Leave 1969

We’re travelling in my father’s Morris Oxford
its bonnet as mirrored as the Japan work
on my grandmother’s sewing machine.
 
My only allies on this journey north
are the rear oxblood leather seats,
and an armrest as wide as Hadrian’s Wall.
 
My mother attempts to navigate,
she’s no good at it, she never will be;
still she tries knowing my father will lose
 
his patience when he takes a wrong turn,
the one which will end his efforts to become
a civilian for the duration of the holiday.
 
We all know it’s coming.
I can’t look at a sat-nav now without
thinking of the peace it may have won.
 
It won’t be long before we stop at the pub.
My father will need a Jimmy Riddle, my mother
will need to calm her nerves. I will remain
 
in the car and reach for The Virgin Soldiers,
a paperback my father keeps stashed
in the car’s glove compartment.
 
I know I’m too young to be reading it.
I know my father shouldn’t hit the bottle
or the man who’s going to look at him
 
the wrong way in the toilets. I know
my mother shouldn’t be crying and when
they get back it’s best to pretend I’m sleeping.


First published in the Manchester Anthology 2019