Reminising On The 7:31 From Armadale

Ever had one of those moments when a scent, song or sound suddenly propels you backwards into your past? To a long forgotten memory that is suddenly recrystalised into clear, precise images, sounds, tastes and aromas.

The scent had hints of vanilla and jasmine and although it wafted to me on the train on a particularly wet and cold winters morning, I found myself sitting on the lawn in a caravan park, near the beach at the height of summer in 1969. '69 the year the 747 made its first flight, Nixon took office and of course man landed on the moon (yes they did!) and the fifty first year the mighty Subiaco Lions Football Club went without a Premiership! I was six years old and sporting a very short crew cut that inspired my father to run his hand across it and dub me "Prickle Head", a sobriquet that survives to this day. A name that when Dad uses it I know he is being drawn back also to a place of good memories.

It was my Uncle's, Dad's brother, caravan that we were all seated outside of in a circle. There were ten or eleven of us, if memory serves me correctly, perhaps more. My sister, Joanne and I, Bruno and Graham, the sons of my "Auntie" Clara, the aboriginal boy Alistair she fostered each summer, the three Chadwick boys from up the road, Wayne, Stephen and Ashley and my cousins Peter, Gordon and Bruce. All of us in our swimsuits, no shirts, no hats, no sunscreen. They were the days when we lived dangerously! Most of us were driven to the beach in cars, with no seat belts, rode bikes at home without helmets, threw rocks, ate dirt. It's a wonder I made it to this age!

We had spent the morning swimming and skylarking around and had danced, barefoot across the burning bitumen road to the cool, tree dotted caravan park for lunch. Which I suspect had consisted mainly of chicken and salad sandwiches as they tended to be the staple summer lunch time fare in the Blackburn household over summer. There was nothing better than that, being out and about, riding my bike, playing with my mates or just mucking around with dear old "Duke" (our dog) and coming home to a cold drink (or hot during winter) and something to eat, while Mum listened patiently to the stories of great adventure.

Then my mother, dressed in a white pleated dress with flowers, hibisucs I think, placed a large plate of cut up watermelon in front of us. She lent between Joanne and I to place the plate down and I can remember the smell of her perfume. Clean, clear and fresh, vanilla with a hint of jasmine. A scent that lodged in my olfactory memory bank that was triggered some thirty-nine years later on the 7:31 from Armadale.