Dad tuts, and then begins singing to himself. It is barely audible, so at first I think the engine is dying, or a small animal has become trapped in the boot.
‘What the —?’ I begin. I can’t make out what the song is. It comes floating through the car as some kind of warble: a high-pitched vibrato chant, just above a whisper, that threatens to last the entire journey.
‘How long’s that been going on?’ Jeff whispers to Mum in the back.
‘It’s a new thing,’ she says with a shrug.
‘Blue Street,’ Dad announces as we pass a sign saying, well, Blue Street. Growing tired of remaining just barely audible, he more deliberately launches into his performance of Elvis Presley’s classic hit ‘Blue Street Shoes’, followed by a medley of any and every other song he can think of containing the word ‘blue’.
While Mum says the warbling is a new thing, this other talent of my father’s is not and unfortunately isn’t restricted to car trips.
‘Good morning, Dad,’ is usually met with a rousing rendition of ‘Morning Has Broken’, and ‘Isn’t it lovely to finally see some rain?’ is volleyed with a vibrato-filled outpouring of ‘Singin’ In The Rain’. On special occasions it’s a whistling of the tune; a deafening trill with long suspended notes. Like Elvis’ suede shoes, other times it’s a bastardisation of the street or place name. Mittagong becomes ‘Mittagong In My Heart’ instead of ‘With A Song In My Heart’, for example.
I suppose we should be thankful for the buoyant side of him rather than silence. Cue the classic Simon and Garfunkel hit, ‘Silence Is Golden’.
Attention Twilight Waters Residents:
This is an important reminder that it is mandatory to wear protective underwear when using the Myrtle McGregor Therapy Pool.
Thank You,
Management
TWO
Yelling
‘How long will the drive take, Skeet?’ Dad asks, just a few inches away from my ear.
‘About one-fifty,’ I say as I brake again to stop for road works.
‘Not kilometres. How many minutes?’ he asks, a little impatiently.
‘Yeah, that’s what I said: one hour and fifty minutes.’
‘Eh?’
‘ONE HOUR AND FIFTY MINUTES!’ I yell as loudly as anyone who doesn’t want to sound irate can.
‘Right-o, right-o,’ he says defensively. ‘Which way are you going, Skeet?’ To Dad it obviously appears I have turned the car in the wrong direction. At least, it’s definitely not the way he would go, which, in his eyes, is the same thing.
‘We thought we’d take the scenic route out towards Dungog,’ I say. ‘We have some wine to drop off to a customer of ours over in Lamb’s Valley.’ Over the back, between Mum and Jeff, is a carton of wine from the estate we’d just celebrated selling.
‘Eh?’
‘We have some wine —’
‘Some what?’
‘DUNGOG!’ I scream. ‘Via DUNGOG!’ And it is all I can do not to demand we all sit in complete silence for the remainder of the journey.
‘Right-o, right-o,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave it all up to you. I’m in your hands.’
Dad’s deafness never fails to provide barrel-loads of fun for conversations in the car. When you speak to him face to face you only occasionally have to repeat yourself, whereas when you’re driving and he can’t see your lips he’s at a loss. If he’s sitting over the back you need to yell responses at such volume it gives you a headache. If he’s in the front, you often find yourself with your mouth pointed at him and your eyes turned at right angles to keep a watch on the road.
I can’t remember a time my father hasn’t been hard of hearing. He blamed it on having some skin cancers removed from behind his ears eons ago – a side effect from decades of watching, coaching and umpiring my brother Grant play hour after hour of UV-extreme Western suburbs cricket. The doctors had removed skin from behind, not inside, his ear, but often we choose not to challenge Dad on his assertions.
‘Dungog’s a pretty town. Have you been there before?’ Jeff asks from over the back.
‘I think we drove through it once with John and Hazel —’
Mum is interrupted by Dad. ‘What’d he say, darl?’
Jeff’s from Birmingham so has a Brummy accent, which, though definitely noticeable, is quite mild after almost twenty years in Australia. Birmingham is in England. So, just to be super clear: Jeff speaks English.
‘If we’ve been to Dungog,’ Mum says in a decibel that is actually lower than what Jeff’s originally was.
‘Eh?’
‘DUNGOG!’ Mum screams so loudly I think I must be about to hit a ’roo and I instinctively turn the wheel.
‘Well, there’s no need to shout, darl,’ Dad says. ‘What about Dungog?’
‘Have we ever been there . . . ?’ No longer allowed to shout, Mum delivers this like the Queen of England would have, through a megaphone.
‘Very good, darl. Very good.’ Dad says with a hint of bitterness at her forced enunciation. ‘Dungog . . .’ Dad mutters to himself. After a second or two, he launches into a very quiet, almost warbled rendition of Kiki Dee and Elton John’s classic hit ‘Dungog Breaking My Heart’.
