice smile. Scruffy hair. Doc Martens like mine. I try to remember what Lucas’s smile looks like, but I can’t.
Stop 10 Bourke St Mall
We haven’t moved for a minute. The tram is stuck behind a long line of trams.
Something is going on up ahead. A woman with a perfect fringe jabs the button and climbs off. Others follow. The young man with the smile looks across at me, but I’m watching outside. I see his face in the reflection. He’s not smiling now. He shrugs like he knows I’m watching and stands up to leave. Wait, I want to say. Don’t go. I like feeling your leg press against mine.
Outside the world is busy. People crisscross roads, hurrying in front of cars, carrying bags of shopping. A man who looks like my ex stands on the side of the road. I haven’t seen him in a year. I’ve only just stopped thinking about him, hoping that this new thing will be a thing. I lean down and blow onto my hand, sniffing the air, worried that maybe I smell like last night’s dinner. Beans on toast.
Stop 11 Collins St and Swanston St
My legs are fidgeting again. I try and tuck my hands under them to keep everything still, but I need to move. The tram has nudged forward a little but it is now sitting stopped at the mall. From here I can see my Mum’s favourite chocolate shop. It was our thing when I was a kid. She’d take me in and let me choose. And the shop assistant would always offer a sample.
I haven’t shopped with Mum for a long time now. She’s back in the country and never comes up. She always liked the dark plain circles, and would laugh at my face if I tried one, the bitter chocolate making my tongue curl and my eyes screw shut. She’d say I’d like it when I was older. But I don’t.
I wonder what she’d make of Lucas in his slick suits with his real job.
I wonder if he likes dark plain circles too, or jelly-filled milk chocolate like I do.
Stop 13 Flinders St Station
We’re finally through the city. Stopping outside Flinders Street Station on the outer southern edge. Jenna told me to catch the train in. But I’ve never liked trains. Trams are gentle and slow. And usually they make me calm. Usually.
Lucas asked if I wanted him to come and pick me up in his second-hand Volvo. I told him no. I told him I love catching trams. I told him I’m doing my bit for the environment. He laughed again. And now I wish I’d said yes.
Stop 14 Arts Precinct
Crossing the river I always nod hello at the mighty Yarra. Dirty and grey looking today, it’s still a pulse. This stretch of Melbourne is not one I know well. We don’t come this far very often. Southside. Towards the parks and the greenery. The city is my edge. This all feels like it belongs to someone else.
There’s a queue of people outside the gallery. Waiting for the doors to open so they can rush forward and look at art. The only art I see is on the buildings near my house. Graffiti. Stencilling. Street art.
I’m going to take Lucas to the gallery. Queue outside in my borrowed dress and stare at walls covered in paintings I’ve never seen. Then we can cross the road and lie on the grass, hands touching, staring up into the blue cloudless sky.
Stop 17 Grant St – Police Memorial
Sarah’s boyfriend is at uni with her. He’s studying environmental science. He’s always protesting. Sometimes he drags us with him. Buys cheap wine and we stay up making banners with borrowed slogans. He looks like Sarah. All dreamy and determined. They share t-shirts and probably underpants.
They met at a rally. They were both arrested. It was apparently romantic.
He stays over sometimes. We drink too much Aldi wine in glasses that don’t match and he tells us facts about the world. Tipping points, melting icecaps, peak oil. There are numbers and graphs and anger. I like him. But his words make me lie awake for hours, my feet trapped in blankets, turning left to sleep and then right, and then surrendering into one of Mum’s crime books.
It scares me sometimes. Everything he knows. Everything I don’t want to.
Stop 19 Shrine of Remembrance
The tram slows but doesn’t stop. There is construction everywhere. I watch workers in hard hats working hard. Their bright glowing vests a pop of colour against the grey.
Here I remember a silly night in the park with friends. I have been this far south after all. It was following a party maybe or a gig. We were walking home. We came here. To the hill with the eternal flame. We rolled down grassy slides, covering ourselves in smears of green that would never come off. We smoked too many cigarettes and laughed too loud and I don’t remember getting home.
Stop 20 Park St and St Kilda Rd
Looking down I spy a mark on the front of my favourite t-shirt. It’s probably toothpaste, so I lick my finger and rub but instead of disappearing, it smears and spreads and looks even worse. I wonder if he’ll notice. Of course he will.
He’s clean and neat and not like me at all. He probably doesn’t even wear jeans. Maybe he wears chinos. That’s what Jenna said. She was laughing as she said it. Her girlfriend Renna joined in.
I wanted to point out that I didn’t mock her when she started dating a girl with a name that rhymed with hers.
I wanted to point out that nobody called Jenna should date a Renna, but I didn’t. Because maybe they’re right. Maybe he does wear chinos.
I text him and tell him I’m on my way. If he texts back in the next two minutes then it doesn’t matter if he wears chinos or jeans.
Stop 22 Toorak Road and St Kilda Road
Minute one is almost gone. I stare at my phone, willing it to beep. It doesn’t. We stop and a neat looking woman clips down the aisle of the tram, her heels high. She doesn’t see me. She makes me feel like a child. I’ve never graduated to anything higher than platform docs.
I watch her decide where to sit. She takes a pair of seats and rearranges her bag in the spare. I wish the sweary man would wake up and swear. At her.
But then I stop that thought. It’s not her fault he hasn’t texted back and it’s already been two minutes. It’s not her fault that she isn’t wearing a t-shirt covered in toothpaste. I bet she smells like perfume and make-up, not garlic and sleep.
It’s not her fault she’s not me.
Stop 23 Arthur St and St Kilda Road
We glide into another stop like we are pausing for the important people to swing on and nod their thanks.
More business types on phones, loudly discussing deals that I don’t understand.
I tug on my t-shirt, wishing I’d planned my day and not just dressed in the dark, in a hurry, wanting to be there already.
The day I postponed uni, I hadn’t known that was the plan when I rode in through the cemetery because my MyKi card was minus two dollars. Halfway through my tute, when I stared out the window and watched a pigeon peck its way through a forgotten bread roll, I decided to leave.
I nodded my apology, grabbed my things and walked out of the class and out of the building and out of the gate and out of the suburb. Until I’d walked so far in the wrong direction that it took me half an hour to walk back for my bike.
I wish I wasn’t so hasty.
The tram trundles along under the plane trees that always make me sneeze. I stand and pull the window shut, just in case. I don’t want to turn up with red, streaming eyes.
It’s been five minutes. And still no text. Maybe I should go home.
Stop 24 Leopold St and St Kilda Road
I’m still on the tram. I vowed I’d wait two minutes for a reply and if it didn’t come then I’d climb off. But I haven’t. I’m still swinging my legs back and forth and chewing the one nail on my left hand that I allow myself to chew.
Outside, blocks of high-rise apartments are springing up around me. I wonder what it would feel like living way up high, watching over the streets. Living alone in a small one-room apartment without my flatmates and their friends and partners and beer-drinking visitors. I wonder if I’d like it or if I’d start talking to myself like I do sometimes in the bakery in the early hours when the baker is busy folding and kneading and mixing.
Jenna likes telling me I should return to uni. She’s six years into an undergraduate degree and probably won’t ever leave. She says I shouldn’t be satisfied working in the bakery, but she says this as she chews the end of the fruit bun I saved from the bin, or polishes off three bagels.
Stop 25 Commercial Road and St Kilda Road
Nine minutes and Lucas still hasn’t responded. It’s like I’ve been glued into place and can’t move, can’t leave, even though perhaps I should. The apartment blocks are giving way to office blocks and I cannot imagine what it would be like working in one, wearing nice clothes without stains on them, and bringing my lunch with me in connecting stainless steel boxes.
I like dressing for work at the bakery. I like the faint marks of flour that settle on my jeans over the eight hours I’m there. I like patting my legs when I leave and watching the white dust float off me. I like my job.
Lucas likes his too. He goes in early most days. Never calls in sick. But today he’s working from home. Told me he’d start as early as a baker, so he could finish around noon. Just in time for me.
Stop 26 Moubray St and St Kilda Road
The tram slows. We’re alongside Wesley College. From here I can see a sea of purple students out in the grounds. It’s such an odd choice for a uniform colour, but there’s something joyful about it. Especially as they cluster together on the green sports ovals, like bunches of bright purple irises.
My school was a big old high school on the outskirts. We wore brown and white check summer dresses and a brown and white block colour winter uniform with a brown blazer. I always wondered if we were made slightly miserable by all that brown. It can’t be good for you.
I wonder where Lucas went to school. It’s 12 minutes since I messaged him.
Stop 27 High St and St Kilda Road
Trying not to remember that I’m waiting for my phone to beep, I stare out the window, watching Wesley give way to the Australian College of the Deaf. The buildings are grand, old blue stone, and there is so much space. There’s no space in Brunswick. Space has been eaten. It’s like a giant game of Tetris. Building on building on building. In our backyard we are surrounded on all sides by a new development that stretches high into the air, blocking out sun and light and casting forever shadows. Our vegie garden has dried up, and now we can only grow things in pots because Sarah’s boyfriend moves them around the yard, chasing the tiny slices of sun that sneak in through the edges of concrete and steel.
Here everything can breathe. Except me.
Stop 28 Punt Road and High St
The lights change and we screech to a stop where Wesley College is still going alongside me. How big is this school? It reaches around corners and spreads like a whole suburb.
The sight of it makes me panic now. All that purple. All that space. When we met, I didn’t ask Lucas what school he went to. We talked about pickles and our favourite bands, and I liked that our conversation was different.
I don’t belong here. I look wrong.
Stop 29 Perth St and High St to Stop 31 Chapel St and High St
I close my eyes, trying to remember his face. What if he looks different in daylight? What if he doesn’t like me anymore? We whiz past a stop and the sweary man rolls over and falls off the edge of his bed of chairs. He lands hard on the ground, swears and resettles.
We whiz past another stop. Around me everything is changing. I haven’t been here for years. Maybe once with my dad a long time back when we met his new girlfriend in a café. She tried to kiss me on the cheek. I rolled my teenage eyes and glared. My dad elbowed me to try and jolly me along. I just imagined Mum and her sadness.
The tram stops at Chapel Street. A guy about my age gets on. He has his skateboard with him and he tucks it up under his arm. He’s wearing low-hung jeans and a singlet. He has a black-ink tattoo on one shoulder and his skin is brown and warm looking. He sees me see him and doesn’t look away. He sits further down the tram but I’m still in his line of sight. It’s one of those moments where you wonder.
What if I’m supposed to be with him instead?
Stop 32 Hornby St and High St
Aware that the guy is still watching, I try and look away, look uninterested. I watch a lady push her trolley up to the stairs of the tram and someone jump down to help her manoeuvre it up and on.
My phone beeps. I snatch it up, so fast that I drop it and it lands facedown on the floor. I grab at it, noticing how dirty the ground is.
Lucas has sent me a message. A photo of a cat, curled in a window seat. It’s grey and sleek looking. I didn’t know he had a cat. I’m assuming it’s his. The photo makes me smile. I love cats. Jenna won’t let me have one in the house. Says they are environmental disasters, nature killers, predators that purr.
But Lucas has a cat.
Then I remember Jenna saying that I know nothing about this guy and how could I trust him. Maybe it’s not even his cat. Maybe it’s a photo from the internet. My smile has gone. I shake away the thought and drop my phone in my bag. When I look up at the guy down the tram, he’s looking down at his feet.
Stop 33 The Avenue and High St
The tram stops and the woman with the trolley stands, ready to disembark. The same man helps her back down the stairs, carrying her trolley, nodding her goodbye. I wonder if they know each other, or if he’s just that person. That one passenger who always helps.
In her place, a woman gets on. She has a baby strapped to her chest. All I can see are fat little legs dangling down and the very top slice of a head. I never think about having children. Jenna does. But Sarah rants about it being irresponsible because of the state of the world, and Jenna gets upset and leaves. The three of us struggle to discuss anything real without fighting.
I don’t think I want children. Not because of climate change or financial reasons. I’d just rather have a cat. I could carry that around with me, strapped to my chest.
What if Lucas wants children? Maybe I should text him and ask; but I stop myself. That would be a strange question after two kisses and some late night texting.
Instead I look for graffiti on buildings.
Stop 34 Lewisham Road and High St
As we chug up High Street, the houses grow fancier and the shops seem neater and more ordered than those on the North side. I stare out the window at clothing brands I’ve never heard of. Perhaps Lucas buys his suits along here, in those fancy black bags that zip along the top and hang closed and private in his wardrobe.
I haven’t seen an op shop for minutes. There are five under five blocks away from my house. We often do a sweep of them all on a Friday, coming home with bags straining full of other people’s treasures.
The guy stands and stretches up his arm to tug on the cord for the tram to stop. I see a seam of smooth skin as his singlet rides up. He sees me see him and smiles a one-ended smile.
As the tram stops, he moves towards the door and then I can’t see him anymore. He’s gone. Until I spy him skating away down the road, in the other direction. From me.
Stop 35 Williams Road and High St
We speed through the next stop, blocking a couple of fancy cars that are inching up alongside us and edging to overtake. I stare down through their windows at drivers, and wonder what Lucus wi’ll think of me, in the daytime.
Stop 36 Chatsworth Road and High St
I check my phone. I check emails. Nothing new. I need to go to the toilet because I’ve been on this tram for almost an hour. I could get off and use a café bathroom but then I’ll have to buy something and that’s not okay. I can’t spend an hour’s wage on food. I cross my legs instead, remembering Dad’s frustration if I ever needed to go to the toilet when we’d started on a trip in the car. Sometimes he pulled into a service station and made me run in and ask if I could borrow the key. Sometimes he made me hold on.
Sometimes I text him straight back when he messages. And sometimes I make him hold on, for days, or weeks, until I finally send back a single word - OK. Jenna tried to make something of that. Using her first-year psych subject to tell me I had problems with my Dad. Maybe I should have done a psych degree too. I could have told her that years ago.
Stop 37 Airlie Ave and High St to Stop 40 Armadale Station
Thoughts slam into my head as the tram speeds along High Street. What if he doesn’t like me anymore? What if I don’t like him anymore? What is worse? Him not liking me, or me not liking him?
What if this tram ride never ends?
What if I have to catch it home again?
What if…
Stop 41 Kooyong Road and High St
The tram stops. A man wearing a suit climbs aboard. He’s talking loudly on the phone and a couple of people glare as he passes them. He doesn’t seem to notice or if he does, he doesn’t care. He keeps talking, about someone at work who is letting down the team.
He settles near me. I watch him. He doesn’t watch me. He’s so caught up that he doesn’t see anyone.
But his voice is loud and it must wake the sweary man, because the sweary man sits up, rubbing his eyes like he’s a little kid having bad dreams. He swears, a stream of words that Mum would shudder at. The man on the phone pulls a face that says the sweary man has no right to interrupt his phone call. But the sweary man pulls himself up from the floor and stands. The man on the phone also stands, the phone still pressed to his ear.
They look at each other.
The sweary man steps towards the man on the phone. The man on the phone hits the button on the tram and backs further down past where I sit. As the tram stops, the man on the phone dashes for the door, yelling something angry as he leaves. I smile and the sweary man sees me. He doesn’t smile but he does sit down.
Stop 42 Huntingtower Road and High St
There’s a strange bang and the tram jolts to a halt, right in the middle of the intersection. Cars toot and the driver makes an announcement but it’s too hard to hear. Nobody else gets off, so I stay where I am.
I look outside. People are staring at the tram. Someone is yelling. Like they are blaming me. I look down at my jeans with the faded knees.
And my boots with the scuffed toes.
And feel like a stranger.
I sit for another minute. And another.
Then I start wondering if this is the universe’s way of telling me it’s all a big mistake. I’m not supposed to be here. My friends were right.
Standing up, I grab my bag and hurry to the door. My finger hovers on the button. I’m about to press it. I say a silent goodbye to sweary man, the lady with the baby, and the woman with the heels.
Then my phone beeps. I only just hear it through the sounds of outside that are seeping in and filling the tram.
Button or phone. Phone or button. I have to take my hand away to reach into my bag.
And it’s him. There are no words just a blurry quick-snapped photo of a block of Cadbury Turkish Delight that I must have told him I like. It’s my favourite. The one I nibble on sometimes after work, biting the edge and sucking out the gooey pink jelly. He remembered.
Then the tram lurches and takes off through the intersection. And I’m still here. On my way to him.
Stop 43 Mercer Road and High St
Grinning to the world, I hurry back to my seat.
I jiggle my legs, wishing the tram would hurry.
He has chocolate.
He has a cat.
He has a kissable mouth.
Stop 44 Glenferrie Road and High St
I’m still grinning when we slide into the next stop. The town hall to the left is huge and impressive with two bronze statues at the front. From here they look like mythological creatures, arms spread, they face off with each other. I can’t see the ground but I can see the horns on the head of one and what looks like a spear. It’s not what I’d expect to find around here. It looks combative. Like maybe it’s north fighting south for victory. Maybe south is the gentler statue and north is the one with the horns. Maybe they will go into battle, tearing each other apart and vowing to never cross the other again. Or maybe, just maybe, Lucas and I will stop all that.
Lucas.
Not long now.
I fluff my hair with my fingers because I don’t have a brush. It’s tangled at the back where it always is. I try and pull free the knots, yanking at strands but making even more of a mess. I fix my fringe, hoping that Jenna’s trim last night really did straighten up the bits that I hacked at a week ago. I check my face in the reflection. And I watch the world change outside the window, as we power along to my stop.
Stop 45 De La Salle College
As the doors open for a boy in a school uniform to climb aboard, there’s a rush of air from outside.
The air is warmer. It smells different.
There are birds chirping.
The tram is quiet. Even the sweary man has nodded off again, head bowed as if in prayer.
I’m in the deep south of the Yarra and so far, I’m okay.
As I fix up my lipstick in the window mirror I notice another posh school on the right. I lean back trying to see if I’ve managed to draw the colour on my lips and not outside the line like Mum does sometimes.
I rub my lips together, imagining the colour transferring to Lucas’s mouth as I kiss him hello.
Stop 46 Fraser St and High St
I count down to stop 46. It’s like we’re rolling in slow motion. We nudge along, bit by bit down past the park. I’m holding my breath. I’m clutching my hands.
Then the tram glides into the next stop.
After an hour and three minutes we’re here. Finally.
I leap up so quickly I get dizzy. I jab at the button on the side and smooth down my clothes, brushing my hair with my fingers one last time. I pout my lips, and decide that the next time he offers to pick me up in a car, I’ll say yes. But for now, I’m here.
Beth Atkinson-Quinton VO: Tramlines is an initiative of the Melbourne UNESCO City Of Literature Office with the podcast created by Broadwave.
Love on the number 6 was written and read by Nova Weetman, commissioned by David Ryding, edited by Elizabeth Flux, recorded at the State Library of Victoria, produced by Beth Atkinson-Quinton, with music by Steve Hearne.