13. Jump in my car

My mother got her drivers licence when she was 8½ months pregnant with me. I’m sure, if you look hard enough, you could see the indent of the steering wheel in my scalp. She passed first go, which she would say was due to her skill, but I wonder if the tester was too scared of her giving birth on the spot if she failed. Dad had given her driving lessons himself, which ended at least once with her getting out of the car at a tram stop after too much “instruction”…

I always considered both of my parents to be very good drivers. We had many long trips in the car to different destinations, from my grandparents’ house in the Brisbane Ranges to interstate holidays in far flung places like Coffs Harbour or Surfers Paradise. Mum and dad always shared the driving, both drove at a reasonable speed and my sister and I felt safe in the back of the car – for many years this would have been without seatbelts – although we probably asked “Are we there yet?” innumerable times.

When I was 17, I had an 18 year old boyfriend with an HR Holden. It was a manual car and he offered to teach me to drive in it. On Sunday afternoons, usually after a day out with friends, I would drive home – starting on little country roads, often dirt, and ending in the traffic coming along Windsor Road into Sydney – single lane, bumper to bumper – a challenge for a novice driver in a manual car with a slipping clutch. My mother also took me for regular drives in her automatic HD holden – much easier – and my father took me driving once – just like mum, I ended up storming off. Eventually, mum and dad paid a driving instructor, I passed my test and everybody was happy.

I was working part time as a “check out chick” at the local Coles New World, scrimping and saving until I could eventually afford my first set of wheels. It was a Datsun 1200 – manual, so I had to relearn how to use the clutch without stalling. I loved that car and drove it everywhere, but it was the midnight run around Mount Panorama, Bathurst, with someone else behind the wheel that was the car’s undoing – rolling it on the S-bends and having to walk back to Mitchell College to get the rugby boys to right the car for me. It was never the same after that.

When I had my first “real” job, as a clerk for the Police Force, I was given a short term role in Cooma. As I was paid a living away from home allowance and I managed to find very cheap accommodation, I quickly saved enough money to replace my aging and damaged Datsun. Dad came car hunting with me, and at the very first dealership there was a demonstrator model Mitsubishi Colt that caught our eyes. A silver hatchback, with four on the floor and a split shift (whatever that meant!), we traded in the Datsun and drove it home. Mum was appalled at our impetuosity but the car was mine. I even had my name on the number plate – SUE 321. Life moved quickly after that—new job, new town, and eventually a new chapter as a mother. That car lasted me through moving to Bathurst, working at Burraga (70km away on a dirt road) and having a baby – and it never missed a beat.

The next few cars were “family” cars; larger, more practical and usually driven by my husband – unless he’d had a few drinks, when I would become the “designated driver”. We had a Mitsubishi Magna and a Holden Commodore – both very staid and most definitely not “mine”!

When we were living in Orange and the kids were little, Roger was working in Melbourne and we were "home alone". Returning one day from work and picking the kids up from school, our house had been burgled. Nothing of value appeared to have been taken, just the kids' coin collections, a few bits of jewellery and (randomly) the hair clippers...and the spare car keys. The thieves returned in the middle of the night, broke into the garage and took the car - the first we knew of it was the neighbours ringing at 3am. It was a frightening experience, particularly as I was there on my own. The car was eventually located on the railway tracks - it was lucky that a train didn't come along. Soon after that, we all moved to Melbourne. Within a couple of years, the marriage was over too. Consequently, I bought another me car - a little red Mitsubishi Lancer hatchback.

By then, my children were teenagers, and in the ensuing years, both had driving lessons in my car. Many white knuckle trips with bunny hops, crunching gears and sudden slamming brakes, but both eventually got their licences – and then wanted to borrow my car, of course! Patch, our dog, also liked riding in the car – however the dog hair she left on the seats was very difficult to shift. I once drove Brett and two of his mates to the Debutant Ball and they alighted from the car in their very hairy suits!

When the kids left home I sold the Lancer to Brett and bought myself a flash, red, Holden Cruze. It drove like a rocket and I felt very sporty taking off at the traffic lights. I was sick of changing gears by then so it was my first automatic, with all the latest gadgets including seat warmers – lovely in a Melbourne winter.

When we moved into an apartment in the city, and I caught the tram or walked to work, the need for a car of my own disappeared. Martin had a Mercedes, much nicer to drive and take on long trips, and we saved a fortune in registration and insurance when we sold my car. Then I retired, we went cruising, we bought an apartment with one car space…no place for a car for me.

These days, I don’t miss having my own car. I’ve come to enjoy the slower pace of walking, the freedom of cycling, the ease of hopping on a train or tram, the joy of looking out the window instead of through a windscreen. But sometimes, when I see a zippy little red hatchback glide past, I feel a flicker of something—freedom, maybe. Or memory.