The promise

Semi-fictional notes from a dusty old 2001 notebook.

It all begins on a dappled summer day in 1982. It’s your first automatic car-wash.

You still remember the times when Dad would pull faces at you from outside the car as he wiped the clouds of bubbles from the screen.

You are hesitant about the claustrophobic swooshes of the rubber mitter curtain and the mechanical rubbing sounds that whirr and buzz as you move through the white-bubbled wash cycle.

You’re six years old and everything is an omen, a warning, a sign.

‘You’ll be fine,’ your mother promises. She shuts off the car, pulls the keys from the ignition and then the automated cycle begins.

Within moments, she realises the car window is open just a few inches. The windows are electric and, in her flurry, she has dropped the keys on the floor.

The fizz of the water sprays has begun, an unstoppable wash programme fires up, and no one can see you flailing behind the scratched Perspex walls of the car wash.

You’re sure, without any doubt, that the car will steadily fill up with water and drown you both while you remain tightly in position pinned down by your seat belts.

She scrabbles about the floor of the car, her two-inch red nails scrape the rubber floor mats, her fingers dancing around the unseen keys.

She’s laughing, as you’re preparing to hold your breath for longer than you’ve ever done at swimming lessons.

Tears roll down her face, your shoulders shake, and she cannot find the words as she hiccups with laughter.

It’s not at all funny.

She can’t wait to retell this story to her friends at work, hands expressing the drama of the tale, with co-workers wearing open-mouthed half-smirks in anticipation of the punchline.

By the time she fingers the keys back into the ignition and stabs at the window button, there are white bubbles rolling in grey trails like teardrops down the inside of the window and across the cream leather interior.

She calls you ‘silly thing’.

This is the summer that you realise you love your Cabbage Patch Kid doll, Carlie, more than you like most humans, that you enjoy the sting of your scabby knees as you lower them into a steaming hot bath.

This is the year that you learn parents aren’t promised to you forever, and that the gap where your dad used to be will never be filled.

‘You’ll be fine,’ your mother promises.

It’s your first funeral; your nose runs; there is no one there to hand you a tissue and so you wipe the silvery trail on your black cardigan sleeve and shuffle in your back-to-front dress.

This is the summer when you name your family car ‘Annie’ because it has an ‘a’, ‘n’ and an ‘e’ on the number plate.

It’s also the name of your best friend’s mum who wouldn’t ever break a promise and who drives a red Mini with wind-up windows.