Each month we will be featuring a guest writer and this month is Robyn A Hukin from Australia. She has won many writing competitions and had articles published in The School Magazine, Social Alternatives, New England Review, and Footprints.

The train seemed to take no notice, clattering in its heels, coquettish for the railway gangers on the North Fremantle side. The old woman peered out the window and wondered what the men with the cameras were doing. They seemed to be taking pictures of the water. Hadn't they seen rivers like this before? Rivers like the Tay, who took parents and friends and holiday makers to their deaths? She shuddered, and settled back into the seat with relief as the train left the bridge and rattled on past the hotel and into North Fremantle station.

It hissed to a halt, making passengers lurch into one another. A young man pulled the door handle and opened it outwards for her. She smiled at him and shuffled onto the platform. Perhaps she'd just wait a while on the seat over there until her parents and their nightmare had gone back to their box in the ground far away. The train pushed itself lazily from the station and disappeared into the distance. She could hear the whistle of a train coming from Perth. Perhaps she'd wait for it and see if she knew anyone, could walk home with them, exchange a bit of gossip, swap shopping tips, and where you could get the best prices.

The ferryman came running down the track from Fremantle, his eyes wild, hair thick with wind. He jumped to the platform with a single vault and pounded on the Stationmaster's door. The voices merged into one clamour like animals at feeding time. Men came rushing out the door, snatching at flags, hats, pushing their authority forward in importance.

"There's a goods train from Fremantle due any minute. Charlie, change the signal!" The Stationmaster was squinting at the signal box, waving his arm frantically.

The train from Perth eased into the station and lay panting. A few people got off it and headed towards the exit. The station porter hurried first to the driver and then to the guard, waving his hands about as he spoke. The guard's hand flew to his mouth, then blew his whistle until the old woman thought she'd like to take it off him and shove it down his throat.

"All passengers alight please. All alight."

Heads began to emerge, blinking into the light, some obviously half-asleep.

"We're sorry to inform you that the train is unable to proceed to Fremantle due to track damage. Please wait here for further transport to be arranged."

The old woman sighed, picked up her shopping bag and followed the stream of people out of the station, surprised the ticket collector at the gate didn't seem to be bothered checking fares. She heard the wild haired, wild eyed man talking in loud excited tones. "The railway bridge is falling down!"

Her heart stopped and then thudded in her chest again. Falling down? Fallen down? Surely not.

The crowd seemed to be pulling her along, just like the water in the Swan River. She didn't want to go and look, her house was two streets back from the bridge, but the stream of people closed around her dragging her from her choice.

They stopped, breathe indrawn, some with hands held to their mouths. Below them the water roared like a giant waterfall, snatching with feathery fingers at the embankment. Large splashes rose above the torrent as timber sleepers fell into it like a kid's matchstick house. The railway tracks in front of them clung to each sleeper, naked in the air.

The old woman rattled to her knees and bent her head like an old dog. "Come pray with me," she looked up and sought out the eyes of someone else who might know. No-one looked at her, their eyes fastened on the water tugging more and more of the embankment away.

The ferryman pulled gently at her elbow. "Come there, away off with you, the police want to clear us back a bit," the man seemed to have grown two feet taller with new found importance. He held the old woman's arm gingerly, as though it might drop off in his hand.

Some of the train passengers were clinging to one another at the edge of the embankment, gawping. Only the old woman shivered, remembering her Mama and Papa and how the rails on the bridge to Dundee had not swung like this. A nice neat break, with no return. She stared at the tracks, suspended like a child's monkey bars. Maybe it hadn't been her fault after all, or surely God would not have missed the second chance.

"The good Lord was looking after the folk on that last train," said the ferryman.

The old woman shut her eyes, hands clasped over her chest.

"Aye laddie, aye."

The author can be reached at here

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