A Day Out With Dad

'Are we lost dad?' asked Toby, as his dad peered through the windscreen of the old Ford van.

'Not quite son, it's just that this fog is so bad it's easy to lose your bearings.'

'Can we go home now dad, I'm tired and cold and mum will have tea ready for us.'

'Just one more call to make Tobes, and we'll be homeward bound.'

The world outside the van had changed dramatically over the last hour. Darkness had fallen and fog had begun to swallow them whole, making driving both difficult and dangerous. The temperature had plummeted too and the van's heater had already lost the battle. Condensation ran down the windscreen and the fitful vacuum operated wipers insisted on stopping for a rest every few seconds.

'I'm looking for Whittaker Street, Toby and I think it's this one. Can you wind your window down and read that name plate up on the wall?'

'Yes dad, it's Whittaker Street.'

'Excellent, now we're looking for number twenty two.'

This time Toby got out of the van and accompanied his dad to the door. He'd spent a good deal of the day waiting in the van for his dad to make his calls, but now it was dark and foggy and cold and he didn't want to be left alone. His dad knocked vigorously and they stood side by side waiting for a response.

The door opened slowly by about six inches and a weary looking middle aged lady with limp grey hair peered through the gap at her visitors.

'Yes,' she demanded curtly.

'Wilson's Rentals, Mrs Walker,' said dad as brightly as the circumstances allowed. I'm here to collect your monthly TV payment.

'And you've brought your minder with you I see.' she said drily. 'You'd better come in.'

The door opened straight into a small living room and the walls were bare plaster and there was no furniture of any kind. The floor we stepped onto was wall to wall floorboards, apart from a three foot square hole cut out in the centre into which dangled the legs of two small children who were gazing at a TV balanced on an empty wooden box in the far corner. Dad and I both froze, staring at the scene in front of us.

'They took the lot,' she said, in response to the look on our faces. 'Except the telly that is. They couldn't take that because it's yours.'

She shuffled away into a rear scullery and returned with an old Bournville cocoa tin, pouring the contents into her hand as she walked.

'It's all ready for you,' she said proudly. 'Four weeks at 2s/6d a week. Ten bob.'

Dad accepted the four half crowns from her, dropped them into his pocket and began scribbling in his big book.

'Thank you Mrs Walker. Another six weeks and it will be yours.'

'Better not let those buggers find out,' she said, 'or they'll come back for that as well.'

'I know it's none of my business,' said dad tentatively, 'but what happened?'

'He bloody happened. That drunken, useless husband of mine. Spent all our money down at the Feathers and in the bookies, ignored all the bills, got into trouble with the local money lender and then buggered off.'

Dad looked visibly shocked for a moment and then did something really odd. He took two of the four half crowns back out of his pocket and handed them back to Mrs Walker. 'There's your change,' he said to her, 'and I'll see you next month.'

Mrs Walker seemed surprised at first, but then tears slowly came to her eyes and she turned away and went into the back kitchen without saying anything.

Back in the van the fog had got even worse and we couldn't see anything. Dad was driving with his face almost touching the windscreen and he kept wiping it with his handkerchief with one hand and steering with the other. I was really scared and I think dad was too, but he didn't say anything. I was going to ask him why he'd given Mrs Walker two half crowns back when he shouldn't have, but I could see he was busy trying to get us back home, so I didn't.

After a while the fog seemed to clear a little and dad was able to get back to normal speed, but then we were back into it again and suddenly, out of nowhere, some red flashing lights appeared right in front of us and dad stamped on the brakes and the van slid on the wet road and we crashed into some huge gates and I shot forward and banged my head on the dash board and it hurt.

'Are you all right Tobes?' he asked, leaning across and putting his hand gently on my shoulder. 'Did you bang your head?'

'I'm OK dad,' I said, instinctively. 'I bumped my head, but I'm OK.'

Dad jumped out and disappeared into the night. I could just make him out in front of the van looking to see what damage there was. Suddenly he started pulling at something low down and the van started rocking and then he stopped and got back in. Just as he closed his door a huge ghostly train passed right across the front of us in the fog, just feet away. It made the ground vibrate and instantly filled the van with its smell. That special steam train smell you get when you lean over the bridge as it goes by underneath and you breath in.

'I ran into the level crossing gates,' he said, as light heartedly as he could, 'and it shoved the front grill back onto the radiator, but I managed to pull most of it back. I can fix it properly tomorrow at home.' He put his hands on the steering wheel and they were shaking and he'd closed his eyes.

I sat back in my seat and I closed my eyes too, and I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, dad was shaking me and telling me we were home and I didn't know where I was.

'I think it's best if we don't tell mum about bumping into the level crossing gates,' said dad. 'You know what your mum's like don't you. She'll only get upset and then she'll tell us both off. Best if we just forget about it.'

We climbed out of the old van and walked up the garden path towards the back door. Just before we went into the house, I covered the expanding bump on my forehead with my hair as best I could so that mum wouldn't see it.

Image free by Dola