The night of the accident there seemed to be something badly wrong with Dad’s car from the start. Instead of the Mini’s distinctive roar, today the engine was making a loud grinding noise, as if it was about to explode.
As soon as Dad threw Queenie into gear on the start line, the car lurched forward in stops and starts like a bucking bull.
That fateful night, Frank was sitting on top of the pile of cars just outside the stadium as he always did. It was in the depths of winter, and wind and rain swirled around him. Despite being soaked to the skin, the boy never wanted to miss a race.
Something was wrong that night. Very wrong. As soon as the flag waved to start the race, Dad struggled to control his own car.
Tonight there was no roar from the Mini’s engine, rather that grinding noise. A deathly hush descended on the crowd. Frank felt sick to his stomach.
Suddenly there was a huge explosion from Queenie’s exhaust pipe.
“DAD!” shouted the boy. From all that distance the man couldn’t hear his son, especially over the thunder of all the other cars’ engines. Frank desperately wanted to help. To do something. Anything. But he was powerless to stop what was about to happen.
The Mini sped up dramatically, and then wouldn’t slow down.
The art of racing motor vehicles is knowing when to go fast, and when to slow down. Immediately, Dad was taking the corners far too quickly. This wasn’t what a champion banger racer did. Frank’s heart was thumping in his chest. Queenie’s brakes must have gone. But how? Dad would always check and recheck his car before every race.
Suddenly, Queenie swerved sharply to avoid a head-on collision with a Ford Capri. But the Mini was going far too fast, and as it turned it rolled
Dad’s car was now upside down in the middle of the track. The Jaguar behind smashed into the Mini, sending the car flying through the air. It crashed to the ground again…
BAMM!
…smashing into pieces.
“NO, DAD, NO!” shouted Frank from the top of the tower of cars.
Down on the track there was a mighty pile-up as the cars couldn’t stop in time.
There was the sound of metal crunching into metal and glass smashing.
“NOOOO!” shouted Frank.
The boy raced down the tower of cars, and ran through the crowds to his dad’s car. An air ambulance hovered overhead before landing on the track. Frank held his father’s hand through the wreckage, as the firemen tried to cut him out of the car.
“What are you doing here, mate?” whispered Dad. “You should be at home in bed.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” replied Frank.
“I’m going to need the biggest huggle when I am out of this.”
“Everything’s going to be all right, Dad. I promise.”
But it was a promise the boy couldn’t keep.
Frank held his father’s hand as the ambulance raced to the hospital. The man’s right leg had been completely crushed in the crash, and he was losing a lot of blood.
“Mr Goodie,” began the doctor as soon as Dad had been rushed into the Accident and Emergency department at the hospital. “I have some very bad news. We have to amputate your leg.”
“Which one?” replied Dad, not losing his sense of humour at this dark time.
“The right one, of course. If we don’t operate straight away, there is a very real chance you will die.”
“I don’t want you to die, Dad!” said Frank.
“It’s all right, mate. I’m good at hopping.”
As Dad was immediately taken down to the operating theatre, Frank tried and tried to call his mother, but the line was engaged for hours. The operation took all night. Frank paced up and down the waiting area, unable to sleep. When his father came to from the anaesthetic in the morning, his son was the first person he saw when he opened his eyes.
“Mate, you’re the best,” whispered Dad. It was clear he was in a lot of pain.
“I am so pleased you made it, Dad,” replied Frank.
“Of course. I didn’t want to miss seeing you grow up. Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know, Dad. I called and called her last night, but I couldn’t get through.”
“She’ll come.”
It was a couple of hours until she did.
“Oh, Gilbert!” she said upon seeing him, and burst into tears.
The family reunion was brief, though, as she didn’t stay that long. Gilbert was in hospital for months, but his wife’s visits to his bedside became less and less frequent, and shorter and shorter. However, the nurses set up a little camp bed for Frank, and the boy slept by his father’s side every single night.
One day the doctors came in with a wooden leg for Gilbert.
It fitted him perfectly. Within days he learned to walk again, and insisted on walking all the way back to their block of flats from the hospital.
“I can still do everything!”
