Strangers don’t like sitting facing each other on trains. Apparently. So the railways manufactured the movable backrest which can be swung one way, forward or backward, to change the direction of the seat. This way, if you do happen to be close friends or family and wish to sit facing, you may do so.

Mostly, though, the seats are all aligned with the ‘stranger’ in mind. Sydneysiders know this. Many visitors, however, do not. They just jump into a train and take a seat. Doesn’t matter if it’s facing north or south.

The young British lady on the train to the Blue Mountains has done exactly this. She is seated backward to the direction of travel. She is looking at the unfolding scenery a few seconds after all the forward-facing travellers have seen it. It doesn’t appear to worry her. At Strathfield, still a good 100 kilometres away, an older Chinese lady boards the train. She has the seat facing the British girl.

“Would you like to turn your seat around?” she asks, in halting English.

The British girl is not sure what she’s being asked.

“No I don’t mind sitting like this,” she replies.

She probably thinks that’s the polite answer she ought to give. It may not seem proper to turn your back on another traveller.

She gives the Chinese lady a friendly smile. She gets a watery one in return. The older woman would probably like to not be seated face to face.

Anyway, for about 20 kilometres they travel this way. Then a window seat falls vacant ahead, facing forward. The Chinese lady hurries to occupy it.

Another elderly man enters. The only seat vacant is the one facing the British girl. He takes it, placing his rustling plastic bags beside him.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he asks, tentatively. “Not at all,” replies the British woman.

Breaking the ice

Having thus cracked the ice, the man then proceeds to break it thoroughly. His is a strange accent and must sound even stranger to the British ear. Every query — and the man has loads of questions he wants answered — has to be repeated two or three times.

First he offers to share his lunch — sandwiches and a banana. Please, please, he entreats. She, embarrassedly, says she is not hungry at all. Beautiful place, England, he says when he learns where she is from.

“No, I haven’t been there myself. But I have a brother in Sweden.”

No, she has not been to Sweden. Is this her first trip to Australia? Does she like the country? How much of it has she seen? Is she travelling alone? Is she meeting up with friends in the mountains? Why not stay a day longer, come over to his place, visit him and his family? His wife is an excellent cook. His two children are very friendly.

“Do you have any children?”

The lady quickly reaches for and clamps on very dark shades. There’s no more telling what her eyes look like. “Are you married?” he enquires further, a question that, back in time, would have seemed strangely out of sequence. It is clear the man wishes to be friendly and nothing more. It is also clear that the more he talks the more the lady is tensing up. Her replies have gone from monosyllabic to mere shakes or nods of the head.

Ultimately a kind of torpor descends on the man. Two hours of gentle rocking in the train are having their effect. He still has another two hours to travel. His head begins to nod and his eyes swim upward in search of sleep.

She, on the other hand, is nearing Katoomba, the highest station in the mountains where she plans to detrain. When the train finally arrives, she rises stealthily so as not to disturb the sleeping form, hastens towards the doorway and — to prove that relief can be liberating — steps off the train with a spring in her step.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.