I KNEW THE TRAIN WAS GOING TO HIT THE CAR AND I COULD DO NOTHING
I started school in a small town called Spearwood, located just outside Perth in Western Australia.
The educational institution I attended was St. Thomas Moore, a Catholic school my parents chose due to my father's Catholic affiliation, shared by my mother, Kerry Kulkens. Indeed, my mother excelled in religious instruction, achieving straight A’s in her school years. Notably, she was even taught the art of tea leaf reading by the nuns. Our family regularly attended church every Sunday while I was growing up, although this tradition waned around the mid-1990s as we began to perceive signs of hypocrisy.
I cannot claim fond memories of this school; I struggle to recall any moment I enjoyed there. It was constructed from imposing bluestone blocks; the school featured exceedingly small windows, dimly lit rooms, musty-smelling toilets, and lengthy wooden corridors complete with old oil paintings of gruesome pictures of Jesus on the cross. Its administration was entrusted to stern, stoic nuns donned in black and white attire, which showed no signs of loving emotions or empathy towards children at all. These formidable figures derived pleasure from wielding a cane and would strike you at their whim, particularly if they disapproved of your gaze or your appearance.
The atmosphere was so intimidating that questioning or requesting clarification on something you had not heard was out of the question, as it inevitably led to punishment. So, if you were a child who was a little hard of hearing or had poor eyesight, you were doomed to fail at school. The school bell's deafening ring was enough to make my ears ache. It was a large brass bell that two children were chosen to pull the cords on each week, and it echoed throughout the corridors for what seemed like forever.
Some of the students at this school were the nun's favourites and could do no wrong. They were, of course, the children of the parents who put the most in the collection tin on Sunday mass. These students would be allowed to sit at the front of the class, eat in the classroom on cold, wet days, and collect the books.
Most of the students at this school were genuinely unpleasant, and the nuns displayed a cruel, underhanded, and highly dishonest demeanour towards most of the children. Still, I remember many of the nuns being quite brutal towards me. Enduring physical abuse in the form of hits, pinches, and slaps from the nuns was a daily occurrence. However, when parents arrived for pick-up, the same nuns would slyly place a seemingly caring hand on your shoulder, masking their true intentions. The experiences at this school were so distressing that one could quickly fill a book detailing the awful things these nuns subjected me and my classmates to.
Situated adjacent to a railway crossing, this school found itself in a newly developed estate with a sparse population of houses at the time. The crossing boasted an extensive sightline spanning over five hundred meters in both directions, with flashing lights and ringing bells. Whenever a freight train passed by, the entire class would instinctively rise to catch a glimpse, prompting the nun to strike her cane on the desk to make us concentrate on our work and disregard the train's distraction.
One morning, as I arrived at school and sat at my desk, a crying child caught my attention from outside the window. Peering through the glass, I could not discern the source of the cry, which persisted, accompanied by a young boy's voice exclaiming,
"Mum, Mum, Mum, look, a train!"
Glancing out the window, I observed a small red car positioned on the train tracks, perilously close to an impending collision with an approaching train. I cannot remember if I heard the bells or the flashing lights, but I can remember vividly the driver's face. They showed no expression as if they were in a trance. They sat behind the wheel, appearing surprisingly composed, their gaze fixed straight ahead and devoid of panic. Meanwhile, the little boy stood outside the vehicle near the school building, urgently repeating,
"Mum, Mum, look, a train.!" Despite his efforts, it seemed as though he could not be heard. Moments away from impact, the train blared its horn just as it hit the car.
BANG, the nun's cane descended onto my desk, striking it perilously close to my hand, eliciting a frightened scream from me.
"STOP daydreaming and do your work, or you will be doing it inside while everyone else eats their lunch!" she bellowed.
Desperate to explain what I had witnessed and heard, I attempted to communicate with the nun, but her anger intensified.
She warned me that unless I promptly sat down and refrained from answering back, I would find myself in the mother superior's office
—a prospect that implied a permanent departure from the classroom and was a terrifying threat.
I resumed my seat, making a concerted effort to push the entire incident out of my mind. It felt strangely ordinary, yet the image lingered vividly—I could see the red car, the expressionless eyes fixed straight ahead. The little boy, about four years old, wore blue pants and a red T-shirt. His light brown wavy hair framed a face marked by deep brown eyes and an unmistakable expression of sheer terror.
It must have shown on my face when my mother came to pick me up from school; she could tell I was disturbed.
I recounted the incident to Mum. She offered a perspective, suggesting that sometimes we witness things that have not yet occurred.
I did not understand what she meant. It was a puzzling statement at the time, and it’s meaning only became clear to me a few days
later.
From memory, a few days later, shortly after our lunch break, the classroom was serenely quiet following the nun's directives when I suddenly heard a little boy sobbing again.
The bells of the rail crossing chimed again, captivating the entire class's attention. I glanced out the window and saw the familiar red car I had observed before, now halted in the middle of the tracks. I rushed to the window to confirm what I witnessed, only to be met with a sharp reprimand from the nun. Undeterred, I exclaimed, "That's the car I saw the other day, and the train will hit it.
In a swift motion, the nun forcefully flung the curtain shut, casting the room into shadows.
A hushed command followed, compelling all the children to resume their seats at their desks promptly. As the impending collision between the train and the car unfolded outside, the atmosphere in the classroom grew tense. When the inevitable impact occurred, the room shook, and the nun's piercing gaze fixed upon me with an accusatory intensity as if I were the embodiment of some evil force. The weight of her disapproving stare lingered, leaving an indelible impression suggesting I had somehow orchestrated the calamity.
Indeed, the tragic outcome unfolded, I believe: a man lost his life in that ill-fated car, succumbing to the force of the collision.
In the aftermath of that tragic incident, it turned out that the man was grieving the loss of his little boy. The accident's repercussions rippled through the community, prompting reflection on the fragility of life and the enduring impact of unforeseen circumstances. The haunting memory of that day has lingered with me over the past decades. The connection to this unknown boy endures as the years unfold, leaving an indescribable imprint on my recollections. “Remember, life is short; make the most of it.”
Sarah Kulkens © 2024
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