We were children, hiding our years under a cover of Panstick and kohl rimmed eyes, and our insecurity behind a veil of Viscount smoke, blown as an expression of life.

Teetering on heels too high we strap-hanged in those old red rattlers, up Glenhuntly and down Hawthorn, to reach the factory gates before the whistle blew. Refugees from a welfare system that spat you out at legal working age, caught between the world of adults and the school kids who shared the ride, we belonged to neither group. Living outside their perception of respectability we ground against social norms in 60s rebellion, as the wheels of the tram rattled and hummed and wrapped us in a vibration of belonging. Oblivious to the closeness of damp bodies coming in from winter’s chill, or the stench of heat-washed bodies in summer, we took joy in our freedom ride.

We were fourteen and still children beneath the veil.