Early Lessons in Road Rage

‘My Dad’s Better than Your Dad’

I remember the frantic excitement on hearing the travelling fair would be appearing in our sleepy country town — people would come from all around.

“Can I go? Can I go? Oh, pleeeeese, can I go?” On and on to my mother, knowing she wanted to say no.

Then my Pa coming in from work and starting on him: “Oh, pleeeese, Daddy, can I go to the fair?” Eyes abrim with blazing, anticipating glee, me jumping around like a flea.

He would not hesitate: “To the fair? Of course you can, Sweetie, I’ll take you there.” He’d wink at me and flick me lightly on my chin. I’d laugh with delight, and I’d grin and grin.

The fair — all raucous music, flashing lights, ripping apart the night, the sights of some flouncing with girlish screams, some in jeans straining at the seams, some slouching in leather jackets, some engaging in nefarious rackets.

So cool, they were all so groovy; it was a living movie. I was too young to be bothered with all that. My dad could knock anyone into a cocked hat. I had the best dad in the world, as through the fairground we swirled, candy floss getting in my hair — my mother would go spare. We didn’t care. We were together at the fair.

Hot dogs made with some unidentifiable mush; the ground, with rain, trodden to slush. The Waltzers! Wildly spinning, centrifugal force pinning terrified, green-faced teens, blaring rock n roll kindly covering their screams.

We’d look at them — Pa yearningly (I thought), me trepid, and we’d go and climb into a dodgem car instead. They are not meant to be bumped, he’d say, that’s why they’re called dodgems. And he’d pay.

I knew nothing horrible would happen, nothing bad, not while I was there with my dad. We’d birl around the floor at a sedate pace. We’d meander around the other cars with such grace. With his deft touch on the steering wheel, we twirled, avoiding all the other cars that around us whirled.

That’s because my dad was the best driver on earth! MY Dad! I was grinning for all I was worth!

And then! A shocking, terrifying, unexpected jolt from some grinning lout, some not-playing-the-game dolt!

I was nearly thrown from my seat, except my dad, without missing a beat, flung his arm around my shoulders, kept me secure, before glancing down, with a wink, to make sure.

He growled. I’m sure I heard a growl. The eejit answered with a menacing scowl. Pa’s grip tightened on me as he stared at the thug. That bloke stared back, looking smug.

His child looked terrified as she cowered beside a numpty who, with misplaced pride had decided to deliberately collide.

He snarled and aimed his car at us again. (I’ve seen that look many times since then.) But Pa’s hand on my shoulder tightened, and I was no longer frightened.

I sent a small smile the child’s way. It wasn’t going to be her dad’s day. She smiled back apologetically. I smiled again, sympathetically. She was clutching on so tight, her lips pressed together, also knuckle-white.

The next timeless time was scarily violent. All throughout, though, I remained silent. The crashes were so uncomfortably hard. Why wasn’t this feller instantly barred?

I saw that girl hanging on for grim death, her face so pale, not daring to draw breath. The jerk’s face screwed up in hostility; my Pa’s face one of complete affability.

But I knew he was gleeful. Nothing about it was peaceful: he was in it to win it.

Thank goodness my mother wasn’t there. We never told her about the duel at the fair; the duel my dad won. Finally, that bloke was banned, told to begone.

He trailed away, his child behind, but those two never left my mind.

I worried about her for years, every time I heard the jeers from some other dolt screeching his car to a jolting halt.

Or when I was cut up at the lights by some jerk knowing his ‘rights’, or sworn at by some dimwit driver. But, I’m a practised survivor.

And when the passenger in blockhead’s next seat sends rueful smiles to me, and our eyes meet, despite her companion’s glaring stare, I smile back because it reminds me of my Pa at the fair.

In such a situation this lunatic fringe normally expect a woman to cringe. These chumps tend to have a thin skin. They must wonder why I grin.

My Pa taught me to expect better, taught me not to fetter my life with such a prat; convinced me I could do better than that.

So I grin at the goon, see him glower — he couldn’t look more sour. I smile at her, see her smile back I’m cheered. She won’t take any flack.

My foot down, I speed away to dodgem again another day.

I win all the duels now. My Pa taught me how.