Lending an Ear
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday May 31, 2014

Someone once said train stations are the gates to the glorious and the unknown. As our train slid into Fremantle station, the kids and I spilled out into the chequerboard foyer. I stopped to do up small son’s shoelaces. That’s when I heard a quavery voice over my left shoulder:

“Can you plug me in?”

We were the last passengers left. All I could see were four small grey wheels behind a mobile advertising stand. I took two more steps and realised the wheels belonged to a motorised wheelchair. It was tucked into the corner, backed up to the wall. Its occupant, an old man with rheumy eyes and a grubby green shirt. His woollen vest was peppered with moth holes. He waved a power cable at me.

“Plug me in?” he asked again.

My first shameful instinct was to look away and hurry past.

But he caught my eye and pointed down to a power point: “Can’t reach it. Flat battery.”

He wasn’t irrational. He was stranded – trapped in a comatose machine.

My youngsters scampered over to inspect the mystery man behind the billboard.

I took the cord from his hand, crouched behind his wheelchair and inserted the plug. His chair emitted a shy peep as the battery awoke.

“Where’s your ear?” I heard my four-year-old daughter say. I scrambled to my feet: “Don’t be rude!” I whispered. And then I saw he was indeed missing his left ear. I squirmed at her impertinence, but the old bloke didn’t miss a beat. “That’s what happens when you don’t wear a hat!” he said. He winked at me as small child studied his bald, pink head.

“The sun got to my ear” he told her. “First they cut off this little bit,” and he grabbed the top of his remaining ear. “Then this bit went.” He waggled the lobe. “And before I knew it, I just had a hole.”

This gruesome tale only emboldened my daughter. “Same as a snake,” she said.

I cringed. But the old fellow chuckled, then motioned towards my 6-year-old son who’d been struck dumb by fear or curiosity.

“Got any questions about my ear, son?”

My boy shook his head and inched closer to my side.

“Will you grow another one?” his sister piped up.

“Could’ve, but I’m too old now.”

Satisfied, she took off to play hopscotch on the tiles. Her brother began hopping too.

Why had I been so reluctant to stop and talk to this witty fellow? He was scruffy, but then, so was my four-year-old. He’d unnerved me by calling out, but how else could he attract my attention? Confined to a wheelchair, he was hardly likely to leap out and snatch my handbag.

“Name’s Ned,” he said, and raised his arthritic hand in salute.

“Was it skin cancer that took your ear?” I asked him as we watched the kids, his wheelchair tethered to the power point.

“Twenty years on Koolan Island’ll do that to you” he said. “Worked for BHP. Just a singlet I wore – a singlet and footy shorts. I’m covered in these blasted splotches.” And he rubbed the dark mottles on his arm.  

We fell into an easy patter about harsh summers. And when my youngsters began bickering, I said: “Nice talking to you,” and the kids and I trooped off.

A week later, I’m still thinking about that stranded pensioner. My children are still skiting about Ned’s missing ear. I repeated the story to the German student we’re billeting.

“I would have kept walking,” she said. “In Berlin, we avoid eye contact in the street. We call it ‘wie Luft behandeln.’ It means to look through someone like they’re air.”

Many a time I’ve given a passing stranger a friendly nod and been snubbed. How that irks me!

A sociologist in Chicago reports that commuters who acknowledge each other enjoy their trip far more than those who ignore their fellow travellers. Even a small smile, or a throwaway line about the weather, makes people happier.

Ned’s story about life on Koolan Island made me curious. My laptop told me that in the 60s, Koolan was the largest and most remote iron ore mine in the country. Not much bigger than Rottnest, the island was then home to 900 workers. (Koolan also claimed to have the world’s longest golf hole, an 860 yard, par seven, which doubled as the air strip.)

I don’t want my children being fearful of strangers. Out with me, I want them to be comfortable saying hello to the kaleidoscope of passers-by. I want them to empathise with people who are different.

Keen to keep her ears, my daughter now wears a hat without argument.

All credit to you Ned!