Where’s the extinguisher?
How do you call the Rural Fire Service?
“I would like to report an inferno up a farmer’s nose.
“It’s threatening to spread to the tablecloth and the curtains.”
How could he breathe? How could he smell? Perhaps some 245T would beat back those clumps?
A tractor? Have I ever driven a tractor? Of course I have.
I am 14 years old and live in the city.
We gallivant around on John Deeres, Massey Fergusons and New Hollands all the time.
The 1960s city girls in their minis and shift dresses love going to Bible class dances as pillion passengers on a tractor.
No! I had never driven a tractor. Or a car.
The Hat obviously wasn’t sensing my cynicism, or was just ignoring a rude pup, because the next moment, I’m in the driver’s seat and he’s the driving instructor.
Good luck with this.
“It’s easy,” he said.
So is splitting the atom if you’re Ernest Rutherford and you know how to do it.
I hate it when you ask someone for help, and they tell you, “It’s easy!”
If it were easy, you wouldn’t be asking for help.
There aren’t enough pedals. Only two – clutch and brake.
There’s harrumphing from The Hat.
“The accelerator is that wand sticking out from the steering column.”
Really? And two gear levers?
“Don’t worry about the small one. That’s the ratios.”
Yep, I know ratios. Basic maths – shows how many times one number contains another. And the common trig ratios are sine, cosine and tangent.
“What?” asked The Hat.
I suspect he was tiring of my urban smart-assedness.
An urban “boy” was due a good rural slap if he didn’t pull his city head in. And why is the gear lever between your legs? Because the only thing between your legs when driving a car is your manhood.
“You’re making this difficult,” said The Hat.
“It’s not like a piano when you have to bring all the notes together,” comforted The Hat.
“You play just one note at a time. Key, start, clutch, gear, accelerator, go, steer, brake, stop. Then do it all again.”
I liked his analogy.
“You’ll get the hang … maybe.”
And he wandered off to try re-re-reignite the stub. He just left me to it.
An hour later, when I drove the Massey Ferguson round the corner of the woolshed without dinging anything, The Hat erupted with laughter.
And disbelief, I suspect.
And he gobsmacked me when he gave me a kind of blokey hug with those long, sinewy and deceptively strong arms.
I had never seen him hug his own kids, so I felt kind of proud and privileged.
And did I get a whiff of a full-cooked breakfast, lived-in clothes, cigarette smoke, and something toxic like weed spray?
Or was it sheep dip? Or diesel?
It was just his own distinctive natural animal smell and wasn’t unpleasant.
I was softening to him.
