Manual for Hitch-hikers

On a cold dark night two mates do the unthinkable!



Warning - Do NOT ever do this!

Manual for Hitch-hikers

Imagine Armidale in mid-winter. Located high on the tablelands of the Great Dividing Range, the town exudes historical charm with its many institutional brick buildings. Wide, neatly planned streets are lined with trees; all are seasonally bare. 

From what we can see it appears a prosperous and proud agricultural town. Late at night and really cold, there is the faint smell of wood smoke in the still air; no doubt the more sensible are relaxing close to a lounge room fireplace. As we talk our breath condenses to mist. A myriad of stars are visible in the cloudless sky.

I have passed through Armidale several times over the years with my parents on family Christmas migrations, visiting relatives further west. On this occasion however, I am travelling with a mate, Garry. We have been hitching rides all day, slowly heading north from Sydney. It’s not like we are novices at hitch-hiking, we do it often, separately and together. However, this was our first attempt on the inland highway. The familiar route, the coastal Pacific highway, had become predictable. We thought a change would be interesting.

That choice now seemed badly judged as for two hours we have been standing by the highway on the edge of town, still a long way from home. Cars that passed with regular frequency have now dwindled to something like ten minutes apart, and most were Sydney-Brisbane overnight trucks that never stop anyway.

Our last lift was with a beef baron who saw us in a roadhouse, no doubt looking marooned and homeless. He felt a surge of the good Samaritan that was duly explained to us along with the virtues of beef consumption. Our views on religion and convictions to vegetarianism lay fallow; we accepted the lecture, as the reality outside the heated Ford Fairlane was bitter and grave. You learn to censor your youthful ideas for the sake of a hundred kilometres or so.

Ideals were under test at the present, that’s for sure! There had already been two short walks to considered ‘better chance’ highway positions. For a time, pacing up and down to keep warm prevailed during the interval between car lights. There was now a sense that no one was going to stop. We stood silent, heads bowed, chins tucked, collars upturned, and hands in pockets as midnight approached.

The jacket once purchased from St Vincent De Paul in a mood of anti-bourgeois superiority was thin and losing sentiment rapidly. The recent visit to Sydney had exhausted our meager funds. A distant motel sign could only be viewed as illuminating needless energy, environmentally unsound.

Anticipation as a glimmer appears in the distance. The highway is straight and the beams take forever to reach us. Like prey frozen in a headlight we stand rigid on the edge of the bitumen, both our hands shoot out full stretch, the gesture acknowledging our desperation. The blinding rush hurtles past, rattling our senses, just another truck, doesn’t even look! We must appear insignificant huddled beside the road, tired and scruffy. The noise slowly fades, the red tail-lights like a rejection signal, disappear.

Armidale is where they coined that phrase ‘dead of night’, I thought to myself. I was about to say, ‘it’s a wonder it doesn’t snow’, but refrained not wanting to tempt fate.

Garry broke his silence; ‘I’m going over to see what’s in that building over the road’.

‘Are you kidding!’ my reaction one of pessimism.

‘We’ll freeze to death out here, it’s worth a try’ was his resigned reply.

For hours two long rows of lights had been contemptuous in their warm glow, like a passenger liner passing two shipwrecks unnoticed in the night. It was one of the large brick institutional buildings set in spacious grounds common in Armidale.

Garry walked off, hunched, arms tucked tight to his side and disappeared in the darkness. The highway was silent, a place only for the vanquished. Ten minutes later he reappeared, ‘C’mon, I’ve found a door that’s open’, he said with more acquiescence than hope.

Each with our small packs we climbed over a low fence then trudged across the grass field that was wet with dew to a nondescript looking door. Slowly turning the knob we peered inside and stepped into a short hallway leading to a wider corridor. What was immediate was the temperature; the building must be centrally heated! In the light Garry’s face looked taut, his eyes large. The thought of being stopped and questioned seemed inevitable yet we had no story, no plan. The warmth allayed any recourse to life back on the highway. Whilst my clothing felt lacking to ward off the chill on the highway, now it was a different sort of inappropriateness.

There was a distant sound of voices, neither advancing nor receding. We poked our heads out into the corridor. It was long and immediately to our left was a series of doors - no one in sight. Moving quietly we quickly opened the first door and entered a room to find the light on. Along one wall were a piano and a stool. The rest of the room was empty, a cube shape lined with acoustic tiles and carpet on the floor. 

‘Looks like a music practice room’ Garry sounded the most upbeat in hours as I shut the door behind us. We were safe, warm, and above all, undiscovered.

‘Yeah, a stroke of luck’ I said with a sigh of relief, but noting there was no lock.

Our fortune was indeed comfortable, not that we were about to try our hand on the piano. Rather we made pillows with our packs and simply lay on the floor, clothes and shoes on, just in case a sudden escape was required. Sleep descended quickly, any trepidation overruled by bodies haggard. 

*

A chorus of chatter and breakfast dishes registered in my half-conscious stupor … most assuredly the sound of a dining hall close by. No it wasn’t a dream! Where are we exactly? I nudged Garry, ‘Hey, wake up, time to go’.

We had both slept soundly, but more importantly, without being disturbed. There was no window so we didn’t have any sense of time. Sure as eggs, someone was bound to burst in for their morning practice. 

Garry looked a wreck, unshaven, long hair dishevelled and clothes crumpled. I realized it was like looking in a mirror. Our appearances would have to suffice. It was one thing to creep in under the cover of night; exit would have to be retracing our steps in broad daylight.

‘Just walk and don’t look round, if anyone questions us, just keep walking’ Garry suggests smirking, with a look that says ‘how did it come to this?’

‘Okay, let's go!' my hand on the door handle nervous.

Slowly opening the door, a dining hall was indeed just opposite. The cacophony an instant confirmation that yes it was peak breakfast time! The corridor laid with conspicuous lino amplifies our every footstep. Portrait photographs hang along the length of the timber panelled walls. Nobody in sight but seemingly only a breath away. A quick turn right and we are at the door to the outside.  None too soon, as the corridor lino signals footsteps, accompanied by voices. 

The air outside is brisk; penetrating cold soon pierces our defenceless clothes. We walk across a hockey field, the grass white and crunchy underfoot. Our faces try to shrink and hide, we feel very vulnerable, exposed, the target of watching eyes. Shoes fast become wet; footprints track our movements like a map of guilt. The highway is on one hand detestable, on another familiar and safe. 

We had seemingly gone unnoticed. Silence was hard to maintain; both of us break out in big smiles. Just a short distance to go, we hold back relief trying to remain composed, and detour to escape via a gateway we had not seen in the dark.

Tastefully sheltered by the canopy of a large tree, stood a sign:

THE ARMIDALE SCHOOL

Day & Boarding School for Girls

Scott Avery

2020

Disclaimer: The author totally discourages the activities detailed in the story "Manual for Hitch-hikers'. In fact it should sound as a warning of what not to do. The author regrets any harm, inconvenience or embarrassment to current or ex employees and/or students of The Armidale School. In the highly unlikely event of the story becoming a cult classic please do not undertake pilgrimage to The Armidale School or any school of like kind. Just remember they were young, impressionable, dirt poor and lacking the judgement they undoubtedly obtained later in life. In short they learnt the hard way! The author apologises unreservedly to The Armidale School, even though there was no physical damage nor would there have been in any event as both subjects of the story were pacifists at heart. Neither would harm a fly.