Even though Uncle Ted was very fat his car was small, a
Mini Clubman, which he always kept
washed and polished.
He let me drive it once,
to the Unionist Club where there was cheap whisky,
that hot summer in 1984 when I stayed at
Leazes Crescent with him and
Auntie Bessie.
It was only when I was about to drive off that he said,
in his soft Scottish accent,
First gear doesn’t work, by the way.
So I slid it into second, revved the
eleven-hundred cc engine until it
screamed, slipped the clutch and pulled away, as the
dashboard rattled and
suspension clonked.
After I’d parked in Beaumont Street we shuffled into the club,
Ted all smart, in his usual
grey suit and striped tie, his bald head polished to a gleam.
He stood at the bar and downed quadruple measures of Bells whisky,
as I sipped the half of McEwan’s Best Scotch he’d bought me.
He drank whisky after whisky, until he could hardly
stand up.
Then I helped him back to the Mini, as he stumbled,
his glasses half
off his face
and the few hairs on his head
standing on end.
Thanks, he said, as I bundled him into the car.
I didn’t bother with the seat belt, his tie buried under
his chins.
After three attempts the car started and
we wheezed off to Leazes Crescent the interior filled with Ted’s
whisky fumes,
The dashboard shook and suspension thumped,
the Mini still well polished but actually
a wreck.