My father – born in 1923 – loved driving. Like many men of his generation, the car represented far more than transport. It was freedom, competence and identity all rolled into one. Sunday mornings meant washing and polishing it until it gleamed. Even into older age, he still loved talking about cars, sitting in cars, being driven in cars. When I visited in my sporty Hyundai Coupé, he would beam when I took him out for a drive.
After retirement, he would make regular trips back to the town where he had spent much of his working life, visiting the betting shop where he met old friends to watch horse racing and football results. Those trips mattered deeply to him. They gave shape to his days and maintained continuity as the rest of life gradually became smaller.
At first, the changes were subtle. My mother noticed them before the rest of us fully did. His memory was becoming unreliable. One night she found him outside their flat near the top of a communal staircase after he had wandered out alone. She became frightened he would fall and quietly started placing a chair by the front door so she would hear him if he tried to leave during the night.
Shorts
But he was still driving.
