Carol’s Column

Beware my little fender bender

A demented cry in the night, a four-letter word, it haunts my sleep. "STOP."

For hours on end I toss and turn like a whirling dervish, the word screaming through my mind like a runaway car.

And that is the problem.

It began a few weeks ago when my husband wrinkled his cheeks as he is wont to do when he's happy. "Our little girl turns 17 tomorrow," he said lovingly. Like all fathers, when discussing their daughters, he is always loving.

I looked at our little girl who sat in her customary position with the telephone clamped to her right wrist, the receiver glued to her right ear, and her mouth in perpetual motion.

And then he shocked me. "I managed to get her learner's licence test for Tuesday," he said.

Learner's licence?

My little girl with the dark fringed eyes, long legs, hair and fingers, and ethnic sandals would be in possession of a learner's licence? This meant one thing. My youngest and only unmarried daughter would soon be seated behind the steering wheel of a motor car. My car, and worse, I would be seated beside her.

I poured myself an orange juice diluted with cane which is known to assuage the effects of shock and phoned my good friend Betty.

"You're not going to believe this," I began.

"You're running away with a stevedore," said Betty who enjoys excitement.

"No, Nicky has her learner's licence."

Betty understood. "Look, it's the first six months that are the worst," she confided. "David's had his learner's since November. During the first month, my hair fell out, but then he discovered the brakes and things improved. Relax, pour yourself an orange juice and cane and be philosophical."

Of course, I should have been used to the situation because after three sons, it was only natural that my daughter would want to learn to drive too.

On Tuesday she passed her learner's licence test and on Wednesday morning she greeted me enthusiastically. An unusual occurence for someone who usually resembles a hibernating bear when she awakes.

"Ma, perhaps after hockey, you can fetch me and then I'll drive home," she suggested.

"Great," I said and shuddered inwardly.

That afternoon, I fetched her from school, climbed out and walked round to the passenger seat.

"Ma, is this necessary?" she hissed.

"What?" I said nonchalantly.

"Why are you wearing a crash helmet with a protective visor? It looks as if you have no confidence in my driving."

"Of course I have confidence," I said gritting my teeth, "It's cold today."

"Remember, this is the accelerator, that is the brake and the clutch is on the left, " I said briskly.

"Ma, it is not necessary to talk to me through a two-way radio. If you take off the crash helmet, I'll be able to hear you clearly," she said.

We departed from Greenside High miraculously missing the headmaster, the deputy head, three teachers and 27 scholars.

"Drive slowly, just touch the accelerator with the tip of your toe," I said calmly.

"Ma, stop screeching, you make me nervous," said my daughter.

It took us an hour to reach home, not unreasonable when you consider we live only seven minutes from the school.

"This is such fun," said Nicky as we shot into the driveway. "I love driving."

I couldn't answer, I'd lost my voice from yelling "stop!"

My daughter, a delightful young lady, who, like her older brothers suffers from chronic deafness which particularly afflicts her when I ask her to put away the washing, fetch something or feed the dogs, has, within two weeks, effected a personality change.

If I sigh softly "dammit, I'm out of bread," she leaps up, car keys jingling. "Ma, I'll take you to buy bread." Or, "Ma, I'll drive you to the supermarket." Or "Ma, why don't we go for a short drive to Kimberley."

My hair is white and I've lost five kilos. However, Nicky is glowing because to her, driving is a challenge, one that has to be mastered.

Last night at dinner, I kicked my husband hard.

"Why did you do that," he yelled.

"I'm sorry," I responded, "I was just braking."

Yesterday, we had a minor setback. While driving home from school we were stopped by a charming traffic officer with Rambo eyebrows.

"Do you have a licence, young lady?" he asked my daughter who looked younger than her 17 years in her school uniform.

"A learner's," said Nicky and flashed him a dazzling smile. Upon which she smiled back.

"Okay, go for it!" he grinned.

Nicky rolled up the window and shot forward. How could we have known his left sleeve was caught in the window and that he was dangling outside?

He was not happy, but Nicky is undeterred.

"Look at it this way," I heard her telling her father. "He got a free ride."

It's called youthful exuberance.

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