Australia from Mother England in the 1950s, and the idea probably made sense over there. The average English family car usually had more windows, and was warmer, than the family home in Manchester or Leeds. Over there, it would have been a relief to get in the cosy car. In England there was also the concept of a ‘destination’, and something to see along the way. Within an hour the family would be at the seaside, touring a castle or pottering around a village’s Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe. They would make it back home in time for tea. In Australia you could travel all day, to nowhere in particular, and see nothing but flat, blasted country, shearing sheds, sheep and more sheep.
‘I hated those damned drives,’ said Meredith. She had her bare feet up on the dashboard again and was polishing off a packet of wine gums. ‘Every Sunday morning after church, Edith would pack egg-and-lettuce or ham sandwiches, Kia-Ora 50/50 cordial, a great slab of madeira cake and a tartan thermos of tea into her wicker basket, and tuck it under her feet up front. Bernie would be running the FC sedan in the driveway, to warm up the motor. Kevin, Terry and I would fight over who got the window seats. Then we’d head out down Burwood Road, spot on eleven.’
Nina was scouring the roadside for the national parks sign and chuckling at the image of the Skidmores in their FC. In the old days, when they were travelling with Sanctified Soul, Meredith had often talked about her parents—Bernard Skidmore, the upstanding suburban dentist, and his faithful sidekick Edith—but Nina had never heard this particular tale before. Annie, still refusing to abandon her spot between the front seats, was enjoying Meredith’s rave. In fact, she couldn’t recall her ever being so expansive about her childhood.
‘There were two options,’ Meredith continued. ‘A drive to a plant nursery in the hills—which wasn’t too bad, because there was Devonshire tea to scoff on the way home—or Bernie would say, “Let’s just see where we end up.” And, truly, he would just drive till the petrol gauge read half-full and he would stop, and we’d have lunch. Do you know, it didn’t matter where the hell we were—at a gravel truck lay-by, on a median strip with cars roaring by, in a roadside quarry. We would sit and eat our soggy sandwiches and drink warm cordial, while being attacked by blowflies, eaten by mosquitoes or poisoned by exhaust fumes. It was beyond!’
The idea of Meredith sitting on a pile of gravel by the roadside, eating a flyblown ham sanger, was, indeed, beyond belief.
Meredith popped the last wine gum in her mouth and bit down. She wasn’t being quite as truthful as she might have been. She’d edited out that particular afternoon when she had kicked the back of her father’s front seat and he had swung his hand back, slapped the side of her head and sworn furiously at her. He’d skidded the FC sedan to a stop in the gravel at the side of the road, got out, wrenched open the back door and dragged her from the back seat by the collar of her beaded green cardigan.
‘You can bloody well walk home from here, Miss!’ Meredith remembered her father’s face up close to hers, snarling with anger.
‘Sorry, Daddy. Sorry. I didn’t mean it. It was an accident.’
Then he had driven off, up around the curve of the hill. Kevin and Terry hadn’t dared to turn around to look at her. She remembered running up the asphalt road after the car, crying and wiping her runny nose on her sleeve, not believing they could have left her, terrified at finding herself alone in the bush. She also remembered her relief when she saw the familiar shape of the FC tail-lights up ahead. She had stood in the middle of the road, not able to go a step backwards or forwards, and wet her underpants.
‘Filthy, filthy, disgusting girl!’ her father scolded as he pushed Meredith into the back seat.
‘Ee-ew, stinky Meredith!’ Kevin and Terry had held their noses and complained as she wiggled her toes in her sodden white knee-high socks. Meredith had never forgotten that long, damp drive back to Camberwell, but what was the point in telling that particular part of the anecdote? It would only spoil a good story.
‘When we got home, Bernie would get out of the car and say: “Wasn’t that a fascinating day, children?” We’d probably