Steamfest Scare-Test

We had been looking forward to today for some time. Yes, even me.

I've previously mentioned that I am a willing participant in the Vintage Internal Combustion Engine hobby that Mr Mangroves and the Ratbag enjoy so much, and now even Peanut is really getting into it, her pink-socked feet swinging rhythmically off the edge of the pram, to the tune of the putt-putt-bang. She laughs out loud when they blow their whistles and stares in wonder at the massive fly-wheels as good old boys in flannel get them turning with a few hefty swings of a hairy arm. Yes, I enjoy it. There, I've said it.

The Ratbag, and a putt-putt-bang.

So, off we went today, to the annual Scoresby Steamfest, run by the Melbourne Steam Traction Engine Club. We'd never been there before, even Mr M, who knows all the Rallies by heart, and who has an internal calendar to tell him that there is one coming up. Love, exciting and new.

Even an en-route toilet stop for the Ratbag proved fortuitous. Of all the places we could've stopped on the Monash, we stopped in the exact spot to find a lovely little pocket knife, and rescue it from certain pee. We arrived mid-morning after a 45 minute drive, which was great, as normally it takes us a couple of hours to get to other Rallies, which are generally held in a dusty paddock out the back of bumfuck. So, a relatively short drive, kids in happy-mode, little knife prize in the glovebox for cleaning later, things were looking good.

A milkshake to wash down the gingerbread man.

We had a fabulous 4 hours, during which we did several rounds of the grounds, taking in many interesting displays of Steam-powered megaliths, ride-on trains (we saw, we rode, we loved it), ride-on tractor trailers (and again), wood-working, ye-olde Gingerbread making in a lovely wood-fired oven (possibly the yummiest gingerbread ever - I didn't get any but I could tell how yummy it was as the kids fairly inhaled it), diesel engines, vintage trucks of every description, and even models, like mechanised meccano sets. It was all interesting and pretty amazing, although Mr M later remarked that he would have liked more of the internal combustion putt-putt-bangs that he and the Ratbag love so much. This small downside was offset however, by the thing we were waiting on for hours; at 12.30pm there was going to be a TANK DISPLAY. If there is anything that Mr M loves more than vintage engines, it is TANKS. The WW2 kind, with turning turrets, big guns and caterpillar tracks. Although I also think that Tanks are generally great, Mr M has a love of All Things War, and watching a War movie with him is sometimes unbearable. This is because I don't really care that the Tanks used in Private Ryan are incorrect for the country and era. Whatever.

Man Stuff.

Anyhoo, here we were, watching a couple of blokes with their grey heads sticking out the side of a tank, hooning around in the thing at speeds which defied belief (Mr M later told me helpfully that they were able to achieve those speeds because the turret was fibreglass and not original). Mr M had climbed up on a trailer to get a better vantage for the camera, and the Ratbag followed him. We all watched the display until the end, there were big hands of applause and a good time was had by all. That is until a few minutes later. Mr M took Peanut out of the pram to stretch her legs, and off they went for a chat with the hoon Tank Driver. I retrieved the camera lens cap and was putting the camera away, telling the Ratbag to get off the trailer and come down to me. I didn't get a response.


I looked up, and he wasn't there. I wheeled the pram around for a bit, looking for him around the trailer, near Mr M, in the general area. The Ratbag was nowhere to be seen. He had DISAPPEARED.

Peanut, cooperating.

I told Mr M, and we both scurried around for a few minutes, the worry starting to build. After about 10 minutes of running in opposite directions, shouting his name, trying to head the Ratbag off at the pass, we met again in the same spot, Ratbagless. Now it was for real. He was lost. We had lost our son. We had literally lost our child. I couldn't concentrate on anything. I think people were talking to me, but I'm not sure.

At some point, Mr M told me to go to the head office and get them to announce it over the loudspeakers. I ran over there, grateful for a purpose. The woman at the office was so sympathetic that it made me even worse. I gave them details; light grey pants, dark grey hoodie top, almost 4 years old. I told them his name. I listened to the announcer get through this bit of information, and waited out the front of the office. I think I didn't breathe. Well meaning people came up to me, saw my obvious distress, and tried telling me it would be OK but I couldn't hear them, and didn't want to. They were in my way of seeing clearly all around me, and I wanted to hit them to get them out of the way.

Making home movies; the Ratbag watches these at home on a quiet afternoon.. yeah, I know.

I grabbed the pram and went off again, doing another couple of laps of the grounds. The lady from the office was running around too, doing her best to talk to everyone and get them looking too. She told me that someone was checking the lake. I stopped dead in my tracks and just looked at her, and that's the first time I remember crying. I had to walk away from her, or I would punch her.


I went back and stood out the front of the office. I was spinning around, looking everywhere and nowhere, looking for his little head in the crowd. 5 minutes passed, and nothing. The show went on around me, people milling around at their own pace. As if nothing had happened. Fairground music seemed really loud. In that 5 minutes, I saw visions of him being pulled lifeless out from the little lake on the grounds, I saw his mangled body under one of the giant machines, I saw someone leading him away from the crowd. I saw every hideous nightmare that a mum can dream up. I regretted giving out his name, thinking that a predator might use it to befriend him. The announcer took pity on me, and repeated the message.

Another few minutes passed. I remember being out of control. At that moment, I felt complete helplessness. It was quite simply the single most frightening moment of my life. I had lost my child, and he'd been gone for over 25 minutes. He could be anywhere. I actually imagined telling people about our missing boy; our parents, our friends. I was actually finding the right words in my head. I imagined I was banging my head against a tree. I think I'd completely lost it for a minute there. And still, everything went on around me as before, music playing, people on the miniature train rides waving, engines putt-putt-banging, smells of hot dogs and chips. Like nothing was wrong. Just when I thought I couldn't bear it anymore, I looked down at Peanut in the pram. She had fallen asleep. I took off my jumper and wrapped it around her. It made me sober up, just looking at her sleeping, peaceful face. I straightened up, my head clearing, ready to do another lap of the grounds, this time properly.

A man who should have been wearing flannel.

When Mr M walked into view, the first thing I noticed was that he wasn't wildly running around as before. Then I saw he was holding Ratbag's hand. I think I screamed.

He saw that I was crying, and he walked towards me with open arms, telling me "It's OK Mummy, please don't cry, it's alright!". I just held his little body in my arms and sobbed.

One man's War Machine is another man's Hoon-Mobile.

When I think back to my state of mind over that short half hour, I am not proud of myself. I keep thinking that if I'd kept a cool head, and looked properly, instead of running around like a headless chicken, I would have found him. As it was, he befriended some older children, and just tagged along with them, as they went in the direction away from us, and into one of the giant sheds, housing some noisy displays. They never heard the announcement, and were having a lovely time with their new friend.

Last official sighting before the drama.

I was completely raw when we left the grounds, all those lovely people who'd helped us look for him were only granted the most cursory thanks (at least by me) as I was completely overwrought, and incapable of doing anything except clutching him to me. The whole experience completely blew my mind. For the rest of the day, I had trouble concentrating, and just went through it in a sort of daze really. I had to write about it to get the crap out of my head.

Happily unaware of the fuss, making short work of leftover gingerbread.

To all the parents out there who have experienced this and worse, I wonder if they felt the helplessness, the guilt, the shame, as complete strangers looked at me, some with pity, some with righteousness (that would never happen to me, I'm a much better parent). I got a glimpse of something that I never want to see again.

If my Mum was reading this post (and she won't, not much interest in the internet-thing) she might be thinking of poetic justice right now. I've just remembered a story that I've heard throughout my life, about the time that Mum, myself and my baby brother went to the shops. I am almost exactly 4 years older than my brother and he was in the pram at the time, newly hatched, so I guess I was just on four years old. Mum went into the shop, leaving me in charge of the pram, and when she came out again a few minutes later, I wasn't anywhere to be seen. She searched everywhere, just like me, frantic with worry. Eventually, she returned home to call the police, and found me on the front step. Apparently, I had gotten bored, and wanted to go home. Quite frankly, I'm impressed with myself that I knew the way home, through a busy shopping stretch, and a rather large park, then a few twists and turns along the way back home. So there you are; she probably wished I knew what she went through, and it's come back to bite me on the arse.