The Ford Fiesta

A recollection.

It’s 9:00am, and Mum is standing at the front door, looking at her watch and tapping her foot.

Our house, situated in the quiet village of Little Neston, has only five rooms, three upstairs and two downstairs, and I’d measured the largest room at only eight strides of my eleven year old legs. Sound carries well because the walls are thin, so there’s no need for Mum to shout to be heard upstairs. She does anyway:

“Jamie, we’re going to be late, again!”

The door to my bedroom doesn’t open fully because it catches on the bedframe that fills fifty percent of the room. I turn sideways to shuffle out, crabways, and my face comes close to brushing the bookcase, on which stand hundreds of books, neatly arranged by theme; geography, world history, greek mythology, Usborne Puzzle Adventures, and more.

I stumble down the stairs, almost falling, as I try to tie my black and red school tie over my crisp, white shirt, and pull my school cap hastily over my head. At the bottom, I take a second to tuck the shirt into my grey flannel shorts, and grab my school blazer from over the banister. I struggle for a second to get my arms through the right holes, then fumble with the buttons. I put on my shoes, which are waiting for me, black and polished.

Mum takes a step from the front door, and in one swift motion, redoes my mismatched blazer buttons so they’re properly aligned. She rights my cap, neatens my tie knot, looks me up and down, and shakes her head with a wry smile, while letting out a sigh and rolling her eyes.

Mum is wearing a blazer too, over a bright blue blouse and a navy skirt, but her clothes aren’t quite as new. Her four other blouses hang in her small bedroom closet. She has owned each one for a while.

The front door is open, and we step out into the morning sunlight. There’s a light dew on the trimmed grass of our front lawn. It takes a second for my eyes adjust to the bright light, and I look around the cul-de-sac at the neat little red-brick houses standing in a semi-circle. I wave at a neighbour taking out the rubbish. Then I see our car, and frown a little.

Sitting at the curb is a fourteen year old 1978 Ford Fiesta. Boxy and angular, it’s dijon-coloured, with flecks of rust dotted about it like mustard grains. The rear bumper is dented and hanging loose, the right-hand side attached to the car body with string tied up in a double bow.

A peeling red and black go-faster stripe adorns each side. The car’s top speed is 85mph.

In practice, it’s impossible to drive it that fast. Above 40mph, the exhaust starts rattling, the string-bound bumper starts jangling, and as the speed increases the whole body of the car begins shaking, cursing and creaking in protest, proceeding to a violent crescendo as some hidden hole in the bodywork emits a shrill, piercing whistle from the air rushing through it. Mum mostly drives slowly. You can’t drive a car with your fingers in your ears.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I pause, then scurry back into the house, returning under the load of a cricket bag almost as long as I am tall. The red handle of a brand new Duncan Fearnley Graeme Hick 405 cricket bat pokes out of the back. I throw open the boot of the car and chuck the bag in quickly, withdrawing my hands before the boot can slam shut on them. The car groans.

9:03am. School starts at 9:20am and it’s a quiet twenty minute drive, or a loud fifteen minutes. I’ve already been late four times this week.

Mum turns the key and the engine turns over, but the car doesn’t start. She tries again, but still nothing happens. Sitting in the passenger seat, I roll my eyes. The car starts at the third attempt, coughing into some semblance of life.

We pull up at a red light. The car sounds like my cat coughing up a fur ball. The driver waiting in the lane next to us looks the Fiesta up and down, then catches my eye. I slink down in my seat and glare at the traffic lights until they change.

9:18am. We arrive at the school gates with a clatter and a bang, pulling up behind a silver Mercedes Benz and a black BMW. Dozens of boys in school uniforms identical to mine are milling near the entrance, the first bell not yet rung. They all turn and stare. There’s some sniggering.

“Chicken for dinner. Love you.”

I’ve had chicken for dinner for the last two weeks. Mum has a friend who can get it for us for wholesale prices.

“Love you too.”

I extract myself from the Fiesta, and run around to the back of the car to open the boot. The pneumatics that keep the boot open have long since failed, and the cricket gear is too bulky to get out with one hand. Sighing, I reach in and grab a broomstick handle and use it to keep the boot propped open. I hear laughter from the gates, and my face goes red. I make my way into school hunched low, trying to keep my head down, as the bell rings to signal the start of the day.

The following day, I have a football match for my school. I’m a good player, and I play striker. In lunchtime games, I’m either captain or first pick. Today’s game starts at 11:00am and we have instructions to be there at 10:30am sharp. We approach the playing fields in the Ford Fiesta at 10:40am. There’s a long gravel driveway down into the private grounds, with a parking lot right next to the clubhouse and changing room.

“Can you park around the corner on the main road please, Mum?”

Mum obliges. I dash down the driveway and into the changing rooms, skidding on the tiles, a little out of breath. The coach scowls at me.

“I said 10:30am.”

He shakes his head. Sighs.

“You’re playing striker. Pull your socks up.”

He’s not looking at my shins; my socks are already pulled up to my knees.

The other boys on my team have glistening black Nike football boots with trademark swooshes. I have a pair of Nicks, clean and functional, but lacking the same pearlescent sheen.

We head out to warm up and take a lap around the field. As I pass by the clubhouse, I see my teammates’ mothers, and those of the opposition. Each of them is wearing a floral print dress, with a wide brimmed hat. Dainty feet are enclosed in high heels that click on the tiled clubhouse terrace like crickets chirping. There are cucumber sandwiches with no crusts.

The match begins. I score a goal, and am congratulated by my teammates. The floral print ladies clap politely, gently tapping the fingers of one hand into the palm of the other. My mum, in jeans, is cheering from the sideline. I look away, but I smile. The game finishes 3-1 and I score twice.

We shower and change, then go into the clubhouse to be greeted by our parents. Some of the fathers have arrived and are talking to each other about finance and politics and the law. The floral print wives are talking about church, and the next charity event. Mum mentions something about the game, and they smile politely. She approaches our team coach and I hear her giving him advice on football formations and how she motivates the students in her school’s team.

People start to leave. Mum and I walk back up the driveway, with her arm around my shoulders. I pause to watch the other boys walk back to their parents’ cars, all wearing the clothes of bankers, of politicians, of lawyers: striped shirt, cardigan over the shoulders, cargo shorts or chinos. Socks in sandals or penny loafers. Miniature versions of their fathers striding on ahead of them, in the uniform of men who sail their boats for pleasure, or who hire a crew to do it for them.

We arrive back at the car, parked out of sight half a mile away. As we each get to our door, I look at Mum over the dented roof and furrow my brow.

“Mum? I… think I should go to a different school next year.”