FAY CAMERON
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On Being Sophie’s Father
By the time I catch up with her she’s in the implement shed, sitting on the tractor I bought the year she was born – it broke the bank and cost me months of her mother whingeing on about how she wanted, no needed, a dishwasher and a microwave.
‘Remember you used to let me up here when I was little, sometimes with the engine running?’
‘Sure do, and your mother rarked me up good and proper when she found out.’
I meant it to come out like a joke or light-hearted banter or something. ‘Yeah,’ says Sophie, her mouth twisted into a grimace.
I’ve done it again, gone and said the wrong thing. ‘She had a point, it’s no place for little kids.’ My concession is lame but Sophie seems to accept it. She bounces on the seat like she used to back then – as if it’s a dirt bike and not a seventy horsepower machine.
‘Come on, Dad.’
‘Okay. But you jump down, I’ll take it out of the shed.’
I start it up, engage first gear and ease forward, explaining each step. ‘Think you can do it?’
‘Yep.’
When she turns the key there’s a graunching from the starter motor. Keeping my voice steady, I say, ‘You’ve turned it too far. Turn it off.’
She has another go and the engine fires into life. She struggles into first gear, then the tractor coughs, lurches forward. And stalls.
‘What did I do wrong?’
‘It’s the clutch, there’s a knack to it.’ She tries again, and again she releases it too quickly. ‘Relax. It’ll go into gear if you’ve engaged the clutch.’
‘I’ve got my foot on the pedal. I thought this was meant to be easy!’
Maybe it would’ve been wiser to wait, teach her to drive a car first. Much simpler sitting beside her, hand on the handbrake, steering wheel within easy reach but it’d take more bottle than I’ve got to renege. ‘Okay, put your foot down hard on the clutch, move the gear stick into first . . . good . . . release the clutch . . . gently does it . . . that’s right . . . feel for where it gives slightly?’
She nods – she’s starting to get the hang of it.
‘Now, give it some juice.’
‘What?’
‘The accelerator.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s not like the clutch. You don’t want to floor it.’ I don’t bother her with the hand throttle – not yet.
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