Feel good piece

I knew at first sight he wasn’t the full two bob. I felt sorry for him, standing beside the carriage door, clutching the handles of his pushbike. His head rolled and lollopped around, slack mouth abnormally red. I couldn’t see his bike, but he obviously loved it, head hanging down and peering from side to side. Absolutely fascinated.

Someone was looking after him. His dark hair was a smart pudding-basin around his forehead and ruddy ears, and his moustache was neatly trimmed. His hands, fiddling with the bike handles, constantly in motion, seemed to be all wrist bones and knuckles, protruding from the skimpy sleeves of his jacket. He pushed at his lower face, and then returned awkwardly to the bike handles, again and again, caressing, totally absorbed.

He got off at Boronia. I realized the bike wasn’t. It was a special walking aid with brake cables. He gyrated along behind it awkwardly, but his peaceful face, and the proud way he held the handlebars told the story. To him it was a bike – a shiny, chromium-plated bike. It was his ticket to freedom. He made his way down the platform, unaided, with the wind in his hair.