Driving Lessons

My father never spoke about feelings, about missed opportunities, or hard choices; my stoic father only knew cars. It occurred to me he had an unhappy work life. I daren’t entertain the thought he had an unhappy home life too. But when he was driving, he came alive. I knew this in my heart, but experienced it first hand the summer I learned to drive.

For a man so private and tightly wound, it was amazing to see him overflow in the boxed-in space of an automobile. Windows wound down, even in winter, so he wasn’t constrained within the boundaries of the vehicle, one arm dangling from the car, adding human touches to the way the machine communicated. In heavy traffic he didn’t just indicate, but leaned out the window, gesticulating, always kindly, negotiating his way into the throng. Thanking whoever let him in, not only with a flash of hazard lights but flourishing a peace sign too, to show he appreciated their goodwill.

‘Approach life the way you approach driving, Maddie,’ he advised, fingertips on the wheel the way a rider might hold reins, empathetic to the horse’s every feeling, as if his car were a rumbling beast, waiting for his signal. ‘Kindness first. You never know how long someone’s been waiting, hoping to be let out. Never know what happened to a driver moments before you’re in their vicinity, so we can’t judge rudeness or people who cut in front. Imagine you’re in a tight spot, needing to merge, or turn against the flow. Who would you want in the next lane, or driving in the opposite direction? That is who you become. Always be the person you’d want to meet coming the other way.’ It was his version of the golden rule, and car journeys were the only time he shared advice, using analogies for the road as analogies for life.

He was animated behind the wheel, tooting his horn in gratitude, flashing sidelights with joy. Car-driving dad, generous, open-minded, saw the world in a special way. A way that made me wish he’d steer the motor into our home, sit in his driver’s seat during dinner, take it for a spin in the lounge on my birthday.

Mum was at the opposite end of the scale. Warm and loving at home, she was terrified of driving; would sit poker straight, gripping the wheel until her knuckles turned white. Overly cautious when in charge of the sedan, we’d wait ten or fifteen minutes at intersections whilst she accumulated courage to pull into traffic. When dad was next to her, on rare occasions they were in a car together and he wasn’t driving, his on-road personality translated to his passenger status: rather than judge or chide, as he would at home - why isn’t dinner ready, why is my shirt creased, who left that there - he encouraged mum. A hand would reach out, placed on her leg with a gentle squeeze of support. He wouldn’t tell her what to do, respecting her need to be confident in her choices. Knowing he would sit beside her, always.

The first time I had my heart broken I was seventeen, and as luck would have it - if such a term can be attributed to heartbreak - I was learning to drive. My parents split teaching duties. From my mother, I was only learning to be a nervous driver. In the car with dad, I was confident, decisive, informed. Learning swiftly to drive as he instructed, not only because he was a good teacher, but also to gain enough respect from him to segue from lesson to conversation. Journeys with dad taught me how to mirror, signal and manoeuvre, and how to influence someone behaving in a challenging manner. I perfected the three point turn whilst understanding how to set healthy boundaries. Learned to indicate even if I thought I was alone on the road, in case someone was in my blind spot; becoming a compassionate communicator, never knowing who might take something the wrong way if I’d been unclear about my direction. Summer sprawled long in front of us like an endless dream, and despite the fun of my friendships, the bliss of my new love, my favourite summer activity was driving into the long, fragrant evenings with my father at my side.

Settling into the car one week before my driver’s test, snapping the seatbelt into place, I felt calm, despite the deluge of tears I’d wept all day after Evan ended things. Despite, a week earlier, us going all the way. Despite considering changing my choice of College to match his. Feeling used up; from Evan dropping me, like a fleeting thought as opposed to a first love, and from the draining pain of crying. Wrapping my hands around the steering wheel, I knew I needed a big drive to shake it from my system.

‘Can we take a longer trip this evening, Dad?’ I asked, suspecting he’d be delighted at the prospect.

‘Absolutely, Maddie, let’s take her for a spin!’ The excitement in his voice lifted my spirits. Setting the sedan into gear, I found the bite point of the clutch, and drifted to the curb edge.

We headed out towards country roads. Dad had taught me about traffic, other drivers, keeping calm in busy situations, but we’d also had long, meandering trips along narrow laneways, learning to respect twists and turns of smaller passages, becoming confident meeting the unknown on blind corners, creating space for cyclists and horses. Road sharing was reciprocal. We were, all of us, travelling together. A little respect went a long way.

Breezing past hedgerows and under tunnels created by trees yawning towards each other, open windows were welcome as stifling summer air fizzed with the tension of a promised thunderstorm. Heat set scent on the air, and my senses suffused with wilding smells of cow parsley, wood garlic and freshly cut hay. For the first time since learning that a boy I’d trusted to be a man, trusted with my heart, my body, my future, turned out to be less than my belief merited, I felt content. Sitting with the other man in my life I truly loved, feeling protected as he oversaw my lesson. I didn’t want to muddy the moment, bringing someone unworthy into the journey we were sharing. I was happy, just driving, seeing where the ride took us.

We reached crossroads at the end of a lane. A triangle of grass at the intersection held an old fashioned road sign, standing proudly, pointing out our options.

‘Which way?’ Dad asked. I peered at the sign and realised I didn’t know. I was frozen. Unable to make a decision. Dad’s eyes were forward, but I knew he was watching me in that way he had; being everywhere in the car, seeing everything. He nodded, understanding this wasn’t about which way to turn the car, rather which turn to take in life.

‘Let’s go left,’ he suggested. ‘The less familiar route is better practice.’

Agreement came in the form of action, pressing the indicator down to start my blinker, following steps he’d expect, double checking for less visible road users. I pulled onto the road, following its winding route. Dad murmured ‘good’ and I was happy he was proud of my form.

‘I’ve been navigating these roads since I was your age,’ he said. ‘This was always a turn I was nervous to take. The road was winding. The hill at the end made the old girl struggle - cars were more effort back then. My own dad would joke he’d kick through the floor and peddle with his feet to get us to the top. He always chose this route. When I practised with mam we’d turn right. But dad wanted me to try the road less travelled. To push me out of my comfort zone. Wanted me to believe I could do more, to instil confidence in me. Slow here, Maddie, brake before the corner then kiss the accelerator with your toe to glide around,’ he instructed, before picking up the thread of his story. ‘I thought he was just talking about driving. If I’d had the fortitude to listen to my old man, I would have understood he didn’t want me to be stuck. To limit my options. There are consequences to only travelling the familiar path. And here I am. Twenty years later and I live two towns over from where I grew up, in the job meant to be a part time gig until I found my feet, and I’ve never seen the world. The only thing I don’t regret is you. Now, press a little harder, drop down a gear, don’t wait for the hill to come to you, anticipate its incline. Be in control. Good Maddie, well done.’

We lapsed into silence, not uncomfortable, but noticeable, given what he’d shared. A question burned on my tongue, but I didn’t want to interrupt if there was more to come. Gazing to the distance, the road had opened up. I wouldn’t need his guidance to get through the next part. I was in control. I was the driver.

‘Why didn’t you explore, go on an adventure?’ I asked him, emboldened.

He nodded, and sent his gaze away from me, outside of the car. A frisson of nerves shot up my spine. It was the first time I’d driven with him where he hadn’t been completely attentive to the motions I was going through. Was this a sign of confidence in my driving, or a shun from an impertinent question?

The silence was so intense I heard him swallow. Then words emanated from him, gently, as though treating them with cautious care. The way he probed under the car bonnet, changing the battery, checking the points. Easing, not pressing. Cajoling not forcing.

‘I met your mother one sizzling summer, not unlike the one we’re having now, and we fell in love. Mostly bombing around the countryside in my old Morris Minor.’ He let out a soft sound, half smile, half laugh; all memory. ‘It felt enough, and I’m sure, in the grand scheme of things it was enough. Is enough,’ he corrected. ‘I might have travelled a different road and still landed here, or ended up somewhere worse. We’ll never know. All we can do is drive the course we choose.’

Then, for the first time in my life, the first and last, my father spoke affectionately and directly to me about something that wasn’t an analogy to driving.

‘I want the world for you, my girl. For you to have every opportunity. To step into this wonderful potential simmering in you. To do so with care and compassion. I want you to see yourself the way I see you. Not as a proud father who, without trying hard enough, in spite of my many faults, managed to help raise the best little girl in the world, but as a fellow human who didn’t have the guts to step into the unknown and couldn’t bear the same fate befalling such a special person. This boy, he isn’t worth your tears.’ I was surprised he knew about Evan. Knew I’d been crying.

‘He’s done you a favour. It’s hard to see now, but he has,’ he continued, falling back into the comfort of driving life lessons. ‘He was a roadblock. Summer love doesn’t always end in forever. You don’t need to tow a heavy load that holds you back, slows you down. You, my girl, are in charge, of the drive, of your life. You’re as exceptional a human as you are a driver.’ It was the highest praise he could possibly bestow.

I kept my eyes ahead, on the road, but felt a glow spread through me. My father didn’t speak about feelings, he only knew cars. But here he was, sitting with me, and it was the most seen I’d ever felt.

‘Turn right at the end?’ I asked.

‘You’ve got it,’ he confirmed. ‘It’s starting to get dusky, so pop on your sidelights.’

I nodded and acquiesced. We turned, re-joining the main road, back to town. Back to our cramped bungalow, filled with disappointment and broken dreams.

Coasting up the driveway, I couldn’t bear a return to the formality of our relationship. Couldn’t bear to walk from this safe space where my father was most alive, where I felt protected, back into the house that clamped his soul like heavy prison chains. We sat in the gathering darkness, seatbelts on, engine softly purring. Home glowing like a firefly should have been welcoming, but neither of us moved. I wanted to hug him, cry on his shoulder, have him hug me, making comforting noises. But this wasn’t how my father showed affection. I understood him now. Loved him a little more. Pitied him a little more. Wanted desperately to do whatever would make him happy.

‘What now?’ he asked, his tone, like the car, set in neutral.

My hands slid to the wheel.

‘I could use pointers on emergency stops,’ I said.

He smiled.

‘Pop her in reverse, let’s go around the block one more time.’