The floors were scrubbed, the walls and windows cleaned, lawns mowed and paths swept. Papers were signed, notice boards removed ... and the house was sold. In the driveway our car stood ready to roll, loaded almost to bursting point with everything it could carry. The rest of our things were going by train.
After a flurry of final goodbye hugs and tears we pulled out of the driveway, a chorus of shouted good-luck wishes seeing us on our way. At the main road junction the lights went green, a tram went past and our back tyre went flat.
“Ah well,” said Dad, pushing it idly with the toe of his boot, “I suppose it’s best to get the crook bits over and done with early on.”
Apart from this the trip was uneventful. At Mackay we towed an old farmer the last twelve kilometres into town because he’d unexpectedly run out of petrol.
“That jolly MickMahon feller frum across the gully must’ve swiped it I reckon,” he informed us in a slow “all the time in the world” fashion.
The portly old fellow handed Dad a ragged piece of rope he’d produced from the back of his ancient buckboard. “…Shouldn’t have left it parked down the bottom paddick all night, I suppose. Well, I dunno... A man’s just a fooool to himself. The trouble is you can’t trust no one any more these days.”
He watched Dad make the connection between the two vehicles, then eased himself up behind the wooden steering wheel. “Don’t you go drivin’ too fast,” he said as we headed for our own car. “The ol’ girl’s only used t’doin’ about twenty miles an hour.
“—An’ don’t go pullin’ up too quick, neither!” he shouted as Dad took up the slack. “She ain’t got much in the way uv brakes y’ know.”
We towed him as far as a little house on the outskirts of town where he said his brother-in-law lived. Our own fuel needed replenishing by this time, so the next thing we had to do was find a cafe and a garage.
“Thanks f’your help,” he said as we went to drive away. “I reckon I’ll be right now. I’ll git a bit of petrol from Sam here and git about me business.”
After lunch we found a garage. As the proprietor refuelled the car he told Dad about road conditions farther north. Then he said: “I don’t suppose you ran into old Paddy McMahon down the road by any chance? He generally comes to town about this time of the month. The cunning old fox always pretends he’s run out of petrol and waits on the side of the road for some passing traveller to shout him half a gallon or give him a tow. What he hasn’t worked out yet is how to get a tow back the other way. He can’t very well say he needs a tow out from town because he’s had his petrol pinched.”
He looked back at us from the petrol bowser. The expressions on our faces told him everything.
“But Hiram,” my mother said after a moment of awkward silence. “He seemed such an earnest old man.”
“Well, you could hardly ask to have a look in his petrol tank, dear,” said Dad.
“Wouldn’t matter if you had,” replied the garage proprietor. “Paddy’s got an answer for that.” Then, adopting McMahon’s slow and distinctive style of speech, he said, “Well stone the crows. She must’ve got a vapour-lock an’ been staaarvin’ fer fuel.”