Story for St Albans Stadium - WM1

An almighty roar went up from the crowd. The mighty Victorian Blues had done it again.
It had been 5 years since State or 'Sheffield Shield' cricket had came to St Albans, after the MCG had refused to drop it's ground fees despite a failing economy.
Now, in 1938, the stadium was flourishing. Fans from all over the state made their way down to the ground each weekend, eager to escape the depressing reality of modern life.

Jesse Jones was one such man. Raised in nearby Brooklyn, he loved nothing more than coming down to the St Albans Stadium for a beer or two on a Sunday afternoon. This was his church, where, as the saying goes, he healed his heart.

Jesse worked in the nearby wool factory, bailing wool by hand 14 hours a day, 6 days a week, for barely a threepence. It was a tough way to earn a quid, but one that he had learned to accept pretty quickly. Unemployment in the local area was as high as 90%, and only the foolhardy would dare knock back any form of work.

Jesse headed towards the train station as part of the heaving mass which was squeezing itself out of the stadium. The platform was packed, the trains running late as usual. Several people were nearly bowled over by the force of the wind as the V-Line steam train came belting through without warning or stopping. An tiny old italian man, one of Jesses neighbours, was selling some fruit from a cart towards the end of the platform.

Jesse was always hearing about about 'those Italians.' 'Eyeties' the guys at the factory called them, complaining about their jobs being taken, and wondering what they thought they were doing here. “It's not their bloody country mate,” Bob, one of Jesses mates would lament, “My father fought those bastards now they come here.”

Bob's father had actually fought alongside many Italians, but there has never been any need to let the truth get in the way of prejudice.

Jesse himself didn't really care. They seemed to just want a better life. None of them had taken his job yet, and he reckoned if they ever could they probably deserved it. The old gentleman with the stall would give free fruit to all of his neighbours, including Jesses family.

Unfortunately most men were not like Jesse.

Gathering around the fruit stall and the little old Italian man were a group of youths, intoxicated by both alcohol and victory. They were demanding to know who won the cricket. “Who won mate, come on who won, you shouldn't be in our country if you don't know who won,” said a tall blonde boy with a pencil thin mustache. “Go back to your own country,” chanted others.

Jesse approached the group before having second thoughts and slowing to a halt. Was it any of his business, he wondered?

The tall blonde boy lashed out, kicking the old mans fruit stall towards the tracks. The old man protested, but it was to no avail. The other boys in the mob joined in, pushing the old man back and the cart forwards, until it toppled onto the tracks, it's valued cargo falling amonsgst the rocks and rubbish. People dived on the tracks, grabbing apples, oranges, tomatoes, whatever they could get.

Jesse walked over towards the old Italian man, who was looking in disbelief at the mob of people down on the tracks taking his fruit away, wondering how he was ever going to pay his supplier, and if he would ever be trusted with a cart of fruit again.

As they stood together a rumble began. People down on the tracks started looking left and right, trying to figure out which direction the train was coming from. The more nimble jumped back up onto the platform.

As the city trained finally arrived they all scrambled on to the outbound tracks, two dozen people narrowly avoiding death.

Three seconds later, without warning, the next Vline train for Ballarat came through.