when they looked at me like that. What did they know? I had George at home, I’d hardly slept and I was doing the best I could. But they didn’t want to hear excuses.
Dad encouraged me every step of the way, though.
‘Have you been out to practice, Ju?’ he’d ask when I went round for a cuppa. ‘Are you going up the carriage office soon?’
I tried the best I could, but after more than two years of studying I had almost had enough of the whole thing. By April 1999 my grades had got better and I was being called back more quickly for appearances, but I was so exhausted by trying to study and coping with George that I just wanted to give up. The other thing that was putting me off was Dad’s illness, because he was so bad by now that he was in and out of hospital. All I really wanted to do was be with him, not staring at road maps and trying to get somewhere I was beginning to think I’d never reach. So one day when I was due at the carriage office for an appearance, I went to visit Dad in hospital instead.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked as he lay on the bed. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Penton Street?’
‘I can’t face it today, Dad. I’d rather just see you. I’ll go another time.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘I’m not going in.’
It was as if a bomb had gone off under him.
‘You’re having a bloody laugh, aren’t you, Ju?’ Dad cried as he started struggling to sit up, wriggling around as he tried to get out of bed. ‘Get me up! Get me stuff! Get me tobacco tin! Don’t forget me matches.’
‘But you’re not allowed to leave the hospital, Dad.’
‘Well, I am if that’s what it takes to get you to that appearance.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Dad. You’re in no fit state to go anywhere.’
The furthest he ever went was downstairs to have a fag, and even then I had to push him in a wheelchair. He was never going to make it 10 miles into central London.
‘Don’t you go telling me what to do, my girl!’ Dad cried. ‘We’re going into town.’
There was no arguing with Dad when he got an idea into his head. He wasn’t even supposed to leave the hospital, but he had decided he was going to. We didn’t quite have to dig our way out like they did in The Great Escape, but I still felt like a prisoner on the run as Dad told me to get him into his wheelchair, out to the car park and into the passenger seat of my car. We both knew the nurses would go mad if they knew what we were up to.
‘I’ve got a good feeling about today, I have,’ Dad kept saying when we finally left. ‘You’re going to do it, Ju. I’m sure of it. They’re going to pass you today.’
But no matter what Dad said, I was still panicking by the time we got into central London. I hadn’t prepared myself for an appearance and didn’t know if I could face it. I felt flustered and worried sick as Dad lay beside me in the front seat, which I’d had to push all the way back because it was too painful for him to sit up.
‘I don’t know where I’m going,’ I wailed as I drove towards a massive roundabout.
‘Hold on!’ Dad said. He lifted his head just enough to see over the dashboard and knew instantly where we were. ‘Over to the right, Ju.’
I tried to pull across.
‘Right, RIGGGHT,’ Dad shouted.
I pulled the car across three lanes of traffic and prayed for the best.
‘Left,’ Dad said with a puff of exertion and pain.
We made it to the carriage office, but I was in a daze by the time I walked in for my appearance. I must have reeled off my runs like a robot, because the man in a suit looked a bit dazed himself when I’d finally finished.
I looked up at him and waited to find out when he’d want to see me next.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘You’re out.’
I stared at him. I’d done it? I’d got the Knowledge?
I could hardly believe it was all finally over as I walked outside to the car. I’d left Dad in his seat, but as I got into the car I saw a livid red burn mark on his chest. He’d dropped his cigarette while I was away and hadn’t been able to pick it up with his crippled hands. He’d had to lie all alone while it burned a hole in him.
‘Oh, Dad!’ I said, as tears rushed into my eyes.
‘All right Ju?’ he replied and smiled.
‘Your chest, Dad. Are you OK?’
‘Don’t worry about it, love. It don’t hurt.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Forget that and tell me how you got on.’
As I looked at him lying there, I felt so full of love for him. ‘I did it, Dad, I did it.’
A huge smile stretched over his face. ‘I knew you would,’ he said.
With a sigh, Dad lent his head down against the seat. ‘Now let’s get back to the hospital. Those nurses are gonna have my guts for garters.’
Now I wish this was one of those really happy stories where I became a taxi driver, gave a lift to a movie star and ran away with him into the sunset. But real life’s not usually like that, is it? At least mine’s not, and what actually happened two months after passing the Knowledge was that my life changed in a way that made me think I’d never be happy again.
George was the only thing that got me out of bed when Dad died, because losing him felt like the end of the world. We gave Dad the send-off he deserved – his coffin lying in a glass-sided carriage drawn by a horse wearing black feather plumes and led by a man wearing a top hat and tails, with friends and family following behind in a long line of taxis – but it felt unreal. How do you say goodbye to the person who ties you to the earth and stops you flying away with his jokes, kind words and quiet love? It wasn’t just me who was lost – Mum and Dad had been together since they were teenagers. We all dealt with his death the best way we knew how: by staying close as we started learning how to cope without him.
Dad was buried in the local cemetery and I hated leaving him there, cold in the ground, so I visited him as often as I could and would sit with him as George and Lewis ran around together.
‘Can we fill in the hole, Ju?’ Lewis asked me one day when they found a fresh pile of dirt beside a newly dug grave that was waiting to be filled.
‘Just a bit,’ I said.
A few handfuls of earth wouldn’t matter, I thought to myself as I watched Lewis laughing while he played. He wheezed at the same time because laughing took all his breath and sounded like an 80-year-old man who’d
