I’ve never had a car accident on the road. My record remains untarnished tonight… sort of. I did once drive through my boyfriend’s lounge-room glass doors, accidentally (naturally). Funnily enough, the incident which I am going to relate to you (in confidence, please!) involves the same old boyfriend, now just a dear old friend. I have to tell someone so I am choosing you – even if you don’t give me any useful advice, perhaps writing about it will help me to decide whether or not to come clean. Wouldn’t it be funny if this was the one night that Roland, my friend, can’t sleep and gets up in the middle of the night, and thinks, “I must read Sally’s blog!” Hope not. If I have to tell him it might be best to tell him face to face. Oh dear, I’m feeling very anxious about it again. And to think that only five hours ago I was having such a great time…

After going to Wynnum Plaza to recharge my sim card and buy felt circles to stick under the legs of the chairs in Bill’s dining room I found myself driving over to Gumdale, a few miles away, where I spent my childhood until the age of ten. Incidentally, as you might have gathered already, I was driving the lovely new car that Roland has lent me – the impresser! So I drove up Molle road and stopped outside of our old house – the one that Mum and Dad had built on our three and a half acres – and I got out and took some photographs. At the gate I stood for some minutes just looking at the house, trying to conjure up memories of what it was like inside; the driveway did not seem be as long as it used to be but I know that is always how it appears when you go back.

My reverie was interrupted by the sight of an elderly gentleman walking from the house in my direction. When he reached the half-way point I raised an arm in a wave and he smiled and waved back.

“Hello,” he said as he approached the other side of his gate.

“I came here years ago – we used to own your house…” I began.

“I know,” he smiled with satisfaction because he remembered our meeting over twelve years (nothing wrong with his marbles!).

Mr. Burroughs and I chatted away for thirty minutes or so; we talked about my family, his family (Mary went to school with his son who is a carpenter and earns more money than his architect father ever did), land drainage, snakes (there are still red-bellied black snakes in the bush at the rear), dirt roads, town water, dust, the creek… and just about everything that two people who owned the same property at different times could talk about. We shook hands several times, meaning to part, and then one or another of us would think of something else that was not only relevant but vital and the conversation continued with renewed interest. His daughter drove up and while her father wheeled open the massive gate I told her:

“I’m just chatting up your dad!”

“Good luck,” she said merrily.

She did not stop. Two minutes later I could see her, feeding a flock of pale yellow galahs down by the house (Mr. Burroughs told me there were sometimes as many as sixty of them).

At last I shook his hand more meaningfully and I left for real. I wanted to go to the very end of the road, past the American boat-building yard (where, as children, we used to collect the Coke bottles and get the deposit back at Crockford’s shop), to the creek where my dad used to take us fishing and crabbing.

Finally, I drove along Chelsea Road to the turn off for Parklands – my favourite fishing spot. There was just one other vehicle in the car park so I opted for parking on the empty side. The sky was overcast and evening was drawing near, and yet there was still beauty in the scene of the creek from the decked area where soft fisher-folk, like me, do their fishing in comfort with shaded seats and baiting tables with drains and running water. Feeling very happy and content, I wandered back to my car, and as I did so great numbers of fishermen arrived.

The car park was nearly full and a large ute, parked directly behind me on the opposite side, had left me little room to manoeuvre. Slowly I inched my (Roland’s) car back and turned the wheel. My window was down and I popped my head out to see…just as a jutting piece of wood snagged on my bumper, by the wheel-arch… Did you know that cars are made of plastic nowadays?

I was on my knees trying to push the bumper into position – it had dislodged on one side and was hanging down by two inches – when the police car pulled up beside me on the road.

“Can you help me please?” I asked. (Was that the wrong thing to ask a policeman?)

He got out of the police car and pulled up his belt as he stretched to his six-feet three. (Policemen always do that when I talk to them in their official capacity.) He wasn’t very skilled at pushing the bumper back into place, and neither was the lady policeman who, nevertheless, was extremely sympathetic and agreed that the jutting piece of wood was a great hazard and impossible to see – I was not at fault. The policeman made a joke about me drinking but we women ignored that one.

The kindly Australian police couple escorted me to the main road, just to make sure that the bumper didn’t fall off (which it didn’t) and I took it easy driving home to Bill’s.

The car looks great – really impressive – again. Bill is a marvel – my brother used to be a mechanic – but he says it really needs a new bit of plastic. He’s going to try to find one for me tomorrow. If he does, and he puts it on, then I do not need to tell my friend that anything untoward happened to our car; but if he can’t find the proper Subaru bit of plastic then I will have to tell him – won’t I? This is my little quandary….