tightened her grip. He smiled and reassured
her.
“It’s
all right, love. You’re doing fine.”
She
nodded and seemed to relax. Sitting in the back seat as we passed the trees on
one side of the road and the green paddocks of the farm on the other, I tried
to forget about my brothers fidgeting and squashing into me and imagined myself
to be a grand dame on a country drive.
My
daydream was interrupted by a sudden bump. The car seemed to leap into the air.
We were heading towards the broad trunk of an old gum tree. The tree trunk was
getting closer and closer. Mum’s eyes were shut tight. Dad grabbed the steering
wheel. I heard the sharp snapping of dry twigs under the car wheels. Bump. The
car jumped and rocked. The engine died. We had stopped within inches of the
broad gum tree.
“That
was fun, Mum,” said Bobby.
“Yeah.
Can we do it again?” said Maxie.
Mum’s
hands were still gripping the steering wheel even though Dad had taken over the
steering. She opened her eyes cautiously, then widened them at the sight of the
tree in front of the windscreen. Dad removed his hands from the wheel. Mum
looked across at him. He took off his beret and ran one hand through his thick
black hair then returned her glance with a bemused smile. She grinned. Then she
laughed. Her laugh was never far from the surface. As a child I did not realise
laughter could be used as a release from tension or anxiety. Dad’s smile
widened to a grin.
“Well,”
he said. “We’d better get this old girl back on the road. I’ll get out and
crank her up.”
“We
can help, Dad,” said Bobby.
“Not
today, son,” said Dad. “You kids stay where you are.”
Bobby
and Maxie looked crestfallen but they knew better than to argue with their
father. While Dad was at the front of the car valiantly encouraging ‘the old
girl’ to kick back into life with vigorous turns of the crank handle, Mum
followed the various technical instructions he called to her. “Pull the choke
out.” “Foot on the throttle; gently.” “Push the choke in a bit.”
“Keep
her ticking over,” he called as the car spluttered and coughed out smoke
through the exhaust. Finally, the motor kicked into life.
Bobby
and Maxie cried, “Hooray!”
Mum
slid across the seat to the passenger side. I guess she had had enough of
driving for one day. Dad slipped into the driver’s seat and looked across at
Mum.
“That’ll
be the hardest thing for you to learn; using the crank handle.”
“It
certainly doesn’t look easy.”
“It’ll
be okay once you get the hang of it, love. Besides, Bobby’s probably strong
enough to do it for you.”
“Yes.
I can do it, Mum.”
“Me
too, Mum. I can help crank it,” said Maxie.
Eventually,
with my father’s patient guidance my mother learned to drive the Erskine. She
could even manage the crank handle, but preferred Bobby or Maxie to do
it.
I
recall several unfortunate incidents over the years when my mother was at the
wheel of the car. No one was ever injured although trees sometimes changed
shape. Dad would survey the damage and simply scratch his head in amazement as
though he thought Mum had achieved a remarkable feat in getting the car halfway
up the trunk of a tree. They laughed these mishaps off, as they did with most
calamities.
That’s
what our life was like; humorous incidents and dramatic events followed each
other closely. Though financially poor, as a family we were rich in experiences
that connected us. Everything revolved around the family. Our small two bedroom
house overflowed with children who raced in and out of doorways, climbed
through windows and up onto the roof, splashed along creek beds and ran wild
across the green paddocks of the farm gleefully dispersing sheep and rabbits.
As
our lives somersaulted on, we kids were completely oblivious to the existence
of our three half-siblings elsewhere in Australia. My mother must have yearned
to talk to someone about them. She must have
her.
“It’s
all right, love. You’re doing fine.”
She
nodded and seemed to relax. Sitting in the back seat as we passed the trees on
one side of the road and the green paddocks of the farm on the other, I tried
to forget about my brothers fidgeting and squashing into me and imagined myself
to be a grand dame on a country drive.
My
daydream was interrupted by a sudden bump. The car seemed to leap into the air.
We were heading towards the broad trunk of an old gum tree. The tree trunk was
getting closer and closer. Mum’s eyes were shut tight. Dad grabbed the steering
wheel. I heard the sharp snapping of dry twigs under the car wheels. Bump. The
car jumped and rocked. The engine died. We had stopped within inches of the
broad gum tree.
“That
was fun, Mum,” said Bobby.
“Yeah.
Can we do it again?” said Maxie.
Mum’s
hands were still gripping the steering wheel even though Dad had taken over the
steering. She opened her eyes cautiously, then widened them at the sight of the
tree in front of the windscreen. Dad removed his hands from the wheel. Mum
looked across at him. He took off his beret and ran one hand through his thick
black hair then returned her glance with a bemused smile. She grinned. Then she
laughed. Her laugh was never far from the surface. As a child I did not realise
laughter could be used as a release from tension or anxiety. Dad’s smile
widened to a grin.
“Well,”
he said. “We’d better get this old girl back on the road. I’ll get out and
crank her up.”
“We
can help, Dad,” said Bobby.
“Not
today, son,” said Dad. “You kids stay where you are.”
Bobby
and Maxie looked crestfallen but they knew better than to argue with their
father. While Dad was at the front of the car valiantly encouraging ‘the old
girl’ to kick back into life with vigorous turns of the crank handle, Mum
followed the various technical instructions he called to her. “Pull the choke
out.” “Foot on the throttle; gently.” “Push the choke in a bit.”
“Keep
her ticking over,” he called as the car spluttered and coughed out smoke
through the exhaust. Finally, the motor kicked into life.
Bobby
and Maxie cried, “Hooray!”
Mum
slid across the seat to the passenger side. I guess she had had enough of
driving for one day. Dad slipped into the driver’s seat and looked across at
Mum.
“That’ll
be the hardest thing for you to learn; using the crank handle.”
“It
certainly doesn’t look easy.”
“It’ll
be okay once you get the hang of it, love. Besides, Bobby’s probably strong
enough to do it for you.”
“Yes.
I can do it, Mum.”
“Me
too, Mum. I can help crank it,” said Maxie.
Eventually,
with my father’s patient guidance my mother learned to drive the Erskine. She
could even manage the crank handle, but preferred Bobby or Maxie to do
it.
I
recall several unfortunate incidents over the years when my mother was at the
wheel of the car. No one was ever injured although trees sometimes changed
shape. Dad would survey the damage and simply scratch his head in amazement as
though he thought Mum had achieved a remarkable feat in getting the car halfway
up the trunk of a tree. They laughed these mishaps off, as they did with most
calamities.
That’s
what our life was like; humorous incidents and dramatic events followed each
other closely. Though financially poor, as a family we were rich in experiences
that connected us. Everything revolved around the family. Our small two bedroom
house overflowed with children who raced in and out of doorways, climbed
through windows and up onto the roof, splashed along creek beds and ran wild
across the green paddocks of the farm gleefully dispersing sheep and rabbits.
As
our lives somersaulted on, we kids were completely oblivious to the existence
of our three half-siblings elsewhere in Australia. My mother must have yearned
to talk to someone about them. She must have
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